Torment (13 page)

Susan’s eyes widened. “I knew it,” she whispered. “That’s Jennifer.”

“Jennifer Coyle.” Souter unfolded the second sheet and showed it to her.

“Mary,” Susan said, tears welling in her eyes. “I didn’t imagine it.” She turned to Gillian. “I didn’t!” She looked at both girls’ pictures, then to Souter. “What happened to them?”

Before he could reply, a bell rang out and a disembodied voice told the visitors their time was up. 

“Jennifer disappeared in April 1986 and Mary in March 1989.”

“They’re dead, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know, Susan.”

Souter emerged into the fresh air, thought about a cigarette but decided against. As he walked past the A & E entrance, a familiar imitation leather coat caught his eye.

“Sammy?”

The girl looked up.

“What happened?”

She turned away. “Sorry, Mr Souter.”

He gently held her shoulders and turned her to face him. She kept her head down. “What’s all this ‘Mr Souter’ business? We’re friends aren’t we?”

“Sorry, Bob.”

He lifted her chin and saw her cut and bruised face, several steristrips above her right eye. “Who did this?” His voice firm and even.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“A punter? Your pimp?”

“I said it doesn’t matter.” She looked down once more. A rucksack was at her feet.

“Is this yours?”

She gave a small mirthless chuckle. “All my worldly goods.”

“Have they finished with you here?” Souter nodded towards the A & E Department.

“All patched up, yes.”

“Can I give you a lift back to your place?”

“I don’t think that’s possible any more.” She looked up at him, her eyes watery. “They’ve chucked me out.”

“What do you mean ‘they’ve chucked you out’? Who has?”

She gave no answer and turned her head away.

“So where are you going to now?”

“Don’t know yet. I’ll think of something.”

Souter bent down and picked up her bag which was surprisingly light. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got a bedsettee. You can park yourself there tonight.”

She stood still. “I can’t do that.”

He turned back. “Why not?”

“It wouldn’t be right. What would your girlfriend say?”

He smiled. “How do you know I have a girlfriend?”

“Well you’re not married; no ring, or sign of a ring. I notice these things. I can always tell the married ones. You’re not bent.” Souter grinned at this. “But you have a love interest, so she has to be a girlfriend. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Have you ever thought about studying psychology?”

It was Sammy’s turn to smile. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

“Yes, there is someone I’m seeing,” he said. “But it’ll be fine. I did say a bedsettee and only tonight. And anyway, where else can you go?”

He turned away again and walked towards the car park. After a few seconds, Sammy followed.

21

The dark saloon car drove slowly down Agbrigg Road. There was a high proportion of Asian residents in this part of Wakefield, just off the Doncaster Road. It was dusk and groups of men were gathered on street corners, some in trousers, others in the white thawb, the traditional full-length robe. Two women dressed in black abayas, with a child in tow, were walking past. At the next junction, a shop offering exotic fruit and vegetables for sale was open for custom; on the opposite corner a Chinese take-away vied for business with the fish and chip shop next door. Some white youths were trying to decide between the two. A couple of old men were walking towards the pub about a hundred yards further on. They’d lived here long enough to see many changes in their district. But there was no uneasy atmosphere. This was integrated living in practice.

The driver was looking for the street signs off to the right and the left. Finally, he spotted the road he was looking for and turned to the left. On both sides were large three-storey terraced houses. Eventually, the car drew to a halt outside number twenty-one. He waited until a young white woman of around twenty walked past, dragging strongly on a cigarette.

Reaching into the glovebox, he pulled something out and slid it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Stepping out of the car, he cast a quick glance up and down the quiet street. Satisfied no-one was around he approached the front door. Another check to the right and left. A stroke of luck. The main door was ajar. Whoever had last passed through hadn’t closed it properly.

In the hallway, all was quiet, apart from the sounds of a television coming from a room upstairs. The room he was seeking was to the right on the ground floor.  He put his ear to the door. Silence. The object was retrieved from his jacket pocket. He tried the handle. Locked. Turning and holding the handle once more, he braced himself and thrust his shoulder to the door, level with the lock. The lock’s keep flew off and the door swung open.

The curtains were open, allowing the only illumination to come from the streetlamp outside. It was obvious no-one was home. An unmade bed was in the middle. Scattered on it were the upturned drawers from the chest against the opposite wall. A table was in front of the window and behind the door, a small wardrobe, its doors open, revealing only empty hangers.

Whoever lived here had cleared out, and in a hurry, by the looks. He swore below his breath and turned to leave. His luck had held. There was still no-one around. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the door handle and pulled the door closed behind him. Back in the car, the gun was placed once more in the glovebox. He fired up the engine and made a three-point turn before leaving the area behind.

22

Souter settled Sammy in and told her he couldn’t avoid going out again. He knew it was a risk to leave her alone in his apartment, a relatively unknown young woman with a dubious recent past, but something told him he could trust her. He hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed. He also hoped Alison would understand.

It was half past nine when he entered The Eagle on Flanshaw Lane. Scanning the interior, he took in the barmaid, perched on a stool behind the bar avidly reading a magazine. Two young lads and their girlfriends were nursing drinks at one table. A man in his sixties with a comb-over that would have done Arthur Scargill proud was standing at the bar, silently whistling accompaniment to the tune on the jukebox. He spotted his friend sitting at a corner table with two pints of John Smiths and a couple of bags of crisps.

“I got you one in,” Strong said, “and dinner on me.”

“Good man.” Souter sat beside him, raised the glass and took a large pull on his beer. “Lovely. I needed that.” He looked round the place. “Bloody quiet in here,” he said.

“I think it’s been going downhill for a while. Beer’s alright, though.”

Souter opened his crisps. “Bit of a shocker for you this morning, Col?”

Strong shook his head. “Tell me about it. Of all the people, it had to be him.”

“Especially just having interviewed him on Tuesday.”

“What?” Strong paused and studied his friend busily munching crisps. “I’m not talking about the victim, I mean that shit head Halliday.”

“You two don’t get on then?”

“He bears a grudge about Cunningham. Blames me, obviously.”

“So much for police working together then.”

“Anyway, how did you know about Baker being interviewed?” Strong stared at Souter for a second then looked down to open his crisp bag. “I suppose it’s your job. Couldn’t really keep that under wraps.”

“He was involved in the Meadow Woods Farm operation, wasn’t he?”

“Exactly what, we don’t know. It was more his younger brother and his mate.”

“What are they saying about it?”

“Don’t know. We can’t find them.”

“Do you think they had something to do with this morning?”

“Look, I’ve probably said too much already. But in strictest confidence … no. I think this has scared the shit out of them and they’ve decided to disappear.”

“Seems there’s a lot of disappearances at the moment. How’s your missing Albanian girl?”

“Still missing.”

“Same with my young street girl. Last seen in the Market Square getting into a white van with rust along the bottom of the passenger door. Not much to go on, is it?”

Strong thought for a moment. “Do you remember a skinny kid with glasses in our class, played football with us for a few games at under 16’s, Jeremy Bullen?”

“Did we used to take the piss, call him Jezza?”

“That’s him. Not a bad winger, but was too small. Like you say, used to get picked on.”

“What about him?” Souter asked, mouth full of crisps again.

“He’s not so small and skinny now. He’s built like a brick shit house. Must work out in the gym. Doesn’t wear glasses either.” Strong broke off for a drink, leaving Souter puzzled.

“Was that it, then?”

“I was just going to tell you that he works for the council, quite high up in security. I’ve spoken to him a few times recently, quite helpful.”

Souter was becoming frustrated. “Am I missing something here?”

“Obviously,” Strong said. “He controls all the CCTV in the city. Why don’t you have a word and see if you can spot anything from the Market Square last week.”

“Based at the Town Hall, is he?”

Strong nodded as he crunched some crisps.

“Thanks, I’ll do that.” Souter licked his fingers, folded up his crisp bag and tied it in a knot.

“So what did you want to speak to me about?” Strong asked. “You said you had something interesting this morning before all this crap broke.”

Souter had lifted his drink to his lips but, without taking a sip, put the glass back down, carefully centring it on the beer mat. Now he was about to talk about it, he started to doubt just how sane it would sound. “Do the names Jennifer Coyle and Mary Duggan mean anything to you?”

Strong sat back, brows furrowed for a few seconds. “Schoolgirls from Pontefract way. Went missing back in the late eighties, I think.”

Souter pulled the photocopied sheets from his pocket and unfolded them one at a time on the table.

Strong picked up the first one. “Jennifer Coyle … ten years old … yes, I remember now,” he said. “And Mary, eight, a couple of years later. Never been found.” He looked at Souter. “What are you telling me? You got new information?”

Souter pulled out a packet of cigarettes, took one and lit up, inhaling deeply. Immediately, he realised what he’d done. “Sorry, Col,” he said, wafting the smoke away from his friend. “I forgot you’d given up the cigars.”

“Nearly three weeks now.”

“Sorry, it’s just … I don’t really know how to relate this.” He turned to face Strong. “You visited Susan the other day?”

“Yes. I wanted to know how she ended up where she did.” Strong broke into a grin. “Listen, you’re not telling me that she’s really Jennifer and she’d been kidnapped and brought up by another family?”

Souter leaned back and exhaled, a serious expression on his face. “She didn’t tell you then?”

“Tell me what? What are you on about?”

“Okay, this going to sound stupid … illogical … any other word you care to use, I don’t know but …” Souter faced his friend again. “When she was in the basement, Susan saw Jennifer and Mary.”

“Come on, you’re not suggesting … she was probably delirious. After all, she was down there for, what, three days, her leg was infected, she’d sustained a severe blow to the head …”

“I know what you’re saying but what she told me,
before
I searched the archives … it all matches. Christ, Mary was wearing what Susan described when she went missing.”

Strong stared silently into space for a few seconds. “So where do you think they are? Up at the farm?”

“I don’t know for sure but it’s got to be worth a look.”

Strong slowly shook his head. “Bloody Hell, Bob, I can’t just go conducting a full search of Meadow Woods Farm on the strength of a … an apparition.” He held his hands up. “Look, I’m not saying there’s nothing in it but I’ll need more before I can go off to the Chief Super with this.”

“I understand that, Col.” Souter finished his pint. “I’ve got a few more avenues to explore but it’s too much of a coincidence.” He looked again at Strong. “They’re out there, I’m sure.”

23

Friday

Sammy had been sound asleep when Souter arrived back the previous evening. Once again, he thought how vulnerable she looked.

Next morning brought a big surprise for him. Activity in his kitchen roused him before his alarm went off. The sounds and smell of sizzling bacon were unmistakeable. Bleary-eyed, Souter, dressed in the shorts he wore in bed, wandered in to discover Sammy in jeans and a loose fitting shirt busily pouring boiling water into the teapot.

“Thought I’d give you a treat by way of saying thank you.” She turned round. “I know how important you think breakfast is.”

Souter yawned. “There’s really no need. But thanks. I don’t normally bother with cooked but I appreciate it.”

Hands on hips, she made a point of looking him up and down. “Five minutes?”

“Great,” he said and set off for the bathroom.

When he returned, they sat down at the small table in the kitchen.

“This is delicious, Sammy. I could get used to this.” Souter had his head down shovelling another forkful of bacon and fried tomatoes onto a segment of toast.

She paused and looked at him. “I need to get somewhere sorted out today.”

“Where will you go?”

“I’ve got a few friends I could try.”

“Look, give me a call and let me know how things pan out. If you’re stuck, I suppose I could put up with you for another night,” he said, a smile playing on his lips.

“Thanks Bob, but I do need to get out of your face. You’ve got your own business to be going on with.”

“Okay, but it’s no bother.”

They ate in silence for a few seconds before she spoke again. “So what big breaking story are you working on today?”