Chloe - Lost Girl E-Book

Dan Laughey

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A missing student. A gunned-down detective. A woman in fear for her life. All three are connected.

Detective Inspector Carl Sant and his team get on the case. But what links the disappearance of a university student, the death of an off-duty police sergeant, and a professor reluctant to help them solve the case?

Their only clue is a sequence of numbers, etched on a misty window. Soon, both the past and the present are on a collision course with the very heart of Sant's profession.

Racing against time, D.I. Sant must find out what's behind the mysterious events - before the bodies start piling up.

Leseprobe

CHLOE: LOST GIRL

CARL SANT MURDER MYSTERIES BOOK 1

DAN LAUGHEY

CONTENTS

MISSINGPEOPLE.ORG

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2019 Dan Laughey

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

MISSINGPEOPLE.ORG

Chloe Lee

Age at disappearance: 20

Missing since: September 9

Missing from: Leeds, West Yorkshire

Chloe did not return to her student accommodation on the night of Saturday 12th September. She left all her property at her Belle Vue Road address. There are concerns for her welfare. Her mother, who has left the country for an extended holiday, lives at an address on Dufton Approach, Seacroft. Chloe is known to frequent the city centre as well as Leeds University. She is described as white, 5ft 11in tall with long black hair. When last seen she was wearing a light blue hooded top and black jeans slitted at the knees. She can call or text Missing People in confidence any time.

1

The bus arrived fifteen minutes before the hour, hissing to a stop, thick breeze pulsing ahead of it. He turned his eyes away and noticed the silhouette of a woman against the moonlit ruins. She appeared agitated, waiting for someone. Lengthening his stride, gaze narrowed and shoulders hunched, he felt a rush of adrenalin as he loomed towards the frail figure.

What next? That’s what I love most about this job, he told himself. Every day a different one, every investigation a new opportunity to demonstrate my adeptness at enforcing the law. I’ve made mistakes, true, but my record on paper is unblemished. It’s only a matter of time before the men who matter sit up and take notice.

On closer inspection he saw that the woman was older than her phone voice had conveyed. Fifties? Late forties at best. Even so, her glowing make-up and the vibrancy in her eyes did much to hold back the years.

After what seemed like an eternity, she said, ‘Dryden?’

He nodded. ‘I’d say it’s a pleasure, though from what you told me on the phone–’

‘No time for niceties. Come with me.’

He followed her along the riverside to woods providing shelter from the rain. They found a fallen bark to sit on and she offered him a cigarette. Then she told her tale. He asked if she would mind if he used the voice recorder on his phone. She did mind very much, so reluctantly he settled for the Notes app. Dryden had two smartphones, a smartwatch and some smart sunglasses. His colleagues nicknamed him Inspector Gadget. Irritating. But it didn’t gall him. Gadget always solved the mystery. Eventually.

Forty minutes later the interview was over. They shook hands and went their separate ways, the woman deeper into the woods, Dryden back to the main road, her final words ringing in his ears.

‘Can you be trusted?’

He hadn’t answered at first; didn’t know how to. Could he keep his word… and not say a word to anyone else? In the end he’d chosen no words. Just a simple nod.

He glanced at the luminous dual-dial on his Tag Heur – a gift from his other half. The next bus was due any moment. Quickening his long stride, he reached the road at the same time as the bus. It began screeching to a halt. He swiftly crossed the A65, got behind the three other customers waiting at the abbey. Hopped on the bus, flashed his return ticket at the weary driver, considered for a moment before chancing his arm on the top deck. It should be quiet up there, the other passengers settling for the seats below.

Climbing the stairs two at a time, he took a seat at the front, got out his iPhone X and read the few notes he’d managed in the shade of the woods. Best to fill in the gaps while things are still fresh in my mind, he thought. Seconds later came footsteps behind him, someone emerging from the top of the stairwell.

He stole a glance. The man was one of the passengers who’d got on the bus with him. Wearing black from head to foot, the nondescript coat and trousers reminded Dryden of his darkly clad boss. Someone wanting peace and quiet too, he guessed.

Back to the notes. Who? When? Where? And crucially, why? Why murder? And why the cover-up? He dug into his pockets for the Post-It she’d given him containing the all-important address, but he couldn’t find it. Maybe he’d dropped it. Not to worry. It was permanently printed on his memory.

Then came more footsteps. Two pairs of them. Dryden glanced over his shoulder. A young man and woman were climbing the stairs. Hadn’t they boarded the bus at the abbey too? He couldn’t be sure, but it was puzzling-stroke-annoying all the same. Why come up here when the bottom deck had seats aplenty?

Unperturbed at unwanted company, he began keying in names and descriptions, dates and times, all the while drawing on recall training he’d recently undertaken at police college. With so many details buzzing around his head, he swore he heard a swarm of bees close by. Then he looked out at the drizzly darkness, the copper and yellow leaves clinging to the trees. Wrong season, he told himself.

He directed his gaze back to his phone, deep in thought about something the woman had said. That she was related to the girl was undeniable; and anyway, why spell out the whereabouts of the evidence – indisputable evidence – if the whole saga was a hoax or a set-up or some wild conspiracy theory?

He came out of his daydream, wiping condensation off the bus window with his anorak sleeve and peering out of the semi-circle he’d crafted, though the view hardly improved through the mist and damp. He could see his mirror image smiling back, the chiselled curves of his strong jaw and strapping torso heightened by the dim light. Outside, in the murky beyond, there was nothing to be seen – but what the hell was going on behind him?

From the light cast by the ceiling beams Dryden caught the hazy reflection of someone standing up. It was the man in black. Then, from the other side of his vision, the couple were standing, postures frozen. Instinct getting the better of experience, he turned around in an abrupt movement lacking caution and composure.

The last thing Detective Sergeant Liam Dryden saw with both his eyes was the shining barrel of a semi-automatic pistol – pointed right at him. He never saw the bullet that shot out of the barrel, penetrated his right temple, then went through and out of his skull, shattering the misty windscreen behind him. He felt a terrible pain. His head was singing, whining, popping. His left eye went blind. He could hear his own scream. More shots were fired. Where from and by whom, his fading senses couldn’t fathom.

He knew he was dying, knew he was going to die. It had happened so quickly, so inexplicably, he could barely swallow the reality of his doomed condition. So this was what it felt like to stare into the face of Death. Like crashing a car you cannot control, time suspended, impalpable, lost. But he was no longer afraid to die. He was beyond fear; beyond hope.

Before the end; before his muscles packed in and his grip on life gave up entirely, one last gesture. The dynamite must be exposed. It was too hot to be buried with him. His phone had gone, but he still had a cloudy window to work on.

Resting his left arm on a handrail for leverage, Dryden gradually raised his right hand above his drooping head. Then he thought ‘brevity’ – and fingered a series of numbers on the misty glass, marking a course as clear as water.

He willed his body to carry on, commanded it not to fail. But try as he might to get those numbers etched for eternity, his ultimate number was up, his last ounce of energy sapping dry as he slumped to the floor.

To add insult to mortal injury, he died amid the echoes of an almighty boom.

2

‘You understand why you’re here?’

The man shrugged and spoke in a deep drawl. ‘No skin off my back, though it’s starting to feel like Groundhog Day. Same routine, different day.’

Detective Inspector Carl Sant spat out his mangled toothpick and rubbed the tip of his rugged nose. ‘A bit young to remember that film, aren’t you?’

‘I watched it on the plane to Thailand last year. Nearly pissed myself laughing.’

‘Did you go with Chloe to Thailand?’

‘No, that was before Chloe.’ Jake Downing, nineteen-year-old package of toned muscle, gazed up at the unpainted ceiling of the interview room. ‘Might’ve been Emma. Or was it Emily?’

‘No shortage of girlfriends.’

Jake sat up. His eyes took on a mischievous gleam as they moved to Sant. ‘Eight. Ten if you count the ones I never, you know, got inside. Girls are like taxis.’ He grinned. ‘You ride one, move onto the next.’

‘I’m sure your mother would approve, Mr Downing.’

‘Each to his own, don’t you think? Some lads find the right girl on day one and stick with her through thin and thin. Not me. I’m too young for nonsense like that.’

‘So you and Chloe were never serious?’ asked the inspector, clamping a fresh toothpick between his incisors.

Jake replied by pushing up one shoulder, lazy.

‘Tell us about your… relationship,’ Sant said.

He glanced at the man sitting next to him. Detective Constable Brad Capstick watched Jake without blinking. A studious type, Capstick was forever adjusting his thick-rimmed NHS-style specs, though neither the frames nor lenses were subsidised by the National Health Service. He was fifteen years Sant’s junior and a damn sight better qualified, but a love of textbooks and grand ideas hadn’t exactly equipped him for CID work.

Jake’s expression became wry. ‘How can I put it? We weren’t shy with each other. Let’s just say I got to know Chloe well. Very well.’ He beamed pathetically. ‘She appreciated a man of experience.’

‘But you’re a little younger than Chloe,’ Capstick said, as if the boy needed another invitation to gloat.

‘In the biological sense, yes, but not the carnal.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’ asked Sant, eager to move on.

Jake tapped the tips of his fingers on the table. ‘How many times have I been asked that question?’

Sant leant forward, arching his neck and widening his stare a fraction. ‘Are you going to make life easy for us, or do we make life difficult for you?’

‘Why you got beef, man?’

Capstick felt the steam coming off his colleague and stepped in. ‘You must understand, Jake, that whilst we’ve no wish to start a shouting match, we’re handling a missing person case of the utmost urgency.’ He breathed out. ‘Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.’

No-one had seen Chloe Lee for over seven weeks. To make matters worse, establishing when the university student had disappeared was proving tough. Usually a time, and sometimes a place, provided a vital marker in establishing a missing person’s whereabouts. But in Chloe’s case, detectives had neither. Students living in shared apartment blocks seldom clocked in like the rest of the human race, so when asked why they’d taken so long to contact the police, Chloe’s flatmates had offered blank expressions and weak excuses.

Chloe’s mother was also missing, though several sources – passport checks included – drew the same conclusion: Vanessa Lee was three months into a six-month round-the-world tour. Vanessa’s Facebook profile had been scarcely touched since her departure, although one recent post hinted at an interest in teaching English as a foreign language. A few photos of tropical forests and temples completed the picture. Perhaps six months was an underestimate.

Chloe’s father was missing in another way. He’d left Vanessa when Chloe was twelve, then moved to York with his second family. He’d been interviewed by detectives already but not by Sant personally, which explained why a prearranged trip to York was pencilled in for the following evening.

‘I’ll make it easy for you,’ said Jake, enunciating each word. ‘The last time I saw Chloe was in July. The twenty-fourth to be precise. She came to a birthday party I was hosting at my digs. I saw her briefly. She left early. Simple. That’s all there is to it.’

Capstick consulted the pocket-sized tablet he carried around with him. ‘These digs you mention. Are you referring to the Moorland Avenue, Hyde Park address?’

‘Correct. I don’t live in Hyde Park now. Moved to Headingley. One notch up the social ladder.’

The constable wrote something on a page filled with his tiny scrawl. ‘And was Chloe in good spirits at the party?’

Jake stared into space. ‘As far as I recall. She was her usual, sober self. But as I said, I hardly saw her that night. We were… losing interest in each other.’

‘So you split up after the party?’

‘I’m not sure if we ever did split up. We’d had the odd argument or two, and needed to get away for a while. The summer break came at a good time.’

‘So technically speaking, you and Chloe are still together?’ probed Capstick.

The young man’s eyes widened. ‘How can we be together when she’s not around?’

‘But if Chloe came through this door now, you’d still assume you and her were a pair?’

‘Suppose. Probably. Depends on Chloe…’

‘And?’

‘Well, you can’t expect me to wait forever, gents. I’ve moved on–’

Sant stifled an urge to laugh. ‘Enter girlfriend number eleven, Mr Downing.’

Jake didn’t try hard to repress the smirk rising over his solid jawline.

Capstick glanced down at his tablet. ‘Did you argue with Chloe the last time you saw her. At the party?’

No sooner had it appeared than the smirk was gone. The boy was ruffled. ‘Can’t remember… maybe, maybe not.’

Sant wasn’t convinced. ‘A simple yes or no if you don’t mind.’

The teenager shuffled restlessly in his chair, his newfound nervousness not helped by the snoring of the duty solicitor by his side. He peered upwards in search of an answer and then said, ‘Probably. We argued quite a lot, like all couples.’

Sant sensed the unease and jumped on it. He thrust his thick neck aloft, closing in on his target. The stark light from the swaying bulb overhead made the inspector’s suit glow threateningly, though Jake was too busy admiring himself in the reflective glass to notice.

‘What did you argue about? It must’ve been a proper bust-up, Mr Downing, because you haven’t seen your girlfriend since.’

Jake stood up sharply, stirring the lawyer from his slumber. ‘I don’t have to take any more of this harassment. And what’s more, it’s about time I got myself proper legal representation instead of Mr Dozy here.’

The inspector rose to his feet in turn, the two of them squaring up like mismatched boxers. ‘You don’t have an iota of decency for the situation we’re facing, do you Mr Downing? A young lass is missing. Feared dead. And all you care about is what you come out of this smelling like.’

‘I’m not standing for this,’ the youngster snapped. His initial coolness had long evaporated. ‘I was invited to this cop shop for a conversation, not an interrogation. If you think I killed Chloe, arrest me; prosecute me. Go on! You haven’t a shred of evidence.’

Capstick found himself refereeing, his arms opening like scissors to force the fighters apart. ‘Let’s just quieten down and sit down.’ He turned to Jake, who was heading straight for the door. ‘For the sake of Chloe, we need as much information as possible, so please – just a few more minutes.’

‘Only if you keep him on a leash,’ he said, jabbing his finger at Sant.

Capstick made a show of rebuking his partner. Then more questions were asked, principally by Capstick, but the interview came to an abrupt halt. Not because Jake Downing wanted out, but because Assistant Chief Constable Bill Gilligan wanted in. The chief officer signalled at Sant and Capstick through the thick-glazed window of the interview room, pointing a fat thumb in the direction of his office.

Urgency and despair haunted his tubby face.

* * *

‘It’s Dryden. Bad news. Awful news.’

Gilligan was clearly flustered. Rarely did the Old Man – what others called him on account of his dated dress sense – drum up a conversation without a put-down remark for starters. His bushy eyebrows merged to form a thick underlining above his flushed cheeks. As the beer-bellied ACC perched on the end of his oversized desk, Sant noticed the bottle of Bell’s he kept hidden for a rainy day in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, a ‘small drop’ of which the Old Man took with his morning coffee. The bottle was almost empty – no coffee to be seen.

‘Holdsworth?’

Capstick replied: ‘She’s on call, sir.’

‘What’s wrong?’ said Sant, gnawing on another toothpick, his way of alleviating bouts of anxiety. Like the one about to surface. A humble device, for sure, but it had helped him to kick the habit, and kept him off those ghastly e-cigs for good measure.

Gilligan cleared his throat, half-closing his eyes and folding his arms. ‘I’ve never had to say this to colleagues before, Inspector, Constable, though I suppose there’s a first time for everything. To be injured in the call of duty is one thing – but to lose one’s own life on the beat is tragic.’

Capstick spoke first, gaping mouth in unison with sinking shoulders. ‘You mean… Liam is dead?’

Gilligan gave a short nod and turned away, his eyes wetting at the corners.

‘But he’s off duty, sir.’

‘So I believe.’

Splinter snapping between his front teeth, Sant uttered the first thought that came to him. ‘An accident? Or otherwise?’

Gilligan unfolded his arms. ‘That much we don’t know yet, but the circumstances appear fishy to say the least. The official line, for now, is that Dryden has been involved in some sort of road incident whilst on board a bus. But going on what I’ve heard, this is no ordinary crash. Not by any stretch of the imagination. We should be getting along to the crime scene, gentlemen, if you don’t mind?’

Sant nodded, trying desperately to digest what he’d just heard. Thoughts of missing people and cocky young men were rubbed away in an instant. An officer – a damned good one – was dead. All other tasks were withheld for now.

The inspector binned what was left of his toothpick and walked out of Gilligan’s office, out into the black horror of every policeman’s nightmare.

3

Through a haze of floodlights and flash-photography, Sant ducked under the police cordon and cast his eye over a scene the like of which he’d never witnessed before. Not even in his dreams.

The vanishing point was the doors of the bus, jammed at right angles into the side of the wine shop. The stench of stale wine rose from red puddles strewn with broken glass. The first bobbies arriving on the scene decided to call in the fire brigade. As Sant attached a mask to cover his nose and mouth from the dust, he could just make out the golden sparks flying off a firefighter’s power-saw as it carved a colossal hole in the side of the bus.

His heart sank as he thought about what awaited him.

Half an hour later he sucked in all the air he could muster before crawling through that hole. The exterior of the bus looked bad enough, its bodywork battered and scorched by flames not long since extinguished. But the inside had to be worse. Much worse. He’d encountered the whole gamut of deadly road accidents during his stint as a traffic cop – the image of a biker’s head severed from the neck still troubled him – but it was plain this was no accident.

Jagged steel bit into his palms, scraped his sides, as he slipped in. The shattered windows on both sides gave Sant the eerie feeling he was trapped in some kind of mechanical spider’s labyrinth. The illusion was soon broken. Positioned under canvas tents designed to protect evidence was a scattering of bodies. He gently lifted one of the tarpaulin sheets and stared down at a young man, probably still a teenager. All the blood had leaked out of his head, giving his battered face a blue hue. A gunshot wound was visible just above his left ear, chin pressed into his shoulder by neck vertebrae arching in the wrong direction.

Sant breathed out steadily and peered ahead of him. Another tent was at the front of the bus, presumably housing the dead driver. A scenes-of-crime officer guided him around the tents and up the stairs. The bus had come to a stop at an acute angle. The climb to the top deck was a challenge of coordination. He tried to avoid placing his hands anywhere where fingerprints might be traceable, then thought, how many dozens of people had coated this handrail with their arches and whorls?

He reached the top and threw a quick glance at the forensic team, grabbing air in front of him, shoe catching on a protruding rivet. The team was scouring every square inch around the front window and seating. Below their serious faces, Dryden’s inert form lay in the foetal position. Unlike the bodies downstairs, Dryden’s was uncovered and, very possibly, untouched. His eyes were wide open, their final gaze upwards to the heavens, the poor soul’s knowing nod to his destiny.

Sant wasn’t queasy by nature, but the musty atmosphere brought on a bout of dizziness he couldn’t shake off. He muttered something to the officer who’d led him up the stairs, started to head back down. It was then that he noticed the splintered glass in front of Dryden.

While the rest of the window had been left to dry naturally, a small section of glass had been encased in plastic film in order to retain the moisture. Underneath this, Sant could make out a pair of numbers: 3 and 1. And then a gap of about three inches before another figure appeared. It looked like a 5. Unless it was an S.

3-1-5?

3-1-S?

A police photographer was busy snapping the rear of the vehicle. Sant waved her over and asked her to take some close-ups of the markings.

‘Already got ’em, matey.’

Photographers cared little for status or ranking, going about their job largely oblivious of who they were talking to.

‘Take a few more, just to be on the safe side,’ urged Sant.

She shrugged in reluctant deference.

The lower deck contained four tents compared to the two he’d noted halfway along the upper. That made six fatalities, not including DS Dryden. Seven dead in total. A bloody massacre.

Home Office pathologist Dr Grant Wisdom was crouching inside one of the tents, inspecting shot wounds and crushed bones with a jeweller’s attention to detail. Sant felt a crumb of comfort at Wisdom’s presence. A man of few words, he was the best in the business. The inspector knew better than to disturb him during these critical moments of scientific scrutiny.

The lights inside the bus had malfunctioned on impact. What little yellow glow could be thrown on the crime scene from police-issue spotlights was no substitute for natural daylight. The answers would come later. Just one question would suffice for now.

‘Any survivors?’

Dr Wisdom snapped on a fresh pair of Latex gloves, replied without looking up from his gory task. ‘Two men. In ICU at LGI. They were lucky.’

‘Lucky?’

‘That’s what I said, Inspector. Lucky they weren’t shot.’

Sant left the morbid bus and took shelter from the rain in the back of a video van. Shut the twin doors. A shiver buzzed over his limbs, relaxing the tension in his gut. He found a cup of something warm, took a peek at his knock-off Rolex and closed his eyes, straining to concentrate on his preferred escape-route at moments of dread like these.

Meditation.

A simple art. True. But to others, this daily ritual was the subject of ridicule. Even Sant had dismissed the idea at first. An old friend who’d migrated to India to become a Buddhist monk had suggested it to him. How to think right – that had been the goal. Now meditation was integral to his ways of coping with the work-life balance. A balance he’d never get close to striking without those twin virtues… watchfulness and mindfulness.

* * *

When Sant finally awoke from his cerebral trance and checked the time, he realised he’d snoozed for an hour – quite an achievement given the hubbub surrounding him. Blackbirds nearby tweeted the coming of dawn, wings thrusting them to the next patch of grass. Refreshed but frustrated, he felt those meditative powers had merely seduced him away from the harsh reality of a blood-soaked bus. All he could conjure up, for now, were questions.

What was Dryden doing on the bus? Where was he travelling to? Or from?

And why was he murdered? Why were the others murdered?

There was nothing to do but wait. Sit in a cold police van and await forensics, await the ballistic tests, await the pathology reports. It was these moments at the very beginning of a murder enquiry, with time so precious and the risk of error so high, when Sant became agitated beyond belief.

The comfort he sought in meditation often evaded him. So his other therapy was to eat his way out of the jitters. It was surefire, if unhealthy. He was a little overweight, but not out of shape. His height, all six and a half feet of him, kept away the middle-aged spread.

In his late teens he’d been an exceptional basketball player. If only he’d been born an American! Professional basketball didn’t exactly constitute a feasible career in a country where the sport had next to no following. He gave up the idea – no money in it.

As well as being big, Sant was unnaturally dark. He had black hair. Lots of it. Regardless of his fortysomething years, not a grey hair or bare patch could be seen. His frequent intentions of growing a beard always succumbed to changes of mind, leaving his face invariably speckled with dark stubble. Tufts of black hair on his massively broad hands added a touch of werewolf to the inky hue.

The other feature that stood out was his nose. It had an acute kink in the middle where it had been broken and re-broken. Meeting above the nose, his thin black eyebrows curled at their ends like out-of-place moustaches.

His dress sense was equally dark. Apart from a whimsical affinity for white cotton socks, he always wore a black suit, black shirt, black tie and black Grenson shoes, and in every season except the summer, a long black Mackintosh.

He hauled his burly frame out of the police van, shading his eyes from a gust that blew cold drizzle into his face. Slammed the doors shut. His stride was silent, observant, as he headed in the direction of the scenes-of-crime teams mulling around the disfigured bus. They looked like painters and decorators from a distance. It was only close up, breathing the air they breathed, that the picture changed. This was no exercise in decoration, but the undoing of destruction; the fine-tooth combing through irrevocable wreckage.

The Volvo B9TL Gemini-type double decker looked a shadow of its former self. The facelifted look of the front end was now crushed against the stone-fronted building. Over four metres high, ten metres in length and two and a half wide, it weighed twenty tonnes and contained a nine-litre engine capable of totting up two million miles. It could carry seventy-four seated and eleven standing passengers at any given time. Price tag: three hundred thousand pounds.

Graham Jones, a representative from FirstGroup, was doing his best to dodge a volley of questions from reporters skirting the cordon. He kept looking over at the battered shell of steel, the expensive write-off deepening lines around his mouth.

Sant signalled to him. ‘Which bus was this, Mr Jones?’

The man took a while to register Sant’s meaning, but then it came to him. ‘The number 33. From Otley. Last 33 of the night. The airport buses run later of course.’ He spoke slowly between deep intakes of breath, a blank disbelief haunting his crinkled brow.

‘What do you know about the driver?’

‘Name’s Brian Simpson. Experienced. Accident-free too. Checked my records just now.’

‘Was Simpson in good health?’

The man glanced down at the clipboard he was holding. ‘Should say so. Not a day off sick in four years.’

‘Of sound character?’

Another glance. ‘Nothing on file to say otherwise. You’re not suggesting… he might be to blame for this?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Jones. All I know is that your driver was shot dead with a gun fired by someone on board. The killer somehow managed to get off the bus before it crashed.’

Jones shook his head. ‘I can’t make it out. How someone’s done that and got out alive...’