The Missing Hours (5 page)

It is the opinion of the Cole Group that had a ransom been settled on, no physical harm would have come to the children in this case. The hostage-takers, whilst clearly operating within a criminal mindset, had nonetheless provided for the children’s physical well-being whilst they were in captivity. They were well fed, clean and showed no signs of physical abuse. The final call between local authorities and the hostage-takers had reduced the purported ransom to $30,000. Everguard Insurance have indicated that this payment would in fact have been lower than the ultimate cost of the Arthurs’ medical bills, generated as a result of the tactical rescue. This, coupled with the ongoing pain experienced by William Arthurs as a result of his injury, leaves me in no doubt as to the wisest course of action in this case.

A formal complaint has been filed with the UAE authorities. As to this time, no reply has been forthcoming.

Those left behind

DS Finn Hale: Tuesday, 11.00 a.m.

‘
DID YOU KNOW
Dominic well?’ Willa asks. The rain has stopped now, although the clouds still hang over us, around us, waiting to pounce. We stand beside my car, Willa turning so that her back is to the chill wind sweeping across the valley.

I settle my gaze on the body on the ground. Not a body now. A person. Dominic Newell, defence solicitor. They are just words. And yet they change everything, when you realise that the dead body is someone you have seen walking and talking and laughing. How do you compartmentalise that?

‘I dealt with him a couple of times. Seemed like a nice guy. He had a good rep down at the station. Worked hard for his clients.’ I look down. ‘Leah knew him better than I did. She rated him.’

Willa nods, a silence descending. She has pulled her mask off, is wearing lipstick, a cherry red, stark against the gloom of the day, the scent of death. She gives me a look, seems to be looking right into me. Unnerving. And … something else.

I look at Dominic Newell again. I expect him to stand, to push himself up, dust himself down, give one of his famous movie-star grins. But he won’t. He’s dead.

What the hell happened to you, Dominic?

I sigh.

‘You okay?’ Willa’s voice is soft, supportive, jarring almost in its tenderness.

‘I’m fine.’ The words fly out, a kick when the knee is tapped. I’m always fine. It’s a standing joke in my family. That the day I am less than fine, the sky will fall. I give Willa a quick smile. ‘You know me.’

She studies me, appraising. ‘This your first murder as a DS?’

‘Yup.’

‘Stressful.’

‘Mm hmm.’

‘But you’re fine.’

I grin. ‘Of course. Never better.’

She nods, pursing her lips, like she is thinking of pushing me. Am I a challenge to her, I wonder, a puzzle to be unravelled? Or is it something else? But I bat that thought away quickly enough.

My phone buzzes.

Willa watches me. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Dominic’s next of kin.’ I flash the screen at her, Christa’s response to my earlier question highlighted in blue. ‘Isaac Fletcher.’ I scroll through the address. ‘Looks like I’m driving to Cardiff.’

I shift the car keys in my hands. Only dimly aware of Willa’s presence now, my mind already on its way, telling Dominic Newell’s partner that his body has been found dumped by the side of a lonely mountain road. ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Better get on with it.’

I set off steadily, my gaze searching the verges as I go. Do I expect to see Dominic’s car simply parked up, waiting for me? The murderer standing beside the precipitous drop, hands out, waiting to be cuffed? That would be nice.

I look for houses, industrial units. Anything that might, by some obscure twist of fate, have CCTV, ANPR, something to provide me with some insight into the death of Dominic Newell. But all I see is the gathering clouds, the valley below.

What were you doing up here, Dominic? Or were you already dead when you arrived?

Traffic slows me as I hit Cardiff, a long line of cars snaking its way along North Road, brake lights adding some colour to the dreary day. I hit speed dial on my phone.

‘Hey.’

‘All right, sis?’

Leah’s voice is quiet, echoing, and I hear a door closing. ‘Yeah. Still nothing here. The kids … they’re taking it pretty hard.’

The missing person.

‘I bet,’ I reply, because I can’t think of anything else to say. I know my sister. With her, this case will be all about the children. Every case is now, since the twins. I guess it’s a parent thing. I really wouldn’t know. ‘Um … Look, I have some news.’

‘You’re getting married?’

‘Ha ha. Right.’ The traffic has ground to a halt now, enmeshing me in a twisting mass of roadworks. I sigh, lean back against the headrest. ‘No. The thing is … we found a body.’

There is a silence on the line, heavy enough that it dawns on me what I have said. ‘No, no. Not your body. I mean … not your body, not your missing person’s body.’

‘Finley …’

Dammit. She’s full-naming me.

‘Is the body a woman?’

‘No.’

Leah sighs heavily. ‘Christ, you scared me. Okay, so …’

‘Lee, it’s Dominic Newell.’

Another silence. Then, ‘Dominic Newell the defence solicitor?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can’t be serious?’ The words are little more than a breath out.

‘I just came from the scene now. Looks like he was stabbed in the neck and then dumped. Right there on the side of the road.’

‘Oh my God! I … Poor Dominic. I just … I can’t believe it.’

‘You were friends, right?’

A silence, then a sigh. ‘Not friends. Not really. We would chat when he came into the station. I mean, I liked him. He seemed … kind. But I didn’t really know him.’ Another sigh. ‘Jesus, Finn.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Have you told …’

‘I’m on my way there now.’

‘Poor guy.’

‘Yeah.’ The lights turn to green, traffic beginning to creep forward, and I ease the handbrake down. ‘I know. Lee, you better wrap it up there. The SIO is pulling everyone on to this. They’re going to want you back at the station.’

I move into the contraflow, my gaze catching on the workmen as they stand amidst orange cones, laughing. So it takes me a moment to realise that she hasn’t replied.

‘Lee?’

Then, ‘Finn, I think something is wrong here. This woman, Selena Cole, I don’t believe she just walked away. She has two little girls. She’s a widow, so there’s no father on the scene … I just don’t buy it.’

A squeal of tyres, the car in front of me braking hard. I slam my foot down, skidding to a stop just inches from its rear bumper. My heart racing.

‘Jesus …’ I suck in a breath. ‘Okay. Look, I get that. But this is going to be huge. You’re going to be needed on this one.’

‘But …’

‘Lee, I know you don’t want to think that she’s left willingly. She’s a mother. You’re a mother. But she’s not you.’

‘I didn’t say she was.’

The car in front of me stalls, the rut, rut, rut as its driver tries to turn the engine over. Typical. I consider my words, a skill at which I am woefully out of practice. Get back to the station. That’s an order. But then I think of childhood fights, Leah with three years on me, a hellcat temper, carrying me bodily from her bedroom when I just would not leave. Yeah. Maybe not.

‘Okay,’ I say, attempting softly-softly. ‘Look, I just think you need to be careful. Not get too emotionally involved. You know?’

The car in front has moved off, sputtering black smoke in its wake, and I follow, keeping a safe distance in case the thing explodes.

‘Leah?’

‘Yeah. No, I know. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.’

And she is gone. I suppress a sigh. So much for softly-softly.

I pull into the car park that skirts the modern high-rise that Dominic and his partner called home. Gulls dip and glide towards the grey waters of Cardiff Bay, its colour matching the sky, hard to split the two apart. Seems like it is closer to midnight than to noon. As I climb from the car, cross towards the apartment building, I listen to the birds caw, think that for the rest of my life, whenever I think about this murder, I’m going to think about those damn gulls.

I stand for longer than I should, staring at the rows of doorbells. One button up, one button down, and someone else’s world is changed for ever. But not today.

I press the buzzer for Dominic and Isaac’s apartment.

One beat. Two.

‘Hello?’

‘DS Finn Hale. I’m going to need to speak with you.’

Is this the moment? These words, are they enough for Isaac to know that his world will never be the same again? A long silence. An ‘okay’. The buzz of the door unlocking itself.

I grasp the handle. Here we go.

As Isaac opens the door, I know that he knows. Maybe not the specifics, what particular catastrophe I have brought to him. But I can see the fear.

I say the words, quickly, like that will make it any easier, pulling off a plaster to minimise the pain.

It doesn’t work, not with death.

Isaac sits with his head in his hands. His fingers dig into his dark hair like they are looking for a way to burrow through the scalp, tear out the news I brought him. He is crying, but it is a silent cry, marked with the tremor of shoulders, a sudden gasping intake of breath.

The apartment is large, immaculate, floor-to-ceiling windows that give out on to the grey of the bay. From somewhere, I hear a radio, music playing, a reminder of an easier time. And of course, those damn gulls.

I sit next to him on the long leather sofa.

‘This can’t be happening.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I just don’t believe it.’

‘I know.’

‘We’re going on holiday. In two weeks.’ His accent has a twang to it that, in the context, is hard to define. ‘We … It’s booked.’ He looks up at me, his pale eyes liquid, saying it like it will somehow make a difference, as if now that I know this, I will take back my words. Your boyfriend, Dominic, is dead.

I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.

Isaac looks beyond me, empty eyes watching the seagulls wheel.

‘Isaac, I need to ask you, when did you see Dominic last?’

‘Yesterday. Before he left for work.’ It is American, the accent, the edges of it rounded down so that it is flecked with Welsh. His voice sounds hollowed out, like he has gone already, left his body behind.

Is he picturing the rest of his life now, empty of the man he loved? Or is he seeing Dominic’s body, slumped and useless?

I lean forward, trying to catch his eye, pull him back to me. ‘He never came home last night?’

‘No.’

I hang on that word. No. You always look to the spouse first. Because marriage, partnerships, they will strip you bare, sometimes leading to an anger that can slide out of control.

So I am told, anyway.

‘Were you concerned?’ I say the words carefully. Gently. Gently. ‘Worried about him?’

He turns his gaze back towards me. ‘I thought he was working. He works long hours.’

‘But for him not to come home at all, was that unusual?’

‘I guess.’

‘You weren’t worried, though?’ I keep my voice easy, try to keep the accusation out of it.

‘No.’

He didn’t come home. Dominic didn’t come home. And yet his boyfriend did nothing. Why?

‘Are you sure?’ Isaac asks.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It might not be him. Are you sure it’s him? Maybe it was somebody else.’

I think of the body, folded in on itself. ‘We will, of course, ask you to come in and make a formal identification.’ Isaac sits up, a look of hope flooding his features. ‘But I must tell you, Isaac, I’m very confident that the body is Dominic’s.’

I watch his face, look for the lie in the display of grief. But all I can see are the tears. His hands are over his mouth now, long, slender fingers stoppering it up.

‘Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Dominic?’

He gives a bleak laugh. ‘He’s a solicitor. He deals with scumbags every day.’

‘So has he had problems?’

Isaac shrugs. ‘They get angry when things don’t go their way.’

‘Do you have any names?’

‘There was someone, a guy Dom’s been representing for years. He’s been causing trouble, got aggressive with Dom.’

‘His name?’

‘Um, Beck, I think? Beck Chambers.’

What the darkness takes

DC Leah Mackay: Tuesday, 11.02 a.m.

WE WALK INTO
the house slowly, our footsteps a funeral dirge. I hear Orla draw in a breath as she stands in the open doorway, and I can tell that she is steeling herself, gathering her resolve for what is to come. She steps over the threshold, pulled forward on an invisible string towards the sound of voices that seeps beneath the closed kitchen door. Not voices. One voice. The neighbour. She is twittering, a flow of words that has become a monologue thrown at an unresponsive audience.

Orla pauses before the door, placing one hand flat on its wood panel. It is like a blessing. Or maybe a prayer.

I stand behind her, and ridiculously, I feel tears prick at the back of my eyes.

Please God, let me find Selena Cole. Let me bring her home.

Orla breathes again, then twists the handle, pushing it inwards. The kitchen is warm, the overhead lights battling against the dark, dreary day. The girls sit at the kitchen table, Tara’s legs dangling uselessly above the floor. There are glasses of squash, dark enough that you know that one sip will make your teeth hurt. A plate of plain digestive biscuits. The girls, though, are simply sitting there, waiting.

I grit my teeth in anticipation of what will inevitably come.

Their heads snap around, drawn by the sound of the door, their faces a battle of expectation and fear. Then they see us. And, like an act that has been rehearsed, their heads sink.

Tara recovers first, pushing herself awkwardly from her chair, her small bare feet slapping against the cold kitchen floor as she runs to her aunt, her face crumpled. I watch Heather as Orla takes the younger girl in her arms, watch as she studies the knots in the wooden kitchen table, digging her thumbnail in so hard that I know it must hurt. I am expecting her to cry. But instead she simply sits there, stabbing at the table with her fingers.