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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: DCI Andrew Fenwick
- Sprache: Englisch
Seventeen-year-old Isabelle Mattias, the privileged daughter of an artist and a dead rock star, is an unusual teenage girl. When she disappears from her college in the middle of the night, Superintendent Andrew Fenwick arrives to investigate. As unsettling hints of an abusive past surface, Fenwick grows ever more concerned for Isabelle's safety. Is it too much to hope that the girl is still alive?
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Seitenzahl: 842
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013
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Dead of Winter
ELIZABETH CORLEY
To Ben, with love
Contents
PROLOGUE
The young girl ran through the woods as if the devil himself were behind her. The afternoon sun was obscured behind black clouds, bringing with them the weight of rain in air already heavy with the smell of decay. It seemed a lifetime ago that she had slipped away from her friends into a private game that was exciting at first, then became a lonely adventure and had now deteriorated into threatening isolation. In the crawling fear between her shoulder blades the girl knew she was no longer alone; he was coming.
A crashing to her left forced a yelp of panic that she tried to swallow into silence. She veered right and ran even faster, her backpack slapping heavily onto her spine. The stitch in her side made her wince and she held a hand tight against her ribs, trying to ignore its sharp pain. She was a good runner, the fastest sprinter in her school, but he was even faster.
The girl whimpered as she darted through a narrow gap in some brambles, raising an arm to protect her eyes from whipping tendrils that snatched at her as she pushed deeper into the thicket. She was soon scratched and bleeding; a lurking stinging nettle lashed her bare elbow unnoticed. Her trousers weren’t thick enough to stop thorns stabbing deep into her thighs as she forced through vicious old stems that protested her intrusion. The stitch was agony and she had to stop and bend over to ease it. This was no good.
Behind her the heavy footsteps came nearer. She limped forward looking for somewhere to hide. The brambles cleared into a patch of bracken surrounded by trees. A country girl, she knew without being aware that they were ancient oaks and beeches, mixed with hazel and rowans wherever light penetrated to the woodland floor. She stopped and looked around; where to go? There was a storm-blasted tree ahead of her, its roots standing skeletal in the dimming light. She would be small enough to slip into the hollow beneath, now overgrown with bracken and the seed-spikes of wild foxgloves. She ran forward but stopped almost at once; it was too obvious, the first place he would look, but it had given her an idea.
For long minutes there was silence except for the wind in the trees. The sounds of pursuit ceased; the birds were dumb, alarmed by her intrusion into their world. The girl muffled her rapid breaths in the crook of her arm and squeezed her eyes shut. Had he given up? A flicker of hope stuttered in her chest as her breathing eased from panicked hyperventilation to the panting of exertion. She waited unmoving in her improvised shelter. Her hiding place was in the raised root system of a giant beech. At most there was a foot and a half of space between the roots and the earth, too tiny for anybody but a slim, determined eleven-year-old tomboy who didn’t care about insects and rodents as she had pushed her pack far inside and then wriggled in after it.
Her calf muscles were cramping but there wasn’t enough room to straighten her legs. She held still, her face screened by leaves of a broken branch with which she had hurriedly swept the forest floor of her tracks, before dragging it in above her head.
Her stillness encouraged tiny creatures to stir in the soil beneath her. Something wriggled past her cheek and she stopped breathing as it explored the outer folds of her ear before moving into her hair. She started to count out the time: one-crocodile, two-crocodile, three …
Where was he? It would be dark soon but would he simply give up? He might still be out there waiting. To escape him she would have to hide overnight and hope that she could find her way home in the morning, by when he would surely have abandoned the hunt. In her small backpack she had food, water, a torch and other essential supplies for the adventure she had planned so carefully the day before.
Her parents would not start to worry until morning. They knew she was on her big adventure, the last trip before the start of the school year. They had approved her outing, knowing she would be with responsible company and that their tomboy daughter had too much unresolved thirst for adventure to go easily into her first year of senior boarding school without one last flash of freedom.
She had overheard them rationalising their decision to allow her to camp overnight with friends; her mother nervous but realistic, her father laughingly proud. As they had reassured themselves, sipping red wine and listening to a new blues CD, she had crept upstairs to her bedroom and pulled out her survival kit. It was in two parts: the larger one she would show her parents in the morning, to comfort them that she was well prepared. The smaller kit, packed into a square, waterproof survival pouch, was her secret.
On the floor by the bed furthest from the door she had laid out the contents to check them one last time, aligning each item with rehearsed precision that suggested an obsession with planning and control, young as she was. She opened the treasure box that not even her mother would look inside and extracted a battered book that she had ‘borrowed’ from her grandfather, meaning to return it but never quite managing to do so. Pappy had been in the army and his dog-eared copy of an SAS survival handbook was her most valued possession.
She emptied first a reused two-ounce tin of pipe tobacco, again borrowed from Pappy; the contents were all in order so she started to repack them, double-checking against the book as she did so: ten safety matches, their heads dipped in melted candle wax to make them waterproof; a small square of candle, as much for lighting fires as for light; a magnifying glass that she had bought second-hand from a stamp collector’s shop, to the delight of her mum who had hoped that maybe her wild child was starting to calm down; needles, thread, fish hooks and line (thank you, Pappy – he has so many he wouldn’t notice they were missing); a compass; and a sewing kit from a hotel her dad had stayed in once and brought back as a memento. Then there was her most prized possession: a proper fire flint from a specialist camping supply store on Buckingham Palace Road.
There had been a bubble of excitement in her stomach because this time she wouldn’t just be using them in a game but in a real adventure. There were some recommended kit items that she didn’t have of course, like snare wire (she had a pet rabbit and couldn’t imagine killing one of Snuffle’s cousins). The flexible saw had been impossible to find, though there was a small hand hacksaw in her ‘official’ pack. Her medical kit wasn’t really good enough; it comprised a few plasters, antiseptic wipes, a small tube of Savlon and a strip of painkillers.
She did have a condom though, still in its mysterious foil wrapper, stolen from her father’s bedside drawer. Even looking at it had made her cheeks burn and she didn’t really like to touch it but the book had insisted that it would make a good water bag, enough to carry almost two pints. She pushed it quickly beneath the plasters and snapped the lid closed, making sure that the seal was tight. The tin went into the zipped pocket of her combat trousers so that she would never be without it.
The sharp edge of the tin dug into her thigh as she lay still, listening and waiting; nothing. Maybe when she had slipped through the brambles she had lost him? Thinking of her survival tin made her feel better. She was a good planner, even her exasperated mother admitted so, and she was clever – everyone said that from the head teacher at her old school to her new form mistress. Not that the girl cared about being clever; if anything she considered it a curse because so much more was expected of her when all she wanted to do was go with her father on his next trip to Africa or, failing that, paint alongside her mother until the daylight faded and they would sit together by the fire, reading and telling ghost stories to each other. She would miss that at boarding school, a lot.
Beyond her refuge the sound of evening birdsong returned and the girl closed her eyes, exhausted but no longer terrified. She reached down and patted her rucksack in comfort. It contained her ‘official’ survival kit, the one she had shared with her parents before leaving home that morning. They had tried not to laugh, knowing it would infuriate her, but she had seen the amusement in their faces as she displayed the contents on the kitchen table.
‘Firelighters?’ her dad had asked, the corners of his mouth twisting in an effort not to smile.
‘Well where was I supposed to find hexamine fuel tablets in their own stove container, for heaven’s sake? You wouldn’t buy them for my birthday and no shop will sell them to me because I’m too young.’
‘Right,’ her mother was biting her lip and avoiding her husband’s eyes, ‘but we did get you a nice compass and the electrolyte sachets you asked for.’
‘Yes, they’re good.’ The girl didn’t mention that the compass had been a silly girl’s thing that she had exchanged for a waterproof, shockproof one three times the price, spending most of her pocket money on it.
‘And what’s in here, Issie-pop?’ Her dad was using his special name for her because he could see she was becoming annoyed.
‘My map, emergency rations: instant soup sachets’ – Pappy’s book said a good brew raised spirits but she hated tea and coffee – ‘apple juice, chocolate, Kendal mint cake. And that’s my spare socks and a jumper in a waterproof bag.’
‘And your penknife?’ Mum asked.
‘Here.’ It wasn’t an impressive knife, not like a Parang – the Malay knife that was supposed to be invaluable for forest survival – which is why she also had a Stanley knife in her jacket pocket, borrowed from her dad’s toolbox that morning.
‘And this, Issie – it looks like a couple of black plastic bags, or are they a special survival secret?’ Her dad was grinning in that really irritating way that he did when he thought he’d made a joke, usually at her expense. He was the best dad in the world, but really!
‘No, Dad, they’re bin liners from the roll in the drawer but that doesn’t make them any less useful to keep me or my equipment dry.’
‘I see.’
Thinking of her parents and the home she had left only that morning relaxed Issie. She wondered if it would be possible to reach the last squares of chocolate in her rucksack, but even as her fingers moved towards the clasp of her pack there was a noise in the wood outside and she froze.
Was it the wind or maybe an animal coming out to feed at twilight? Silence. Nothing. A slow sad sighing of the wind through the branches and then stillness. The girl released her breath slowly.
‘WHERE ARE YOU?’
The voice was a bellow immediately above her head, making her jump and bringing her face into sharp contact with a jutting piece of root, just missing an eye.
‘I KNOW YOU’RE HERE SOMEWHERE! SHOW YOURSELF.’
He sounded furious, angry enough to do anything, and he was so close. If he stepped back he could almost kick her.
‘Come out, come out wherever you are.’ The knowing sing-song was worse than his shouting. ‘You know I’m going to find you … come on, little Issie. Let’s get this over with. Come out … NOW!’
Issie shivered. His use of her name made it worse. No way was she going to show herself – even though it was somehow tempting to give in and get it over with. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe her terror was teenage hysteria that her mum warned her about. Had she imagined his hand lingering on her thigh every time he thought no one was looking; and that leering smile so inappropriate for a responsible adult? She shivered and fought back tears.
Something trickled across her forehead and onto her eyelids, warm and sticky, but she didn’t dare move to wipe it away. He was kicking at the leaves now. Her eyelids glowed red as he turned the beam of a torch at the tree. Issie froze. Was her face visible? She’d smeared it with mud at the start of her adventure. Was the camouflage still intact or had sweat and her tears wiped it away? She held her breath, frozen still.
‘For heaven’s sake, this is stupid. You know I’m going to find you. Come out now and make it easy on yourself.’
Issie drew her head in tight against her shoulders as if she could disappear. He was right there above her. All he had to do was bend down and kick the branch away and he would be sure to see her. She heard him sniffing, like the Nazgûl in The Lord of the Rings. Issie’s imagination furnished him with red burning eyes and cruel fingers. She bit her tongue to stop herself sobbing out loud. She heard him swear, using a word that was never allowed at home, and the silent tears came harder.
Go away, go away, go away. Please God, make him go away. If you do I promise to go to church every Sunday and join the school choir like Mum wants me to. Please. She screwed her eyes tighter shut.
Long minutes later her prayer was answered. She heard him walking away, hesitantly at first, then more purposefully, breaking into a jog that retreated until his footsteps were indistinguishable from the noises of the stirring wood. Issie stopped crying and opened her eyes but otherwise remained immobile. She didn’t trust him, not one bit, never had from the moment he had joined their party that morning, inviting himself along as an additional helper. He could still be waiting somewhere, maybe he was hiding behind a tree close by. She decided to stay where she was for at least an hour, counting to eight thousand slowly. One-crocodile, two-crocodile, three …
Her head ached and the stickiness in her eyes was blood; she had tasted it to be sure. Her stomach rumbled and her legs cramped. She became aware of the scratches on her arms and face and the deep thorn pricks on her thighs that hurt most. They might already be infected but that didn’t matter. As soon as she reached eight thousand she would move, set up a night shelter and clean herself up. She’d love to light a fire but that would be stupid, so it would be cold grub, like it said in her Pappy’s book. One thousand,one hundred and three crocodiles, one thousand one hundred and four …
Her mouth twisted into a smile, and then she snorted softly like a little animal as a chuckle escaped. A laugh tried to break free and she suppressed it in the crook of her arm, burrowing down, her face squished up against her chest. Soon she was giggling helplessly, almost hysterical in relief. It lasted a dangerously long minute but he didn’t come back. Night animals began to forage, dismissing her as a harmless creature, as hunted as they were.
Issie eased her body away from the ground, ignoring the agony of pins and needles, and rolled uncomfortably onto her back. Staring up into the pitch dark of the root system inches from her face, she smiled.
‘I won,’ she murmured. At that moment it was all that mattered.
By the following morning she was cold, wet, starving hungry and in quite a lot of discomfort from her various injuries, the cut on her eyebrow being the worst, but the memory of victory over her own fear and compulsion to give in was strong. She realised now, of course, that she would have been missed. Her parents would be worried sick. The thought made her guilty but not enough to outweigh the enormous sense of achievement for having survived the chase and the night alone. As Issie stowed everything neatly in her backpack, she knew that she was a different person from the girl who had turned a simple game of hide-and-seek into a life-threatening chase. She hoped her parents would have the sense to realise this; she was not returning as a child.
PART ONE
‘The feeling of being misunderstood and not understanding the World does not accompany the first passion, but is the only Cause of this that is not random. And it is itself an escape, Where being with another person means only solitude doubled.’
Robert Musil,
The Confusions of Young Törless
CHAPTER ONE
Late November
Nightingale stretched her toes towards the flames of the wood-burning stove in her top-floor flat, an Edwardian conversion that she had bought for a knock-down price with a mortgage at such a low rate she still couldn’t believe it. Her brother thought she was mad to trade in her previous flat, modern and efficient, for something where she had already had to replace half the sash windows and fix leaky bathroom plumbing.
His aversion to ‘old with character’ was understandable since he had inherited their parents’ house, which she knew he secretly wanted to sell but didn’t dare because it had been in the family since 1879. It had never been maintained properly and now consumed so much money in upkeep that her brother said he might as well dedicate his whole salary to it. Hence his warning: buy new, avoid a money pit, enjoy life without the unnecessary delights of poisonous lead pipes, quaint imperial measures and the impossibility of ever keeping the place clean or warm. Every time she tried in vain to stop the draughts Nightingale recalled his warnings, but with a smile.
The warmth of real fire on the soles of her feet, the moulding of vine leaves and clusters of improbable grapes in the light rose above her and the original parquet floor all argued against his logic. Nightingale grinned again and took a sip of good Bordeaux, another indulgence when she should be sensible, but ahead of her were the first days off she had enjoyed in weeks. Outside the weather was miserable, with sleet driven by gale-force winds. She sighed deeply with contentment.
The night deserved a good bottle of wine and going out for a meal did not appeal. So she had decided to slice a fresh, crusty granary loaf, defrost some of her home-made chicken soup and open one of the wines she kept for special occasions, rationalising that it would still cost less than dinner in her local restaurant. The soup was simmering gently as wind gusted around the chimneys, rattling slates that she knew were loose but tonight she didn’t care; she was in her own world. Nightingale picked up her book and found the page where she had paused to enjoy the moment.
When the phone rang she let it go through to the machine.
‘Ma’am, Inspector Nightingale, if you’re home could you pick up, please? This is Sergeant Wicklow in Operations. We need you here urgently. There’s been an incident that requires your attention.’ The tone of voice changed and became personal. Wicklow had looked out for her since she had joined the force as a graduate trainee. ‘Sorry, Louise, I know it’s the first day you’ve had off in a month but this one needs you. If you’re not here soon they’ll call in Blite and I don’t think …’ There was a pause as he remembered all calls were taped. ‘If you could come in, ma’am?’
‘I’m here, George, what is it?’
‘Another rape; a nasty one – I know they’re all nasty,’ he rushed on, perhaps remembering Nightingale’s suspicion that half the blokes on the force considered rape a minor crime, that it was only sex after all.
Wicklow was right; it was better she dealt with this than that Neanderthal Blite. Since the cutbacks, more and more sex crimes were being passed to regular CID instead of to the overwhelmed specialist Sexual Assault Investigation Unit. At least she had been trained, whereas he … Nightingale suppressed a shudder and turned the heat off under her soup.
‘OK, George, but can you send a car? I don’t want to risk driving in this.’ She didn’t mention the wine; if anything she did tonight led them to catch a rapist the fact that she had had a drink would inevitably be used by the defence, however irrelevant. Sussex Constabulary was trying to put a line under drinking while working, an uphill struggle in her opinion – which she kept to herself – but while the effort lasted she needed to treat it with respect.
‘It’ll be about fifteen minutes, given the weather.’
‘No problem.’
In fact quite the opposite; just enough time to enjoy her supper and finish her glass of wine.
Nightingale knew that she had not been asked for by name. The new superintendent, Alison Whitby, had replaced Quinlan four months previously. She was in her early forties, ran marathons and had won the Sussex women’s pistol competition four years in a row. What’s more she was married with eight-year-old twins. To say that Nightingale found her intimidating would be to miss the point. Her frame of reference now included a more senior woman who combined professional and family life with demanding sports that she mastered to county level. And now approaching thirty, Nightingale was no longer the wunderkind.
Whitby wouldn’t expect her to interrupt her time off. It was George Wicklow who was looking out for her. His dislike of Blite was unshakeable, not just because the man was an arrogant bigot who would climb on anybody’s back on his way to the top, but because he had virtually forced one of their colleagues into retirement on shaky medical grounds. Wicklow missed Bob Cooper almost as much as Nightingale did. Harlden CID wasn’t the same without his rotund, dependable presence.
Nightingale stopped off at the station to pick up the incident report and find out who was on the team. The CID room was full despite the hour. Monday night was sometimes busy, particularly in the run-up to Christmas as people relaxed their inhibitions and softened the slow drag of work or unemployment in the manner of their choosing. As December neared, an increasing number of otherwise upright citizens would indulge in serious drinking and opportune sex. The human cost of inebriated abandon kept police forces across the country busier than any other single cause.
Nightingale had a small cubicle in the corner of the CID room that she could call her own. When she had first become an inspector she had moved into a tiny office, but Whitby didn’t believe in offices. She liked open-plan, glass walls and free-flowing communication. So most offices had been replaced by cubicles. The careful use of computer screens, files and reference books meant some privacy despite the attempt at transparency. Nightingale suspected that Whitby saw how the old ways lingered but so far had chosen to ignore the problem. A step at a time appeared to be her motto.
Nightingale wasn’t the worst offender. One side panel was clear of visual impediments, though two others were conveniently covered. She hated the idea of people being able to stare at her back and look over her shoulder.
‘Nightingale! What you doing here?’ Jimmy MacDonald, inevitably Big Mac to his mates because of his American football physique, waved a lazy greeting from his desk.
‘Called in for this rape, Mac.’
‘But you’ve worked a straight twenty; you won’t impress Miss Whiplash by collapsing from exhaustion.’
‘Well I don’t have your pin-up looks to help me, do I?’ Nightingale smiled the sharpness out of her words. ‘You know anything about this one; where the assault happened and who was attending officer?’
‘It’s your lucky day! The Milky Bar Kid was first on scene. I think he even managed to avoid puking this time, though the poor girl’s a bit of a mess.’
Constable Roy Rogers (yes, really; some parents can be cruel) had only just made it through the recruitment medical and had lost weight since. He was a pale, acne-cursed scarecrow of a lad who had wanted to be a policeman since childhood, which he appeared not long to have left behind. There was a running bet that he didn’t yet shave. To the old hands in the station house he was a gift. Nightingale had come across him before when he had attended an attempted murder. She found him a decent, thorough boy with a lot of compassion for the victim – probably more than would be good for him.
‘Good,’ she said, ignoring Big Mac’s raised eyebrows, ‘he’ll have preserved the scene until SOCO arrived and will have been gentle with the victim. Where is she?’
‘West Sussex General, still in A&E last we heard. Milky’s with her. You going over yourself or would you like me to do it?’
Nightingale looked at his two hundred and ten pound, six foot three frame, walnut skin and permanent sarcastic smile and decided he might not be the best officer, even though he was technically as qualified as she was.
‘I’ll do this one.’
‘Can I come along?’ He saw her look of surprise. ‘I might learn something.’
What was he up to?
‘You’re on call.’
‘I’ve got my mobile and anyway, you need a good driver.’
Nightingale opened her mouth to protest but he pre-empted her, adding in a whisper, ‘Mouthwash is a dead giveaway.’
Thirty minutes later Nightingale tried to control her anger as she waited in the corridor for the forensic technician to finish. The girl in the room behind her was little more than a child and knowledge of how she must have suffered filled her with hatred towards the attacker, mixing with the dread that this might be the latest in a series of increasingly vicious attacks.
The incidents had started in May, always taking place between Guildford and Harlden. The first crimes had been sufficiently different for the police not to connect them: an aggressive flasher; someone trying to molest teenage girls in a shopping centre; an assault outside a nightclub; so it went on. Then an enterprising trainee detective had gathered and compared descriptions of the attackers and remarked to their mentor, who happened to be Nightingale, on the physical similarity of the perpetrators.
When a heavily built, thirty-ish, dark-haired, blue-eyed man between five-ten and six foot had leapt out on a girl walking through Harlden Park from a youth club to her home, alarm bells had rung. CID nicknamed the attacker Flash Harry after his first attack. Nightingale avoided the term.
As the incidents escalated she had taken a personal interest and was given the lead to investigate. The assaults continued, one roughly every month, with the perpetrator evading capture. Her small team had been through every file, re-interviewed victims and witnesses and organised reconstructions but they had learnt little. It appeared that the attacker wasn’t so much clever as lucky. He wore gloves and a baseball cap that concealed most of his face.
Nightingale had feared the escalation meant that they would soon be dealing with something very serious. To her bitter regret, she had just been proved right.
The unnamed girl had been found at the bottom of a short flight of steps behind Bedford Row to the east side of Harlden at seven-thirty. She was unconscious and had been raped. In A&E she had been X-rayed, the registrar refusing to let the police forensic specialist near her until they could be sure there was no brain injury.
‘All yours, ma’am.’ The forensic technician grimaced.
‘Thanks, Sally. How seriously did he hurt her?’
‘It was non-consensual for sure; there’s bruising and tearing to the vaginal wall and scratches and bruises on her thighs. The doctor said the concussion is due to a blow to the back of her head consistent with her having fallen. She was lying at the bottom of a flight of steps when she was discovered and I found cement fragments in her hair so perhaps he didn’t hit her.’
Nightingale looked at the unconscious girl and tried to guess her age; fifteen, sixteen at most. She looked underfed and her hair and fingernails were filthy. Maybe she was a runaway. There weren’t many street children in Harlden, partly because since Superintendent Whitby’s arrival, police patrols had teamed up with social services and some local charities to deal with every minor they found living rough in order to find them temporary accommodation and, when necessary, counselling. Unfortunately Harlden’s position halfway between London and Brighton where homelessness was endemic meant that they were dealing with the spill-over from a chronic problem.
She knew what running away from home felt like; she had slept rough many times before a WPC had talked sense into her on a night that had changed her life. Would she be able to do the same for this girl? She doubted it. Counselling wasn’t her strong point. The only remotely personal side she allowed herself to show at work these days was a protective sarcasm that was starting to persuade her male colleagues to drop the teasing and give her some room. It had earned her the reputation of being tough but remote; an ice queen. She told herself she didn’t care.
‘When do you expect her to regain consciousness?’ Nightingale asked a nurse who came to check on the girl, and then dropped her voice in response to the critical finger he raised to his lips. ‘It’s important.’
‘She’s badly concussed. It could take up to twenty-four hours.’
‘She didn’t say anything when she was brought in?’
‘She was out cold.’
She said goodnight to Milky, who was stationed by the girl’s bed, before heading into the freezing night, collecting Big Mac on the way. He had done little but chat up one of the nurses since arriving. At least that explained his interest. Outside the air misted with a thick, chilling drizzle that seemed to freeze the stale fumes in the air. Jimmy drove her home before heading back to the station. He didn’t mention the nurse so neither did she.
Nightingale ran a bath, added lavender oil and soaked while enjoying another glass of the Saint-Estèphe. It was midnight when she slipped into bed, hearing the wind attack the slates around the chimney with increasing fury as the weather deteriorated. She expected the sound of it would keep her awake but was asleep within minutes.
CHAPTER TWO
The pealing of church bells woke Nightingale. She lay in bed disorientated before remembering that her flat was close to the centre of old Harlden, on a street at the end of which was St Mark’s parish church. The bell-ringers must be practising. She had intended to spend the day doing some Christmas shopping but the memory of the girl lying unconscious in hospital was too much. As soon as she was dressed she drove to the hospital. The roads were white with a treacherous frost and she drove slowly, easing into corners.
At the hospital she realised it would have been wiser to call ahead. The girl was still out cold, though a second scan again showed no brain injury. The doctor on duty wasn’t concerned; the girl’s vital signs were stable and she was being hydrated and nourished intravenously. He advised patience and Nightingale tried her best to follow doctor’s orders.
She decided to drop into work and review her report from the previous night. That way she could make sure forensic evidence from the rape was being analysed quickly and uploaded to the national DNA database, just in case the rapist was not Flash Harry and already on file. She was at her desk just after nine, with a double-shot coffee and low-fat bran muffin for company. The CID room was quiet; the few detectives there showed no inclination to chat, which suited Nightingale.
At twenty to ten her phone rang and she answered quickly, hoping it might be the hospital.
‘Nightingale?’ The familiar voice made her catch her breath.
‘Andrew.’ She hadn’t heard from him in months. The hand holding the receiver went clammy.
‘Of course, how are you?’
‘Fine. You?’
‘Great, never better.’
He sounded buoyant and Nightingale felt a stab of rejection that was as illogical as it was painful. Andrew Fenwick had never tried to develop a relationship with her while they had served together at Harlden despite an open invitation from her to do so. Since he had taken on his new role heading Major Crimes they had barely spoken. It hadn’t been a deliberate break but he had gone away on holiday and when he returned she had been away. Without realising it three months passed.
Meanwhile, her relationship with Clive, her then boyfriend, fell apart. He was increasingly needy and demanding, resorting to emotional blackmail in an attempt to strengthen his hold over her. Nightingale had witnessed a similar game up close and far too personal with her parents. With sickening clarity she realised that she had chosen in Clive a shadow of her father. She had declined his panicky offer of marriage and they separated. She could have called Fenwick then but she didn’t and waited instead for a call that never came.
She had sent him a card the previous Christmas but hadn’t received one in return. The oversight hurt disproportionately and for a year she had assumed he was finally out of her life. Why would he ring her now?
‘What can I do for you?’ She made herself sound relaxed.
‘A fingerprint from a recent assault you’re investigating matches one we have from an inquiry I’m about to open. The investigating officer is’ – there was a rustle of paper – ‘DS Jimmy MacDonald; do you know him? Only I thought it would be easier to start with a call to you rather than someone I’d never met.’
‘Naturally.’ He missed her sarcasm. ‘Big Mac is a colleague. Are you referring to the series of sexual assaults?’
‘That’s right; all linked to a suspect you’re calling Flash Harry.’
‘I see.’ Her grip on the phone tightened; it was her case and she didn’t want to pass it to MCS. ‘May I ask why you are becoming involved?’
MCS didn’t just take on the odd case here and there. The Major Crimes Squad had been established to tackle serious and complicated investigations. Nasty as Flash Harry might be he did not warrant their attention.
‘What do you mean?’
Belatedly she remembered she was addressing a senior officer. Did he even remember they had once been friends?
‘Doesn’t sound like one for you, Andrew, that’s all.’
‘There are reasons we’re involved.’ A brush-off.
‘I see. Can I help at all?’
‘No need, but I’d appreciate it if one of my team could speak to this chap MacDonald.’
‘No problem; whom should he call?’
She jotted down the name while her mouth went into overdrive.
‘I might be able to help myself, Andrew. I know the case well, you see …’
‘That’s not necessary. I expect you’re busy. I don’t want to take your time.’
‘If it’s important enough for you to call personally I’m sure I can find the time to pop over to MCS and—’
‘The roads are terrible and I only called because I thought it would speed things up.’
She sensed defensiveness but ploughed on.
‘I’m still confused as to why such routine cases are consuming the head of Sussex Major Crime Squad’s time.’ She laughed unconvincingly in an attempt to mask her insistence. He didn’t join in.
‘Not that it’s of particular relevance to you, but I’m worried there might be an escalating pattern of violence.’
‘There definitely is, that’s why I’ve taken the lead on the latest incident; it was a rape this time. Perhaps we could discuss why we both feel there’s a growing risk here?’ He sighed loudly and without knowing she did so Nightingale winced. ‘Look, I was only offering to help, but if you don’t think it’s necessary …’
‘I don’t, at least not at this stage. Just have MacDonald call, all right?’
‘Sure, no problem; as soon as he gets in.’
‘Fine.’
There was an awkward pause. At one time the conversation would have been easy.
‘Ah, right, well we’re both busy …’
‘Quite.’
‘So, yes, well … oh, how’s Clive by the way? I saw his promotion to DI came through.’
‘Did it? I wouldn’t know.’
‘Oh, I thought you were … that is, I hadn’t realised. Well … back to the grind then. Good to talk to you, Nightingale. My number’s the same if anything new comes up. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
She replaced the receiver with extreme care.
‘Someone died, Nightingale? You look like you’re about to go to a funeral.’ Inspector Blite had chosen that moment to put in an appearance.
‘The only funeral I plan to go to is yours but you keep me waiting.’ Nightingale smiled, lemon-sweet.
‘Ooh, bitchy, bitchy. I always seem to catch you at the wrong time,’ he paused and added sotto voce, ‘of the month.’
Her hackles rose but she told herself she had asked for it. Better to ignore him. She busied herself writing a note for Big Mac but as she did so she was replaying the conversation with Fenwick over and again.
You idiot, she told herself. You practically begged to go overthere … And you were cocky. He’s a superintendent now; he’s not your pal any more. You’re lucky he didn’t put you firmly in your place!
She shook her head and rubbed her eyes. How could he still make her behave like a girl half her age? She took a drink of coffee but it was as bitter as her mood so she decided to go out for a fresh one. It was raining hard, a chill downpour that was almost sleet and penetrated to her bones as she ran the short distance to a Caffè Nero on the corner. She was served quickly, her loyalty card stamped twice by a Polish graduate she barely noticed. Despite the rain she walked through town afterwards, restless and resentful but at what she wouldn’t have been able to say. She wasn’t in the mood for shopping. Should she go home and enjoy the rest of her day off or trudge back to work? Without actually making a decision her feet found their way.
By the time she arrived back, the CID room was buzzing with the arrival of the second shift. Big Mac was booting up his PC and grunted a hello in her general direction.
‘Message for you, Mac; could be important.’ She passed him a yellow Post-it note.
‘Andrew Fenwick, the chief inspector who got that commendation a year or so back?’ His voice held a trace of admiration that really irritated her.
‘He’s a superintendent now, but yes, otherwise the same.’
‘Wow. You worked with him didn’t you?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Why would he bother to call himself? There must be more to it than he said.’
‘I don’t know but it looks like MCS is sniffing around Flash Harry and that’s not good news.’
‘Probably because we haven’t caught him yet.’
‘No, but we will … would have, anyway.’ She did not see why the investigation that had started because of her insistence should simply be handed over as it became interesting.
MacDonald shrugged and dialled the MCS number. Nightingale tried not to listen.
His casual remark that there had to be a reason for Fenwick’s call stayed with her as the afternoon passed. Just after four the hospital called to say that the victim of the assault had come round briefly, enough to say that her name was Jenni – with an ‘I’ she had insisted – before drifting into a sleep her doctor wanted to continue naturally.
Fenwick had a propensity to become over-involved. Of course that was why he had called. What other reason could there be? He wasn’t looking for an excuse to see her; that much was obvious. Maybe MCS wanted to check out Big Mac? That could be it. He was bright, hard-working and developing a bit of a reputation as a sorter-out of problem cases.
But he came through to me. He could as easily have had someone else leave a message for Mac.
Despite telling herself that she was behaving like an adolescent Nightingale found it hard to concentrate so decided to attempt an hour’s Christmas shopping after all. She was in her car when the hospital called to say that Jenni was awake and the doctor would allow a short interview. Easy to change direction. Minutes later Big Mac rang her mobile.
‘I thought this case was going to MCS, and why didn’t you tell me you were going to the hospital?’
‘They haven’t taken it yet and I couldn’t wait, Mac. She’s awake; you weren’t around.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’
He broke the connection before Nightingale could argue or ask why he was so interested. Maybe he had promised MCS to keep an eye on it … or perhaps it was that nurse.
Jenni was half sitting, propped up by pillows, with a female officer at her bedside. A look of fear crossed the girl’s face as Big Mac walked in behind Nightingale.
‘I’m not talking to him! No way.’ The girl’s voice was high-pitched, its toughness forced.
MacDonald backed out of the room. He was surprisingly gentle when interviewing victims of sexual attacks but he was too wise to try and persuade the girl to trust him so soon.
‘Who are you?’ Jenni demanded and then turned to the officer beside her. ‘Why’s she here?’
‘My name’s Louise Nightingale.’ Despite her best intentions Nightingale was touched by the girl’s bristling vulnerability. ‘I’m a detective inspector.’
‘When can I go?’
‘As soon as the doctors say that you’re fit enough. Have you asked them?’
‘They won’t talk to me.’
‘I’ll ask them, if you like, Jenni.’ Nightingale smiled, surprised at how unpractised the muscles felt.
‘I’m not a child, y’know.’ Her voice was hoarse and she sipped from a plastic cup.
‘I know. Can I sit down?’
Nightingale took the shrug of indifference as agreement.
‘I’d like to talk to you about last night. Can you tell me what happened?’
The girl’s cheeks reddened but she said nothing.
‘Will you do that for me?’
‘Nothing happened. Fell over and hit my head, that’s all.’
‘Is that so?’ Nightingale tried to look her in the eye but the girl turned away. ‘Can you remember how it happened?’
‘No.’
‘Or what you were doing immediately beforehand?’
‘Hangin’ out, like. Look, can I go now?’
‘As I said, that’s up to the doctors but I suspect they’ll want to keep an eye on you for a little while longer.’
‘Well maybe you can go and ask them for us.’
‘I will, as soon as we’ve had a proper conversation.’
‘Nothing happened. Got it?’
Jenni tugged the blanket up towards her chin.
‘I ran away from home when I was your age.’
Jenni looked at Nightingale in surprise but recovered quickly.
‘Rubbish!’
‘It’s true. I got as far as France once. Only problem was I didn’t speak French and I only had English money on me. Not the best idea I ever had.’
‘Stupid, if you ask me.’
‘You’re right, I was but it didn’t stop me. I ran away four times in all.’ Out of the corner of her eye she could see Jenni trying to look disinterested. ‘First time I was ten; didn’t have a clue. Only had my pocket money on me, which I spent on a bus ticket to a town six miles away where I promptly drew attention to myself by stealing fruit very inexpertly from a market stall.’
‘Pathetic.’
‘Agreed. The next time was a bit better but my real pièce de resistance …’
‘Thought you didn’t speak French,’ Jenni grinned, pleased with herself, and Nightingale encouraged the fleeting thaw with a laugh.
‘Good point.’ She paused.
‘Well go on, then,’ Jenni said, trying to sound bored.
‘Well, my best attempt was my last. I managed to get to Glasgow. My parents had succeeded in finding me in England, and even in France where I was arrested and deported.’ It sounded big and Nightingale could sense some grudging respect.
‘So Scotland was, like, neutral territory,’ Jenni ventured.
‘Exactly, I knew you’d get it. Anyway, I travelled there no problem, found somewhere to hang out. It was good – particularly while the weather was warm.’
‘So what went wrong?’
‘I did. Took some stuff that affected me really badly. It was typical, the first time I’d tried something and I had this allergic reaction. I ended up in hospital, a bit like you, really. I was lucky, though; there were no permanent side effects and I was well enough to leave after two weeks.’
Jenni was looking at her with real interest.
‘So … like I said, what went wrong?’
‘It was what went right, actually,’ Nightingale said softly. ‘I’d given a false name—’
‘’Course.’
‘—so nobody knew who I was. I was planning go back to my mates as soon as I could. Except,’ she paused, finding the next part of the story surprisingly hard, ‘except there was this do-gooding policewoman who insisted on visiting me. It started with her wanting to know where I’d got the stuff.’
‘Like you were going to tell her … not.’
‘Precisely. I never told her – you don’t shop your mates – but, the thing is, even though I wouldn’t tell her anything, she insisted on describing to me what had happened to another girl the night before. She’d been experimenting, went off her head and ended up thinking she could fly. She couldn’t.’
Jenni was looking away, her cheeks bright red, eyes too bright.
‘That’s when it sunk in; I wasn’t indestructible. That could’ve been me. It was just luck that I was lying there eating rubbish chips and Angel Delight when this other girl was in intensive care on the floor above. It could so easily have been me.’
Nightingale had to stop. The power of memory constricted her throat. There was silence in the room broken only by the sounds of activity in the ward outside. The girl waited patiently while Nightingale poured herself some water.
‘What happened to her?’ Jenni asked eventually.
Nightingale coughed.
‘She was still in hospital when I left but afterwards … I don’t know. I meant to go back and see her but the whole thing shook me up. I ended up telling this policewoman my real name, why I kept running away, stuff like that. My parents came but before they saw me she spoke to them. I don’t know what she said but I’d never seen my dad so put in his place. He apologised to me, can you believe it? I thought I’d get the usual lecture but this time it was different. I never ran away again.’
‘And that’s why you’re a policewoman?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not hurt. Not like that other girl. I’m going to be fine.’
‘I hope you are, Jenni.’ Nightingale reached out and touched the girl’s fingers where they clutched the blanket. ‘You seem smart, strong, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t make a full recovery, but you were also incredibly lucky. No other girl was assaulted last night, I won’t pretend that for the sake of the story, but there are other girls in similar situations to you who are not OK. Don’t push your luck.
‘What I’m trying to say is that life on the streets comes with so many additional risks. If you’re lucky you can go on avoiding them but … well, I don’t want to scare you, but you put yourself in the way of so much potential harm out there.’
‘I don’t do drugs, not like you.’ Jenni was scornful.
‘Good; but I didn’t either. I only tried them once, when I was feeling low and everybody else was having fun. I felt on the outside and I wanted in. Don’t tell me you haven’t already experienced that.’
A shrug.
‘How long have you been living rough, anyway?’
‘A week.’ The words were out before Jenni realised they’d been spoken.
‘Do you want to tell me why?’
‘No.’
‘Fair enough, it’s none of my business.’ Jenni looked at her, surprised. ‘It’s not. I want you to be safe and well but that doesn’t entitle me to pry.’
‘Right. So you’re not going to insist I go home?’
‘I can’t tell you what to do but I can give you some advice if you’re interested.’
‘You might as well.’
Fourteen, Nightingale thought, watching a few of the defences peel away.
‘If you choose not to go home the hospital will have no option but to call social services because you’re under sixteen.’
‘I am not!’
‘You are unless you can prove it. Sorry, I don’t make the rules. Just let me tell you the rest. They’ll put you in a council-run facility – and yes, you’ll probably run away from that within twenty-four hours, though my advice is to take advantage of the bathroom while you’re there as it’s tough to keep clean on the streets.
‘Anyway, you run away; you stay clean of drugs – for a while; you keep clear of men – possibly for even longer. Then at some stage your luck will run out. Now the alternative, if you don’t want to go home …’
‘I can’t, I really can’t.’ Tears were suddenly dropping onto the blanket.
‘I understand that feeling, Jenni,’ Nightingale’s fingers tightened on her hand. ‘The alternative is for me to try and get you into one of the shelters. There are a couple right here in Harlden. They always have more demand than they can cope with but I know one of the organisers and I can try—’
‘Would you?’ It was a plea.
‘If you want me to. They’re strict, sometimes more than at home, but they’re fair. All they want is to give you time to sort yourself out.’
‘That’s all I need, a bit of time. I didn’t think I’d be sleeping rough, not in weather like this. My cousin said I could stay but, well, he wanted me to, like, well … it didn’t work out, that’s all, and I couldn’t go back.’
‘I’ll see if I can find you a place.’
Jenni’s expression started to relax for the first time. Nightingale looked at her seriously.
‘I need your help though, Jenni, not in return, or anything like that. The offer stands whatever you say next but I’m asking you, please, to help me. You didn’t just bang your head. You and I both know that; and the man who hurt you – yes he did, Jenni – that man is going to do it again to other girls unless you help me find him.
‘But I didn’t see anything!’ Jenni wailed. ‘It was dark; he hit me he just … hit me. I couldn’t see him.’ She started to cry loudly and a nurse bustled in.
‘Really, Detective, I think that’s enough.’
Nightingale ignored her but Jenni’s crying became hysterical.
‘Jenni, listen to me. I know this is really hard but you have to be honest with yourself. You’re too strong a person to want to kid yourself about what happened for the rest of your life and the sooner you can bring yourself to talk the quicker you’ll start to recover.’
‘Detective! I must insist.’ Nightingale ignored her. ‘I’m going to call the doctor.’
‘Jenni, here’s my card. It’s got my personal number on it. Call me when you’re ready to talk or speak to the officer we’ll leave here; that will be just as good. Just do it, love, please, for the sake of the next girl.’
Big Mac was waiting outside, holding the registrar back with difficulty. He didn’t speak until they were alone in the lift.
‘That,’ he said finally, ‘was good. Even if you haven’t had the advanced training you avoided most of the mistakes and got her to identify with you; she definitely started to open up. The tears will help and as long as the hospital doesn’t sedate her there’s a good chance she’ll be ready to talk tomorrow. Well done.’
‘Thanks.’ Nightingale didn’t know what else to say.
‘That story, though. It was amazing. You almost had me believing you!’
‘But you saw through me, right?’
MacDonald nodded and Nightingale managed to keep a straight face.
CHAPTER THREE
Issie reached out an arm and fumbled for her alarm clock. She grasped it and managed a hard throw against the far wall. Its incessant beeping stopped as it hit but she knew it was only on snooze and that she had ten minutes to persuade her body to get out of bed. Monday morning; a whole week of college ahead and she felt like death. No, worse than death, she reasoned, because when you were dead you must lose all sense of feeling whereas her body was on fire with pains she couldn’t even describe.
It was self-inflicted, as her patient but exasperated friend Puff had told her yesterday. Old news to Issie but she hadn’t had the strength to argue. She didn’t need Puff to tell her she was drinking too much, of course she was; that was the whole point. And as for the drugs; well Puff had never actually confronted her outright, probably because she didn’t want to know as she would then be faced with the hard choice of informing the school counsellor or not. St Anne’s had zero tolerance for drugs and would not only expel any pupil who took them but also suspend those who covered up.
Poor Puff; she was so nice, so decent, it was better she didn’t know. Last night her friend had almost been in tears as she had confronted her. ‘Do you want to kill yourself?’ she had asked in exasperation before leaving her room. Well, the simple answer was yes; she just didn’t have the guts to do it.
Her life was a living hell, one that she knew she was making worse, but so what? Who really cared what happened to her? Her mother was too wrapped up with her lousy second husband, a man old enough to be Issie’s grandfather. He was so different from her beloved dad. God, how she missed him.
Fat tears of misery rolled down Issie’s cheek and soaked into her pillow. When the alarm started again she struggled out of bed, swallowed a dose of Resolve and scrubbed her face and hair clean under the shower. It was how she started every day.
The morning passed in a blur. She was given two signatures for late coursework; another and it would mean a detention. The threat meant nothing to her but a detention would lose house points and that she did want to avoid. After her last class she went to one of the computer labs to catch up, which was where her other close friend Octavia found her.
‘Hi. Fancy stopping by my room later? I’ve got some chocolates.’
Issie’s stomach heaved.
‘Got to finish. I’ll be here ’til lights out.’
‘Boring.’ In one word Octavia managed to infer that study meant nothing to her.
Issie wasn’t fooled. Whatever she said, Octavia Henry cared like heck. Beneath the too-pretty, rebellious veneer, Issie recognised deep conventionalism and a burning desire to please her parents. Issie didn’t resent or despise these feelings; she envied them, which is why it had been interesting to see her own behaviour push Octavia out of her comfort zone as she had tried to keep up with her self-destruction. Unfortunately it had done nothing to dampen Issie’s misery and she no longer wanted to be the cause of Octavia’s problems. Let her find her own.
‘Look,’ she said, running fingers through spiky auburn hair that was growing back from the buzz cut she had given herself at the beginning of term, ‘let’s be honest; you want to get strong grades this term, don’t you?’
The alpha females stared at each other. Throughout their time at the college they had been rivals as well as close friends. Issie excelled in maths, English, sport and science; Octavia in Classics, languages and history. Only in art was it difficult to determine who might be better. Issie’s raw creative talent was truly unique but Octavia had a better mastery of technique that Issie had yet to match.
Octavia looked down at the essay Issie was working on.
‘You’re trying to be top of the year again?’
‘No,’ Issie sighed, ‘I’m not interested in winning.’
‘Yeah, right! Like I believe you.’
‘It’s not important any more. I don’t really care how I do.’
Octavia shook her head in disbelief.
‘If I didn’t know you hated men I’d say you were in love.’
Issie flushed.
‘You aren’t, are you?’ Octavia laughed as her friend looked away. ‘Who is he?’
‘Leave it, Octavia.’ Issie stared at the screen, ignoring her. ‘Just leave me alone.’
After a few minutes Octavia did just that but Issie’s concentration had gone. Her friend was so wrong. For reasons she would never reveal, Issie was terrified of sex but in her current frame of mind that made the idea of it all the more compelling. If she could force herself to give her body to a man it would be the ultimate act of self-destruction. She would finally prove to herself that she was worth nothing and maybe then killing herself would be easy.
‘All the more reason for you to accept that date next week,’ she muttered to herself. ‘He’ll be willing to do the honours.’
The idea was repellent. Issie tried to concentrate on Shakespeare’s poetry. The words pulsing on her computer screen seemed somehow appropriate:
