Dead Wrong (17 page)

“Ruth’s here.” He nodded at her. “Anything tricky, get her to deal with it.”

He wasn’t prepared to argue or to waste any more time. He got up from the table, grabbed his coat and left.

* * *

It took no more than fifteen minutes to drive through Leesdon, along the bypass and into Hopecross village. He left his car parked at the side of the road, and pressed the buzzer to gain access to the building.

“Katya! Police! Let me in.”

Katya, it turned out, was employed to do a little cleaning and shopping for Lydia. She came in three days a week.

“You spoke to her this morning?”

“Yes, I made toast while she dressed. We spoke about what she’d make for dinner, and then she left.”

“What time?”

“Before eight. I arrive at about seven thirty.”

“Did she take her car?”

“Yes, she took her keys. See they are gone.”

“Where does she leave her car?”

“In the car park, at the back of the building. Each apartment has a designated parking space. Miss Holden’s is 44.”

“Okay. Thanks Katya. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else that’s relevant, then ring me.”

Calladine hurtled down the staircase and out through the back doors. It was a sizeable parking area, but there was only one car left in it — Lydia’s.

He felt his stomach seize. He strode forward, and as he did so he snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Was this a crime scene? He prayed not. He hoped that the sick feeling in his stomach and the thoughts swirling in his head were entirely misplaced.

The car was still locked, and the engine stone cold. It hadn’t moved. His instincts were right; something had happened to Lydia. He called the incident room.

“Imogen. Lydia Holden’s gone missing. I want a full forensic team at Wrigley Mill Apartments car park, and will you tell Ruth to join me the minute the press briefing is finished.”

Calladine went back inside. Lydia had said there were alarms and cameras. So where were they? And how soon could he get his hands on the footage?

It didn’t take long. Within the hour forensics were crawling all over the place. Calladine and a snuffly Ruth sat in front of a screen in the caretaker’s office, preparing to watch the video from the last few hours.

“Thanks for dropping me in it, sir.” She sneezed, and sat down heavily beside him. “Those press people. They practically had me for breakfast, vicious lot of harpies that they are. And I wasn’t at my best. I’ve got this bug and I feel dreadful . . . not that anyone cares. And do you know how stupid that man Jones is? DCI or not, he’s still got a lot to learn. They asked if he — the man we’re looking for — is considered still active and dangerous, and he tells them — yes! I mean, no effort made to stop the panic. No not him. By the time he’d finished he might as well have given them that bloody bimbo’s front page.”

“That
bloody bimbo
has gone missing, remember?” He was angry — not with Ruth, but with the way things were going. He should be able to sort this out — so why couldn’t he? Why was this so difficult? The doc had agreed that their man was forensically aware. Did that imply, perhaps, that he had a degree of training? Perhaps he’d worked in a lab, a hospital — or even for the police . . .

“There.” Ruth pointed to the screen. “She’s just left through the back entrance doors.”

They both watched the young woman walk towards her car. She wore a dark fitted suit with a short skirt, and high heels. She looked lovely, her blonde hair swished on her shoulders. She carried a briefcase in one hand and had her bag over her shoulder.

Suddenly there was someone else. At first, nothing more than a shadow cast across the tarmac in the weak morning sunshine. Then a man stepped into view. He was wearing jeans and a casual jogging top with the hood up and pulled well down over his face at the front. He had his hands in his pockets and walked steadily behind Lydia.

Calladine’s heart was in his mouth. He didn’t want to see her hurt. If the bastard hit her he didn’t know what his reaction would be.

But he didn’t. It was almost as if he’d simply whispered something in her ear. He crept very close, leaned forward and spoke a few words. She turned. The camera caught her full in the face as she smiled, chatting happily to the stranger. Perhaps he wasn’t a stranger. She laughed — she actually laughed; then opened the boot of her car and put her briefcase in it.

He kept his back to the camera. The bastard knew damn well it was there, and no doubt that the footage would be scrutinised later. He took her arm. She was still smiling as she happily walked off with him.

She was gone and they had nothing. He could get the images blown up so that they filled the entire wall, but all he had was a rear view of the man. He was clever. When, if ever, was he going to slip up? But then something occurred to him. Lydia had been facing the camera. If they could get someone in who could lip-read, then perhaps they could decipher what she’d said to him. It might give them something. Good idea — he’d get Imogen on it straight away.

* * *

“I think you should take her today, Tom. She’s been very upset since she heard about Lizzie, and the funeral is bound to make her more so.”

He’d only just got back to his desk when Monika rang him.

“Lizzie Mottram, I remember her. She was a neighbour. I used to call her auntie and she’d give us — me and you know who — sweets. Ma liked Lizzie. So when is it?”

“Twelve noon, at the crematorium. We’ll wrap her up warm and one of the carers will accompany you both. Your mum will be in a wheelchair, so you shouldn’t have any bother getting her about.”

Today. It would be, wouldn’t it? Just when he was up to his ears in it.

“What about afterwards?”

“Back to Lizzie’s son’s for a bite to eat. But don’t drink anything. You had quite enough last night, remember?”

Well no, he didn’t remember. Last night was all a bit of a blur. The shock of Rocco, the spat with Jones and working all hours — it’d taken its toll, and the drink had affected him badly. He’d had a raging head all morning. It was only the shock of Lydia’s disappearance and the urgent need to find her that was keeping him going.

“You do realise that I don’t really have the time. I’ve got a missing reporter. So I might have to give the wake a miss.”

“Do what you can and perhaps we can try again tonight? I would like to wake up next to you tomorrow — you know — it being my birthday.”

Bugger! He’d completely forgotten. That meant, as well as everything else, he’d have to tear along to the Antique Centre, as Ruth had suggested earlier in the week.

Dodgy stuck his head around the office door. “No luck with the GPs, sir. All those patients are doing just fine and improving on the drug.” He snuffled, taking a hankie from his pocket.

“You got it too, lad? Don’t you dare go taking time off. I don’t care if you’re dead on your feet. With Rocco laid up, I want the rest of you focused on this.”

Dodgy screwed up his face to hold back a sneeze, and nodded.

Calladine went to find Brad Long.

“I need your help. I want some bodies to collect the CCTV from the High Street in Hopecross. I want the cars clocking. I want special attention paid to those with two occupants — a man and a woman. This woman.” He handed across a photo of Lydia. “She’s blonde, a stunner, so she’s hard to miss. They may have used a car, or they might even have been on foot. Either way, will you get your people to check it out?”

“This is the babe who came here looking for you.” Long smirked. “Done a runner has she? Got wind of what you’re really like, Inspector, and had it away on her toes?”

“No, idiot. She’s been taken by the bastard who did this.” He held out the front page mock up. “So less of the backchat, please, and try to be of some help.”

Calladine watched Long’s expression change as he scanned the sheet. He could only hope the silly bugger would see the urgency of this and be of some real help.

“See what you mean. Up against it this time — must be stretching even your powers of deduction.” He sighed and slammed the mock newssheet under the photocopier lid and pressed the switch. “Consider it done, old mate.” He handed Calladine the original. “I’ll get them right on it. Anything we get will be on your desk, pronto.”

“Just ring me. He’s a dangerous sod, and we’re running out of time.”

Chapter 18

“I never liked that one.” Freda Calladine watched as another elderly lady was wheeled past them. “Look at her. Out of it on some drug or other. Bloody dementia, gets us all in the end. She’s as hopeless as her daughter was; bloody hopeless the whole family. In the end the daughter paid the price, but she was no help to that grandson of hers.”

“Who, Ma? Who are you talking about?”

“Her. Annie something or other. Knew her years ago. She had a weary, pathetic sort of a daughter. She had to go away after the son died. Wish I could remember her name . . . Annie . . . Annie . . . No, it won’t come.”

Calladine had no idea what she was on about. His head still hurt so he simply made sympathetic noises in response to his mother’s ramblings.

“Morpeth, Brenda Morpeth — that was her married name. Can’t remember what her other name was, her maiden name.” She poked a withered finger at a woman who was being bundled into a car. “Her daughter, the Morpeth woman, killed herself in the end.”

Calladine’s eyes shot open. He stopped pushing and knelt down in front of his mother. “Did you say Morpeth, Ma?”

She nodded and pulled the woollen blanket further up her body. “Cold. Bloody freezing it is. Mind you, it always is in these places.”

“Tell me about her, Ma. Does she live around here?”

“No, she’s dead, I told you. She’s dead and the boy’s dead too — a long time ago. Annie never got over it, I expect. I wouldn’t have either, but at least she’s got the other one.”

“Other one? What do you mean?”

“The other boy. Are you thick or summat today, son? You need to sharpen your wits — wake up a bit and listen.”

She wasn’t wrong on that one. So there’d been two Morpeth boys. Perhaps Ruth had been right to investigate that particular thread. He’d check him out once he got back to the station, and see what Ruth had come up with. He wanted to know what had become of him, and he could also do with knowing that elderly woman’s full name.

“Did she find you?”

“Who, Ma?”

“That young woman — your daughter, I think she said she was.”

Calladine smiled and patted her shoulder. “I don’t have a daughter, Ma, remember?”

“Sorry, son, I forgot. But she was asking about you.”

Calladine left his mother with the carer. She’d take her to the wake and then back to the home. He drove to the station, feeling like death. Perhaps he was coming down with this damn virus too. Everyone else was.

* * *

“Ruth. The Morpeth boy — what have you got?”

“Not much. Only what we know from the original report. Nothing wrong with the investigation either. Everything was done correctly — just nothing to incriminate Edwards or Hurst.”

“Imogen! Would you look through the records — you know, births and the like. I want to know what David Morpeth’s grandmother’s full name is. I know she’s still alive. She was at the funeral I attended today. I also want to know where she lives and who takes care of her.”

“Right, sir. I’ll get straight on it.”

It would mean Imogen searching through the records, and then the electoral roll to find the address.

“I’ve got someone coming in later — about the lip-reading. A Mrs Hampshire, from the National Society for the Deaf.”

“Good. Give me a shout when she gets here.”

He had no idea where to even start looking for Lydia, and was finding it difficult to cope with. If she got hurt — or worse — he’d never be able to forgive himself. He felt responsible. He should have done something about the press coverage — given the killer what he wanted. He should also have made Jones appoint an officer to watch her. Instead, he’d done nothing, and now she’d disappeared.

He looked through the case file and studied the incident board again. Names. Faces. What was it he was missing? The answer to that one was simple enough: motive. Why was this bastard doing this? What had got to him so much that he’d felt the need to butcher those youths in such a dreadful way?

Imogen approached him. “Nothing. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but believe me I’ve been through everything. There is no record for a woman marrying a man with the surname Morpeth within the last hundred years.”

Calladine groaned. Every damned path led to a dead end.

“Are you absolutely sure? Could you have missed it?”

“No, sir. The records are all computerised. It’s an easy enough process, and I’ve been on to all the register offices within a twenty mile radius. There is nothing — nothing at all. It is possible that she married abroad — or didn’t marry at all.”

No use checking the electoral roll then. No use whatsoever.

“I’ll go and have another word with my mum. See if her mind has cleared any.”

Ruth looked up at them from a file of notes. “I started this Morpeth thing. Perhaps I should come with you?”

“Not with that cold, you don’t. You’ll have them all at death’s door within the week. You stay here. Look at those old case notes again and see if there’s anything else we can use.”

“You think this is significant, don’t you, sir?”

“Truth is, I don’t know what I think anymore. We’ve got nothing, so it’s grab what we can time.”

Fair enough. She’d do what she could.

* * *

It was teatime at the home when he arrived. His mum was back from the funeral and settled in her chair in the lounge.

“Tom!” She greeted him with a big smile. “I’ve been out — Lizzie Mottram’s funeral, and then we had sherry at her son’s house. Nice it is too, up on the hill, lovely view.”

“Yes, Ma, I know where you’ve been. I was there, remember?”

Freda Calladine shook her head and sipped at her tea.

“We saw that other woman — the one with the pathetic daughter. Do you remember that?” he asked. “Do you remember her name, Ma?” It was a slim chance but it did no harm asking.