Snow Kills (12 page)

‘There’s still a remote chance she’ll turn up alive, isn’t there sir?’ said Jackie.

‘As much as Ned or Andy over there going out today and finding rocking horse shit, there is,’ said Vicky.

‘Vicky...’ scolded Dylan.

Dylan appealed on the radio and in all the local newspapers, asking anyone who had been good Samaritans on the evening of White Wednesday and particularly those who took hot drinks to stranded drivers in the Manchester Road area, to contact Harrowfield Police Station. He also called for the two young men who were seen on that same evening, on Manchester Road in the vicinity of the nearest houses to where Kayleigh’s car was found, who he believed were drinking, to come forward. He stressed it was to eliminate people seen in the area, so that the team working on the case could piece together the last sighting of Kayleigh Harwood. He also requested that anyone who had not come forward before, for whatever reason, to do so now as their information might just be the piece missing in the jigsaw.

He kept returning to the surrounding area and the houses nearest to where her car had been parked and his old motto of ‘clear the ground beneath your feet’, kept going round and round in his head.

‘Our initial focus must be on the nearby houses, their occupants and outbuildings,’ Dylan told the assembled group at the later pre-arranged briefing, ‘to see if anyone saw Kayleigh on that night, or indeed anything untoward. The person who was out offering drinks to the stranded can’t live far away. Now we’ve found a boot and a coat identical to those worn by her nearby, I want local premises thoroughly searched, including attics, garages, sheds, in fact anywhere that a body could be hidden. A body can be located in the smallest of spaces. Bodies, and living people, have been discovered inside hollowed out settees, under beds, in cupboards, suitcases, even animal cages. Nothing must be overlooked on this search.’

‘The nearest house to where Kayleigh parked her car – who lives there, do we know?’

PC Alan Hughes raised his hand, ‘I made initial enquiries there. The house is called Ivy Cottage. The owner is an old lady who lives there alone. You’ve gotta feel sorry for them, haven’t you, stuck up there in the middle of nowhere in that weather? I didn’t look around the property, I wasn’t told to check it out at that point. My instruction at the time was to seek information.’

‘That’s fine. Tomorrow it’s a priority – it’s the nearest house, so we search it.’

The team was all ears.

‘I want her checking out, her home and any garage or outbuildings she may have. I want us to be absolutely sure Kayleigh wasn’t or isn’t there. I’ll arrange a search team as well as an interview team and then we move to the next house and the next until we get more information.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be glad of the company, boss,’ PC Alan Hughes said, with a curl of his lip and a shrug of his shoulders.

‘In the meantime...’ Dylan said irritably. ‘Vicky, can you do some in-depth research on her and the address and when we move to the next property I want the same doing again.’

There was no good news for PC Jackie May. She had to return to uniform. Dylan tried to keep her but he lost the argument with her uniform Inspector as they were short staffed on the night shift.

‘Even if you had a body and it was a murder investigation, I couldn’t release her to you, Dylan. You know what it’s like for Christ’s sake, I’m below our minimum number of personnel for patrol with courses, PSU commitments, holidays and sickness as it is,’ Inspector Mark Baggs said, genuinely upset. ‘You can have her back as soon as I can manage without her, I promise.’

Dylan didn’t push the matter with him.

‘It would have been good experience working with CID throughout the enquiry, Jackie,’ Dylan said. ‘But Mark has promised me you can come back as soon as he can release you,’ he told the very disappointed officer at the debrief. ‘Moving on, the team from CID will consist of DC Vicky Hardacre, DC Andy Wormald and DC Duncan Granger for now. Ned, are you bloody listening, that’s you!’ he yelled. Ned jumped.

‘Yes sir,’ he said yawning, as he raised his head from where it had been laid on his folded arms upon his desk.

‘Keeping you up, are we?’ Dylan snapped. ‘The rolling house search programme, as I said, will take you from the abandoned car outwards. I’ll meet you at any property where you have any problems or concerns and we will be supported by a dedicated search team from OSU.’

PS Clegg nodded, ‘Affirmative.’

‘I can’t stress enough the importance of this stage of the enquiry. Any house searched could be a potential murder scene and the body or evidence could still be there. Be aware that the perpetrator may have kept something of relevance as a trophy. If any of the properties have gardens or outbuildings, I repeat these MUST be searched thoroughly.’

 ‘I’ve already checked the Electoral Roll for Ivy Cottage, boss, and it shows an N Regan – and that’s confirmed with Council Tax and Benefits Office,’ Vicky said.

Dylan acknowledged her comment. ‘I want recent prison releases and sex offenders registered in the area to become priority enquiries. What about the emergency service vehicles that were about that night and the council workers?’

‘Waiting for a definitive list from the council of ad-hoc workers that night, because basically anyone with a wagon, tractor etcetera in the area that can spread grit or move snow apparently was called upon,’ said Andy.

‘If they got cash in hand they aren’t gonna ’fess up are they?’ said Ned.

‘I’m not bothered about the back-handers. We just need details of who was out there on that night, especially in the vicinity of Manchester Road.’

‘I’ll tell them, sir,’ said Andy.

Dylan arrived home on time and looked forward to savouring a quite night in. He opened the door to pandemonium.

‘She won’t stop crying,’ said a tearful Jen as she paced the floor, babe in arms. Dylan looked down at the screaming, red faced, drooling child who was gnawing ravenously at her chubby fist.

It was 9 am and Vicky, Andy and Ned stood at the door of the first cottage, supported by a team of six operational support officers.

‘Not much of a gardener is she?’ Ned remarked, surveying the jungle surrounding the house. The path and flowerbeds were weedy and the lawn uncut, which could be seen even though the snow was still present. The gate needed a lick of paint, as did the lattice near the porch. As he touched it, a piece snapped off in his hand. He grimaced at Vicky and stood upright with hands behind his back, whistling quietly.

A dog was making a persistent woof, woof, woof sound from inside but no one answered.

Andy held the door knocker high and rapped loudly, and only then did the inner door slowly begin to open. The old lady hesitated, as if frightened of what might be there. She was dressed in baggy clothes and her thick head of hair was ruffled, resembling a mop.

‘It’s open.’ she yelled. ‘What do you want?’

Vicky stepped forward, showed her warrant card and introduced herself and her companions.

‘Can we come in?’ she asked politely. ‘We are looking to speak to the householder.’

‘That’s me,’ she said, looking slightly confused.

All three officers noticed the leg irons she wore. She walked a short distance ahead of them down the corridor with a limp and jerk of the opposite shoulder.

‘Mrs?’

The old lady stopped and turned to face them.

‘Regan,’ she muttered, pulling her right sleeve up above her elbow.

‘Mrs Regan, we need to have a look around your property, inside and out I’m afraid,’ Vicky said, with a furrowed brow as she stared inquisitively at the old lady’s hairy arm.

She turned to her companions and frowned. The three followed the woman into the lounge where a large open fire blazed. She picked up the poker and stabbed at the coals vigorously. The search team were outside waiting patiently for the instruction from the officers inside that they could begin.

‘Well is it? Is that what you would have us call you?’ Vicky said.

There was a pregnant pause. Andy coughed.

‘You can call me Nelly. Nelly Regan.’

Ned gasped.

‘Really?’ Vicky said. The old woman stood very still, cocking her head, as she stroked her Adam’s apple.

‘Alright, my name’s Norris, Norris Regan but everyone calls me Nelly,’ the man said in a husky voice, as he flopped into a chair and pulled off his wig.

Andy and Ned remained silent, but looked bemused as they stifled a chuckle.

‘Do you dress as a woman often?’ Vicky said.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Right, Norris Regan then?’ Vicky said.

He nodded.

‘We have a team of officers here and we need to search your property to be sure the missing girl Kayleigh Harwood isn’t here. Can we have your consent to do that?’

‘You can but it’d be a waste of time, she in’t here.’

Vicky nodded to Andy and he left the room. Vicky and Ned sat down. Almost immediately, footsteps could be heard running up the stairs and the team’s fluorescent jackets brushed noisily on the walls as they moved down the narrow hallway.

‘Do you go out dressed like that, or is it just something you do in your own home?’ said Vicky.

‘This is how everyone knows me round here,’ he said, pointing to the callipers with shiny steel, supports. His thighs and calves were encased in leather, with buckles and straps galore. ‘I aren’t disabled. The irons were mother’s. I wear them because it makes me feel... Well, I like wearing them,’ Norris swallowed. ‘You see, I’m what you’d call a calliper devotee,’ he said quietly, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

‘A what?’ said Vicky, her voice rising to a high pitch.

‘There aren’t a lot a people around these days that have to don them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad that most of the world is rid of polio and the likes, but it poses a problem for folk like me. Today, it’s a memorable day for me to see someone in irons. When I was a child, it was a common sight.’

‘Can you tell me when all this started, so we can perhaps begin to understand?’ said Vicky.

Above them, the creaking of floorboards and movement of the search team shifting furniture rumbled like thunder.

‘Me and Mother were close, you see. She was mithered keeping the secret all them years but she did it, because it was her fault I’m like this,’ he said, in a relieved manner.

‘Oh, yeah, how come?’ said Ned looking to the ceiling.

‘My cousin had polio and wore the irons. He were dead chuffed o’course when Mother mollycoddled him and I saw and felt his pleasure in her favouritism. She knew it made me mardy but she still pandered to his every whim. I used to watch her don the callipers and doff ’em when she had to wear them and I know it sounds bizarre but it excited me. As I got older it became pleasurable. After all this time I’m less convinced that disability, as such, is so important. I take pleasure in seeing people wearing the apparatus and my mum fulfilled that need for me. When she died... well I wear them now.’

‘When did she die?’ said Vicky.

‘A few years ago.’

‘Why do you wear her clothes?’ said Vicky.

‘Because I like to, is that good enough for you?’ he said looking straight into her eyes.

Vicky stomach turned. Ned looked on, but Vicky’s face showed no sign of emotion.

‘So everybody round here calls you Nelly Regan,’ he said. ‘But they know?’

Norris shrugged his shoulders.

‘So, is it a sexual thing, a fetish, is that right?’ said Ned.

‘Suppose you could call it that.’

‘Have you kept all your Mum’s things?’ Vicky said, daring to glance at Ned for the first time since the interview had begun. He seemed totally disbelieving of what he was seeing and hearing.

‘That way she’s still here, with us, isn’t she girl?’ he said, patting the dog.

‘Have you ever had any medical treatment for the problem?’ Ned asked, with a look of disgust.

‘What problem? I loved my mother, don’t you?’

‘Obviously not like you do,’ Ned said with a stifled little cough.

‘We had a special bond, me and Mother, but I don’t expect you to understand.’

Vicky felt a shudder go down her spine. She had to keep him talking.

‘You mentioned people round here... When it snowed heavy on the 7
th
January, White Wednesday the media are calling it. Do you remember that night?’

Norris stared past Vicky to the wall, as if constructing images upon it. He nodded.

‘Did you have anyone call on you?’

He screwed up his eyes and put a finger to his lips.

Vicky coughed but he dreamed on. ‘It must get very lonely up here sometimes?’ she said, in attempt to break the silence. ‘Especially in bad weather.’

Ned stood and started to pace the room like a caged animal.

‘You see, some kind souls took hot drinks out to stranded motorists and I wondered if maybe they came to check on you too?’ There was no reply.

‘Well?’ Ned said, as he bent down and leaned heavily on the arm of Norris’s chair. ‘The lady is asking you a question.’ Norris flinched and reached out to grab the wig to stop it from falling off the chair arm. Ignoring Ned, he took hold of it and spun it around in his hands as if considering putting it back on his head.

‘Did you, or did you not, see people taking hot drinks out to stranded motorists?’ demanded Ned, impatiently. ‘And stop playing with that flaming rug rat,’ he said, taking it.

Vicky caught his eye and scowled. ‘It was a lovely thing for people to do. You seem like a kind sort of person to me,’ said Vicky. Ned walked around the back of Norris’s chair and raised his eyebrows at Vicky. ‘Eh?’ he mouthed.

‘Do you remember what you did that night? Did you go out?’ Vicky asked in a softer tone.

‘It snowed really heavy, I got wet.’

‘So you did go out?’ Ned said eagerly as he sat back down next to Vicky and threw the wig back at Regan.

Norris didn’t reply, but he stuck the wig back on his head haphazardly.

‘What DC Granger means is did you go out in the awful weather on White Wednesday or did some kind person come and see if you were okay that night and maybe bring you a hot drink?’ Vicky said, stamping her heel firmly on the toe of Ned’s shoe.