The Well (26 page)

Ed casually removed the lens cap from the camera and lifted it to his eye. “Nice lens. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” said Randle. He swallowed a large mouthful of tea.

Ed focused. “What is it, 28-135?” he asked.

“Oh no, it’s 18-200.”

Ed whistled. “Serious lens.”
Serious cash
, he thought.

There was a long silence. Randle was uncomfortably aware that Ed was playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game. He guessed that Ed thought that he had something on him, but not enough to question him formally.
And if it isn’t solid enough for that
, thought Randle,
it probably isn’t much at all
.

Finally, Randle said, “I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk cameras, er, Mr –?”

“Davis,” said Ed. “Actually, I did.”

Randle looked puzzled, but Ed was chasing his instincts. “It seems to me that you’re a key part of the school,” said Ed.

Randle shrugged. “Not really. I’m just the crossing guy. It’s not like I’m a teacher.”

Ed rested the camera on his lap. “Some say you’re more a part of the school than a teacher. Everyone knows you, pretty much everyone likes you. Looking through the newspapers, trophy cabinets and noticeboards, it looks like you’ve taken nearly all of the school’s pictures for years.” Ed delivered his statements as if they were accusations; things of which to be guilty.

“Hardly,” said Randle.

“You’re too modest. I doubt that there’s a child who’s passed through those doors in – oh, fifteen years or more – who doesn’t know who you are. Especially the top performers – the ones you’ve photographed the most.”

“It’s a lot of kids,” said Randle. “Maybe they do know me, but I don’t remember all of them.”

“Yes. I can see that. Years pass – people change. You’re not going to remember them all. But last week? The school’s top swimmer?” Ed looked directly at Randle. His eyes were cold and sharp.

“You were, without doubt, the last person to see Rebecca Richards and Matthew Bradshaw. Rebecca Richards is the school’s best swimmer in – oh, well, pretty much forever. I’ve seen at least two, maybe three-dozen pictures you’ve taken of her. And yet you don’t remember seeing her on Friday.”

The silence seemed to last an age.

“As I said, a lot of kids,” said Randle. He felt he had the measure of Ed now. Clearly, Ed felt that he knew something – something he wasn’t going to let go of. He’d probably keep pushing; overstepping the mark if he had to, until he got results. And the man was also drunk – it was doubtful that his superiors even knew he was here. Randle knew that he was on his own and had no choice other than to tough it out.
It’s not as if I’ve actually done anything,
he thought, well aware that Ed would certainly think otherwise if he opened one of the bin bags.

“And yet,” said Ed, “everyone else has a clear recollection of that afternoon except you. The person who should remember the most.”

Randle decided to fight back: anyone else would. “You seem to be accusing me of something.”

“Just an observation,” said Ed, innocently. He took a drink of tea. He was frustrated.
Shit, this could go on all night
, he thought. Randle was cool under pressure and Ed doubted that he would slip up. He decided to change tack. “Fair enough, I understand,” he said, as if dismissing the whole conversation. He stood up. “Before I go, do you mind if I just use your toilet?”

Relieved, Randle shook his head. “No – it’s in the hall, on the left.”

Ed replaced the camera on the computer desk, walked through the hall, into the toilet and closed the door, loudly. Almost instantly, he opened it silently and crept back. Randle had already crossed the room and had picked up the camera – and was taking out the memory card.

Ed didn’t hesitate, although he should have. Even having strayed so far from police protocol, he still should have verbally challenged Randle.
Waste of time
, he thought, dismissing the notion. He quickly crossed the room, grabbed the camera from Randle’s hand and pushed him back onto the sofa, hard.

Randle didn’t know how to react. “What the hell d’ya think you’re doing?” he exclaimed, making his voice sound even more indignant than he felt.

Randle tried to get up, but Ed pushed him back again. “Something you don’t want me to see?” Ed asked.

“No – it’s just –” Randle flustered.

“Good. Shut up then and stay put.” Ed hoped to God he was right. He could lose his job for this. He flipped the camera on and switched the dial to preview. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.

He flicked through the thumbnail photographs on the LCD display. There was Hannah: walking to Becca’s house; up the drive; to the door; away again. It didn’t make sense. “What the fuck –?”

Randle tried to rise again, but Ed pushed him down, harder this time – with more of a punch than a push.

“Who’s the girl?” shouted Ed.

Randle shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Too fucking right you don’t know, shitface. That’s my daughter. Why were you taking pictures of my daughter? And at Rebecca Richards’ house?”

Randle’s heart sank.
Holy shit,
he thought, desperately trying to work out how he could extricate himself from this mess. His mouth worked soundlessly.

Ed looked around, furious. “Makes me wonder what’s in the bags? The bags you were just about to get rid of?” Ed picked the nearest one and tore it open. The contents spilled out onto Randle’s threadbare carpet and Ed took a step back, aghast.

Dozens of photograph albums splayed out on the floor, many of them falling open to reveal their contents: pictures, mostly of teenage girls, though some were younger.

While Ed stared slack-jawed at the photographs, Randle tried to jump up and dash for the door, but Ed was too fast for him. He punched Randle in the face and pushed him back onto the sofa. “Don’t even think about it,” shouted Ed.

Randle clutched his nose, blood streaming down his face.
Not good
, thought Ed, knowing at this point the only thing that would rescue his career was an instant arrest and clear conviction.
Well, there’s no going back,
he thought.

Ed tore open the second bag. More photo albums spilled out – along with some boxes. Ed sifted through the detritus with his foot, keeping one eye firmly on Randle.

One of the cardboard boxes – the flat-pack type you get from an office stationers – had Becca’s name on it.
REBECCA RICHARDS
, it said, written carefully in black felt-tip marker. Ed picked it up and opened it. There were two photograph albums and a scrapbook. As he opened it, something fell on the floor: a girl’s hair tie, or scrunchie, as everyone called them.

Randle made another try for the door, but Ed kicked him hard in the stomach. Randle doubled up on the floor, gasping for air. Ed kicked him again. “Fucker,” he said, under his breath.

Ed opened the scrapbook. There was picture upon picture of Becca, stretching back several years. In many of them she was wearing her swimsuit, collecting awards. Each photograph was innocent enough on its own, but as a collection...

Ed lifted Randle up, roughly by the front of his shirt. “Where are they?” he demanded.

Randle shook his head. “I don’t know –” Ed pushed him hard against the wall and shouted in his face, “Don’t screw with me!” Randle struggled, but Ed held him firm.

“Do you know what I am?” said Ed. “I’m an angry father, with the protection of being a policeman. I could kick your insides out and make up any old story. Now – do you want to answer my questions?”

Randle shook his head and tried to speak but Ed hit him again. “Wrong fucking answer.” He picked up the camera and thrust it into Randle’s face, turning the preview back on. “This girl,” he said. “Did you touch her?”

Randle shook his head, hard.

“You sure?” shouted Ed. “Because if you’ve touched her, I will kill you. And I’ll take all night doing it.”

“No,” said Randle, spitting blood. “No.”

“That better be the truth.” Ed pushed Randle back down onto the sofa. “Stay, fuckface. One move and I will put you in the grave. Understand?”

Randle didn’t need to respond. He might be in good condition, but the fact was he was old. Ed’s punches, pushes and kicks hurt him more than he could have imagined. He held himself, groaning. For good measure, Ed kicked him again, in the shin.
Good fucking policing
, he thought.
Got the bastard
.

He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and called Hannah’s number. She answered after three rings. “Dad?”

Ed tried to sound calm, holding back his panting breath. “Hi Han,” he said.

“You OK?” said Hannah. “You sound like you’ve been running.”

“I’m fine,” said Ed. “Working late.” He struggled to calm his breath. “I just want to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Sure,” said Hannah.

Ed looked down at Randle, who was doubled up on the sofa. “That crossing guy. The one Becca mentioned. Did he ever talk to you?”

“I don’t know, Dad, I guess. Maybe.”

“Hannah, this is important.” Hannah stiffened. Her father was curt, annoyed perhaps. She didn’t like him when he was like that – which was usually after he’d been drinking. “Did he ever talk to you?”

“No, Dad, not other than to say hello.”

“Hannah: are you sure? I won’t be annoyed, whatever the answer, I promise.”

Hannah was puzzled. Why should her Dad be annoyed if she spoke to the school crossing attendant? “I’m sure, Dad, honest.”

Ed glanced at Randle. “That’s good, Han, thanks. I’ve got to go now. Tell Mum I’ll be even later than I thought.”

“OK, Dad.”

Ed rang off. “That’s good news for you,” he said to Randle. “Now, tell me about Rebecca.”

Randle shook his head. Ed picked up the photograph album and thrust it into his face. “This girl!” he shouted. “The one who’s gone missing. The one you just happen to have two albums of pictures of. Where is she?”

This was not
, thought Randle,
an argument I’m going to win.
“I don’t know,” he croaked.

“You don’t seem to understand,” said Ed, pulling Randle back to his feet. “You
are
going to tell me. And I’m not going to piss around finding out.”

“Fuck you,” shouted Randle, kneeing Ed hard in the genitals. As Ed doubled up, Randle brought his knee up under his chin. Ed flew backwards. Randle reached for the nearest heavy object – the camera – and swiped Ed across the head with it. There was a
crack
as the camera connected with Ed’s jaw. As Ed collapsed, a bloody tooth fell from his mouth and danced across the floor. Ed was clutching his groin, his whole world a symphony of agony. Randle kicked him in the face, glad he still had his shoes on.

“You’re a big hard man now, aren’t you?” Randle kicked him again, harder.
Ed had made the mistake of being caught off guard
, he thought – he wouldn’t do the same. He kicked Ed again, in the face. The floor was covered with blood.

Randle went into his kitchen and came back with his recently acquired roll of duct tape. He hefted Ed onto his computer chair and pulled his arms tight around his back, then secured them with the tape. Ed was barely conscious. Randle put tape over his mouth, bound his legs together and then fastened him to the chair as securely as he could.

“Never, Mr Davis,” he said, “underestimate an old fart. Especially an old army fart.” Randle went to the kitchen and came back with a kitchen knife, with a four-inch blade. He slapped Ed. “Do you still have some questions?” he asked. Ed looked at him, but didn’t respond.

“I think you do,” said Randle. “I think your questions are, one: is he going to kill me? Two: did he touch my girl? And three: when will help come? Well? Am I right?”

Ed growled at him and struggled.

“So first, am I going to kill you? Well, Mr Davis, I am tempted. But on balance, no. I’m going to leave you here. Tied up. There are things worse than death. Which comes to the second question. Did I touch your daughter?” Randle paused. “No.
Not yet
.”

Ed wriggled hard and Randle leaned close to him and continued, softly. “I promise you this. I will find her. And I will have her. As many times as I can. Just before I kill her. Or maybe I’ll let her live – which is worse, do you think? Losing her, or getting her back knowing what I’ve done? Either way, you need to know that while I’m enjoying your little girl, you’ll be here. Tied up.”

Ed struggled hard, but he was held tight.

“And that brings me to the third question,” said Randle. “The answer to that is easy. No one comes here but me – pretty much ever. So I don’t fancy your chances, to be honest. I’m sure if you could talk you’d be telling me about how you have to call in, or backup will come – but I’m not stupid. You’ve come here, drunk. I think that coming here was your idea. No one knows you’re here. So I think that by the time they find you, I’ll have done my business with your little girl and be long gone. I just wanted you to know that.”

Then Randle punched Ed in the face, again and again, until he passed out.

21

Abby parked Helen’s car in the dark lane and got out, closing the door behind her. Although it was still raining, the force of the storm seemed to be spent. She was almost ten miles from Bankside and hoped that her memory wasn’t playing tricks. If she was right, there was a public telephone box around half a mile away. She switched on her small pocket torch, covered it with a dark cloth until she was sure that it was giving enough light to see by, but not so much that she could be easily spotted. Then she started walking – keeping off the road and on the grass verge as much as possible. Then, she cut across a field to the next lane.

Abby had been as careful as she could, choosing a route that avoided main roads – and therefore not only other people, but also CCTV and traffic cameras.

She’d bought a pair of wellington boots and driving gloves from a local garage and had only handled them using a pair of her own gloves that she’d cleaned scrupulously. Inside every pocket she had something heavy: a bag of sugar, cans of beans, four small bottles of water and, for good measure, a house brick. (She’d considered filling her pockets with healing stones from the shop, but, if something went wrong and she dropped one, they could more easily be traced back to her.) She almost certainly weighed over a stone more than usual.