Before It's Too Late (9 page)

The slam of a door in the car park below snapped him back to the present. The police had been very tentative about his return to work in the early days. He’d understood the need for caution, nobody wanted a rogue cop on the loose, especially not on major investigations when clear judgement was imperative. But he’d never given anyone reason to question his judgement. The anger that now rose within him was a manifestation of everything: fate for subjecting his wife to such a condition, the police for forcing him into prolonged counselling, Janus for ordering him to attend. In truth, talking about the incident just served to remind him of the permanent shadow that had followed him around over the past twelve months.

Still, this was the first time he’d been given a case to manage since the accident. He couldn’t afford to give Janus any reason to move him.

He wandered out into the main office. It was a hive of activity. He caught Davies’ eye and she waved him over enthusiastically to her desk where she was bent over a computer screen.

As he approached she cast him a quick sideways glance. “Enhanced footage has just come through.” She clicked another key. “There.” She pointed at the screen.

Jackman drew closer. He could see the white Volkswagen van. The image was still a little blurred, but he could now make out the number plate. There was a rust circle around the diesel cap.

“Belongs to a Guy Taylor in Coventry,” Davies said. “Not known to us. Keane’s gonna head out there.”

Jackman nodded. “Good. What about the BMW?”

She clicked the mouse and another photo appeared on the screen.

He could see the BMW and number plate clearly marked.

“Belongs to a Mr Galloway of Tiddington Road. Again, no intelligence.”

Jackman thought back to the footage. It showed the car stopping next to Min, before speeding off down the road. “I’ll take that one.”

She turned to face him, “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, could do with some fresh air.”

Women. All around him. Painted faces surrounded by bubbles of sweet perfume staring into window displays, the clear glass bouncing back a faded reflection in the sunlight. Handbags balanced on open forearms.

Some pushing toddlers in buggies, some in couples chatting as they wandered through the stores. Clinging dresses with scooped backs and plunging necklines. Crescents of curls dangling from tied ponytails.

Royal Priors was busier than he’d anticipated this morning. Shoppers catching the stores early to avoid the heat of the day. A redhead dashed towards him, the trickle of sweat running down her neckline causing a stirring in his groin as she passed.

He stole a deep breath, continued through the mall and glanced around. A department store was what he needed now with ample obliging assistants to tend to his every whim. Assistants that would move quickly from one customer to another. Not like the boutiques and smaller shops in Stratford, where assistants would recognise you, single you out in a crowd.

No, he’d thought this one through. He wandered down the aisles and collected the provisions he needed for stage two. Very soon it would be time to shake things up a bit. And he couldn’t help but wonder what the detective would make of that.

Chapter
Sixteen

I stared at the two bottles of water that leant against the concrete in the corner of the pit, one almost empty, the part-loaf of bread, wrapped in an orange plastic wrapper, the few chocolate bars and a collection of apples beside. Last night’s delivery
.

It had been late when he’d come. I knew that because the gap at the top had only emitted a soft grey light and the pit was at its darkest. He. I’m pretty convinced that my captor is male. I’ve turned it over and over in my head. He needed to be robust, strong enough to carry me down here
.

Last night I’d heard footfalls above as he approached. At first I thought it might be a prowling animal, but then I heard the determined chink of metal, a thud as the chain fell to the floor
.

Thoughts of what he might have planned had reverberated around my skull. I was trembling even before the dazzling light burnt my pupils, causing me to bury my head in my hands. The next thing I knew packages were being fired into the pit like missiles. Later I discovered they were food parcels and blankets, but at the time I had no idea and I’d never experienced terror like it. Thud after thud made me shriek. A brief silence was followed by the scraping sound of the grill
.

Anger tore through me. I had an opportunity to see something, do something, at the very least pick up on something that might help me later – a slight lilt in his voice, the colour of his eyes, the shape of his frame. But I saw and heard nothing
.

I smoothed out the creases in the blankets wedged beneath me, lifted a corner up to my nose. It was fresh and clean, not yet tainted by the musty stench of concrete powder and urine that pervaded everything else in the pit. Clean. Like the scent that fills the bathroom when you step out of the shower. I held it close, not wanting to ever lose it
.

My stomach gurgled and swirled around like a washing machine. Sickly bile rose in my throat as a childhood memory wormed its way creepily out of the dark shadows in my mind. I was barely twelve years old when the owner of my father’s neighbouring factory disappeared. Ling Chen made metal screens for a Western company. He was a good friend to my father, he and his family lived in our apartment block when I was young. One day, he left home and didn’t turn up for work. Days passed and nobody heard any news. Rumours circulated like snakes, sliding their way into the minds of the local community. But no body was ever found, no funeral took place, no explanation came forth. Time passed and his wife and son moved away to the country. Another family moved in. The authorities took over his factory. We all moved on but every time I passed the door to their apartment I could see his face in my mind
.

Would that happen to me? One day at college, the next nothing. But why continue to feed me?

Maybe my parents weren’t able to pay the demand yet. Maybe they needed more time. I clung to this tiny thread of hope, closed my eyes and willed a happy memory from home – my mother at the kitchen sink, the pinny tied to her waist, my father sat at the table reading. It was rare we were home on our own. Usually he was entertaining some client or business partner. But when we were, he read voraciously. Constantly soaking up the knowledge of some book or another. Always facts. Never fiction. I could see him now, pointing a forefinger at his temple, ‘Books make you clever. Read well, Lan Hua, for they will determine your future.’ ‘Lan Hua’ or orchid was my family nickname. I was rarely called Min outside of school until I came to the UK
.

Guilt pained me. When I was much younger I plagued my parents for a sibling. A brother to roll around the floor and wrestle with, a sister to read to and share confidences. My father had a brother. My mother was one of three. I saw the idea of a sibling as a plus, a playmate, someone to play with on long summer days when school friends weren’t around. I envied my parents and couldn’t understand why I or any of my friends were denied such a privilege
.

But my pleading words on this subject were always hushed, my spirits dampened. It didn’t stop my yearning though. Even as a teenager I was dogged by a silent fear and loneliness. I read
Little Women
and, like most readers, I cried when Beth died. But unlike others, I didn’t cry because she died, I cried because I wanted to be her, to experience that fun and camaraderie in the circle of those sisters even for just a short time. It made me determined that I would never do that to my own child. I would have a large family, with lots of children running around, playing together, lost in their own little innocent world. Children that would grow up together, support and comfort each other later in life
.

I massaged my stomach and wondered if my child could hear my thoughts. I hadn’t intended to start my family now. Not here. Not like this. Tom wanted me to abort our baby. In some ways I understood why. It would upset our parents, our studies, present huge problems for our future. He’d talked to me about a clinic on the edge of Stratford where, for a sum, they would discreetly complete a termination procedure. Termination. It sounded so final
.

Chapter
Seventeen

Fingers of sunshine reached through the gaps in the clouds as Jackman arrived in Tiddington Road. For once, Warwickshire Radio had been right in their predictions that Stratford would be the last area in the region to join the ongoing heat wave that Wednesday, and the light morning breeze that had provided a welcome reprieve now worked hard to wipe the clouds from the sky.

He passed the entrance to Loxley Road, where specially trained officers sat, covertly watching Tom Steele’s home and couldn’t help but wonder if the Galloways’ close proximity to the Steeles was significant? Their homes would have been less than a ten-minute walk apart.

Jackman glanced at the golf club on his right, continued until he reached a detached sandstone house set back from the road and swept his Honda up the drive to the entrance. He was greeted by an array of large terracotta pots and window boxes, bursting with a range of pansies in a variety of colours.

Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he crossed the drive and pressed the doorbell beside an imposing hardwood entrance door. He couldn’t hear the road from back here, just the gentle breeze rustling through the tall hawthorn hedge out front and the distant sound of dogs barking, although it wasn’t really surprising. This was the most salubrious area of Stratford. Houses on this stretch fetched almost a million each. Apart from an occasional burglary during his early days, it wasn’t an area he’d frequented much in the line of duty.

He pressed the doorbell again. The sound of the dogs grew louder. A sudden bang, metal on metal, made him jerk around. At the side of the house was a wrought-iron gate where two Springer Spaniels were now jumping up and barking in harmony.

“Can I help you?”

He followed the voice that battled with the din of barking and flashed his badge. “Morning,” he said. “Would you be Mrs Galloway?”

She squinted to look at his badge. “Enough! In your beds.” The barking stopped immediately. Two hooded pairs of eyes glanced up at her momentarily before they slunk off around the corner.

She waited for them to retreat, clicked open the gate and stood aside for Jackman to enter. Jackman eyed her navy cotton dress, the smoothness of her grey hair. She wore no make-up but her face held a soft English-rose prettiness.

She clasped her hands together. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking to speak to Mr David Galloway. Is he home?”

She stepped back and narrowed her eyes. “No, he’s away at the moment. Is everything alright?”

“It’s nothing to be alarmed about. I just felt he may be able to help with our enquiries.”

The sound of a phone ringing in the distance broke the conversation. Mrs Galloway looked perturbed. “You’d better come inside.”

He followed her through the kitchen, across the hall and into a living room that overlooked the drive at the front of the house. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said as she picked up the phone and wandered out of the room.

Jackman sat on the edge of a brown chair and glanced at the fresh tracks from the vacuum cleaner that looked like broken crop circles on the rug in front of a log burner.

A floorboard in the hall creaked and Mrs Galloway appeared in the doorway. “Sorry about that. Can I get you a coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

The dull scent of an air freshener sweetened the air around them as she walked into the room and seated herself on the large sofa. “You asked about my husband?”

Jackman nodded.

“He’s not here, I’m afraid. He works in Dubai and won’t be back until the end of June. Can I ask why you wanted to speak to him?”

Jackman ignored the question. “Do you own a black BMW?”

A slight flicker of recognition appeared behind her eyes. “We do. It’s in the garage.”

Jackman vaguely remembered the double garage set back from the house. “May I ask you where you were on Monday evening?”

Mrs Galloway hesitated a moment and looked at the floor. “Yes, I was at our book club annual dinner. We do it every May, take it in turns. This year it was held at the pub in Luddington.”

“What time did you leave?”

She glanced down at her hands. “Around 10.30, I think. I dropped a friend off in the town centre on the way home and stopped for a coffee. I guess I was home around midnight.”

“What vehicle did you use?”

“The Range Rover parked out front.” She shifted in her seat.

“Are you sure you didn’t use the BMW?”

“Absolutely! I never use David’s car. Can’t abide the damn thing. Far too low. Look, what is this all about?”

“Are you sure the BMW is in the garage?”

“Yes. I saw it this morning when I went to fetch some garden twine.”