The Taken Girls

15

Four and a half minutes later Ed walked into the hotel bar. DI Saunders was at a corner table, his glass already empty. Seeing her approach he started to his feet.

‘What’ll you have?’ he asked.

The barman was already coming to the table.

‘You’re empty. I’ll get them. What’s yours?’

‘Single malt, Bowmore. Thanks.’ Saunders sank back into his chair.

Ed turned to the barman. ‘Good evening, Gino. A double Bowmore, and a vodka tonic for me, please. Charge it to my room.’

‘Certainly, Ms Ogborne.’

‘You seem to have settled in well.’

‘It was easier here than at the Station.’

‘I guess so.’ Saunders looked shamefaced. ‘Actually, that’s one of the reasons I’m here.’

Ed relaxed. For the moment at least his late-night visit was work-related. Their drinks arrived and she raised her glass.

‘Cheers.’

Saunders acknowledged her toast and they sat in silence, sipping their drinks.

‘So, what did you want to say about work?’

‘Let’s leave that for a moment. First I want to give you the full story behind tonight’s incident in the pub.’

‘I assumed there was previous.’

‘Fynn McNally is the local big fish in a small pond. He’s behind most of the villainy that goes on round here. If he’s not behind it he expects a slice.’

‘What’s going on between McNally and DS Potts?’

‘It goes back to childhood.’ Saunders took a sip of whisky. ‘They were at school together. McNally’s always been a bully. Mike got some of it when he was a boy. Their lives went different ways and then collided when Mike became a copper. He wasn’t vindictive but he was always out to get McNally for his crimes. The trouble is, McNally’s a wily bastard; he’s smart and he knows it.’

‘I don’t see how that accounts for this evening’s outburst.’

‘There’s more. Three years ago Mike’s younger daughter, Susanne, was killed in a hit and run. The word is that McNally was responsible but we can’t prove it. He got to witnesses and made sure they’ll not talk. He knows he’s safe and the arrogant bastard enjoys rubbing it in.’

‘But attempted assault with a knife, surely he’ll go down for that?’

‘That was out of character, a big mistake. It was a crazy stunt to pull with all of us as witnesses. Of course, his friends will testify that DS Potts made the first threatening gestures and it’ll be their word against ours. He’ll not be inside for long.’

‘Thanks for telling me.’ Ed toyed with her glass for a moment and then asked, ‘Has Mike got other children?’

‘An older daughter and a son, both at university. He and his wife took Susanne’s death hard. Reminders from the likes of McNally don’t help. I’m sure Mike’s over the initial hurt but he’s collapsed in on himself. The drive he once had has gone. I think he’d like to put the loss of his daughter behind him but something’s preventing that. He’s always ready to go for a drink after work. I wonder if things aren’t too good at home.’

After the DI’s behaviour at the team meeting that morning, Ed was surprised Saunders was now treating her like a trusted colleague. She nodded sympathetically and thought she’d use the moment.

‘And the DCs, Jenny and Nat, what can you tell me about them?’

‘Neither has been with us long but both come with baggage.’

‘Don’t we all?’

Ed received the briefest look from Saunders as if her throwaway comment held particular significance but he quickly continued.

‘Despite their youth, I don’t think either’s had the easiest of times.’

‘How so?’

‘Nat played football, had a trial with Gillingham FC. He won a development contract but was let go at the end of the year. By all accounts he took it badly, gave up football and joined the Force.’

‘And Jenny?’

‘Ah, you’ve noticed. It’s clear he fancies her but, on that score, she’s more difficult to read.’

‘I meant her background?’

‘Right … something’s not gone well in her life. I don’t know the details but I gather it’s personal. Since joining the Force, she’s making good progress.’ He paused as if going to expand but appeared to change his mind and concluded, ‘Both are shaping up to be good officers.’

Ed took a couple of sips of her drink and waited for Saunders to continue. He filled the pause with a mouthful of malt before leaning towards her without touching the table.

Alarm bells rang and Ed became wary but Brian’s next words were not what she expected.

‘I’m sorry you had such a cold reception.’

‘It was to be expected given the nature of my arrival. I’m sorry you’ve been transferred to Maidstone. I was unaware, knew nothing ’til I got here.’

‘If you’re feeling bad, don’t. I’m the one who should apologize.’

‘You? Apologize?’ Ed was genuinely puzzled. ‘What on earth for?’

‘I’m not sorry to be moving. I should’ve made that clear to my colleagues. I’ve known them for years. Couldn’t bring myself to make them think I was pleased to get out.’

‘Why d’you want to go? You’re settled here.’

Saunders took another sip of malt. ‘Nobody else knows but you deserve to. You’ll keep it quiet?’

Ed nodded.

‘I may be settled in the job but I want out. Your transfer to Canterbury was my ticket. The Force is not good for relationships. Many marriages don’t survive. Mine’s one. Ellen, my wife, resented the time I spent at work. A year after our youngest went to university she asked for a divorce. I hadn’t noticed anything, but she’d been seeing someone for months. I can’t wait to get away.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Aye, it’s a bit late for me to be starting over. Maidstone’s more of a desk job. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet someone new in the office.’

‘What about your children?’

‘They’ve moved out. We haven’t told them yet. I’m sure I’ll continue to see them.’

Saunders finished his drink and stood up.

‘That’s enough melancholy for one night.’

Ed left her drink unfinished and went with him to the street.

Watching her colleague walk towards Westgate Towers, Ed’s thoughts turned to the missing girl. When on a case, the victim barely left her head and some memories remained long after the case was closed. To break her train of thought, Ed turned back into the hotel. Her immediate priority was to get settled in Canterbury. She needed somewhere to live and tomorrow she’d make a start with the viewings. Before that she had something else in mind.

Walking through the hotel lobby, Ed went to retrieve her unfinished drink. When standing to accompany Saunders to the street, she’d recognized somebody sitting at the bar. Drink in hand, she slipped onto the adjacent barstool.

‘Do you mind if I take one of your cheese straws? Gino seems to have forgotten mine.’

Verity Shaw turned with her habitual half-smile and nudged the bowl towards Ed.

‘I was hoping you’d come back to finish your vodka tonic.’

And I was hoping you’d still be here, thought Ed. She took a cheese straw but remained silent.

With a look of candour, Verity caught her eye. ‘I lied last time we met.’ She paused, holding Ed’s gaze. ‘Sometimes I come here for a nightcap. Will you join me?’

‘I’m not sure I should have another vodka.’

‘Me neither,’ said Verity whose drink looked identical to Ed’s. ‘Let’s celebrate your new job with something less alcoholic. Two glasses of champagne and then we’ll call it a night?’

‘Sounds good to me.’

Ed made to signal the barman but Verity stayed her hand.

‘My treat.’

Ed allowed herself to be treated and the events of the day receded. They talked easily and it crossed Ed’s mind that she’d never had a female friend before, someone with whom she could relax. The two glasses of champagne became two glasses each before they called it a night.

Standing on the pavement outside the hotel, Verity said, ‘Now you’ve settled in, give me a call should you fancy a break from the Station. We could meet at Deakin’s for a coffee.’

‘Thanks, I’d like that.’

The half-smile returned to Verity’s face. Ed raised a hand in farewell and watched her new friend walk into the night.

16

Lucy hugged herself for warmth and companionship. She’d been woken by foxes. Their high-pitched shrieks, like a distressed child, were disturbing when she was in her own bed. Here, alone without light in an isolated building, the noises were terrifying. The cold shiver, which was no more than a brief sensation at home, persisted and grew until her body shook uncontrollably.

She’d tried not to think about it, to bar it from her mind, but Lucy knew from many news reports that girls reported missing were usually found dead. She’d been taken from the street, she was missing and she was completely at her kidnapper’s mercy. Much though she wanted to believe his assurances that he would set her free, deep down she couldn’t escape the thought that she would die. Whatever he had taken her for, eventually he would kill her. She struggled to overcome the feeling of utter helplessness. Only by staying alert would she have any chance of ensuring her survival.

As light began seeping through the high windows, Lucy used the pail and washed. When he arrived she was listening to music but she heard him knock and call out because his warning coincided with the end of a track. The sound of the outer door was followed by a brief silence before he came into sight and the strange voice asked how she was feeling.

‘I want to go home. You say you’re in control, so why won’t you let me go?’

‘That’s my business. You’ll stay until I’m ready to let you go but, remember, you’ve nothing to worry about. I’ve promised to release you and I keep my promises.’

He approached the wire partition.

‘Come here and put your wrist close to the slot so that I can unlock the handcuff.’

Lucy did as she was told.

‘There … that should feel better. Get some exercise while I make breakfast. Before we eat I’ll want you to put the handcuff back on and stand here by the slot so that I can lock it.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘That wouldn’t be wise. You’ll have no breakfast and nothing to eat or drink until the handcuff’s back on.’

After they’d eaten, he was in no hurry so he left Lucy on the bed listening to music and went to his private room. Inside there was a slight smell of preservative. He felt comfortable here. All was ordered, everything in its place. He let his eyes wander over the gleaming bottles and jars. This collection was more important than the one he’d had when he was a boy. Things were different then. His thoughts drifted back to when he was a child, a time he remembered clearly, a time he would never allow himself to forget.

In his mind he sees the room, or rather he doesn’t see the room. He’s in the room but he can’t see it because it’s dark. The curtains are drawn and it’s so black that if he held his hand in front of his eyes he wouldn’t see it. But he doesn’t do that. It’s cold. In the morning his breath will have frozen on the window pane. He keeps his hand under the scratchy blanket, breathing the cold air in through his nose and out through his mouth into the bed. The warmth never reaches his feet but the rhythmic breathing and self-induced shivering distract from the cold. He’s not afraid. Unlike some children he has no fear of being alone, no fear of the dark. Nothing bad can happen. It’s happened already. When he cried and was comforted, the smell was different and the arms that held him were thinner than before.

Sometimes he was woken during the night by sounds, animal sounds. Later he realized those sounds came from their mother’s room. He never thought of her as his mother, always their mother; it spread the pain. The sounds came every evening a man was there. It was always a man. Not always the same man, but always a man and always loud. Telling their mother she was good enough to eat. She would laugh and turn to the mirror for a final touch of lipstick. She didn’t seem to notice that whenever she turned away the man’s eyes were all over her daughter.

Often, especially when it was a new man, their mother would notice a last-minute crease in her blouse and ask Reena to get the ironing board. If her daughter were slow to move she would be urged by a commanding ‘Doreena!’ Even then, he knew his sister hated her full name. With the board in place but the iron barely warm, their mother would take off her blouse and give it a quick pass. Facing the man, she would slowly re-button the blouse, turn to the mirror and say, ‘There, that’s better.’ The inevitable reply, ‘I liked you better without it’, would be countered with a ‘Not in front of the children’ softened by a satisfied smile.

Reena was big for her age. By the time she was 11, whenever there was a man around, she’d taken to doing a bit of ironing of her own. He wanted none of it. As soon as he heard the doorknocker he went to his bedroom. The voices continued until he heard the front door shut behind their mother and her latest man. Sometimes, as a parting shot, Reena was encouraged to be a good girl but their mother never came to wish him goodnight. The next morning she would appear bleary-eyed and tell him to go play in his room. He’d hear voices and then the front door would close.

For one day, a summer Sunday, things were different. One of the men took them to Broadstairs in his car. It was the first and last time he remembered going somewhere with Reena and their mother just for fun. On the beach the man treated him and Reena to donkey rides, the swing-boats and cake with Vimto as they watched the Punch and Judy show. He sat enthralled by Mr Punch but Reena was soon bored. She preferred the swing-boats where her screams attracted the eyes of agile young men urging her to go higher. On the way home the man asked if he’d enjoyed the day out. In reply he stumbled over the man’s unknown name. ‘Don’t worry, son, you can call me Uncle Joe. We’ll do it again one day.’ At this their mother didn’t look best pleased. They never did it again and Uncle Joe stopped coming to visit. Another man took his place.

If their mother had taught him anything as a child, she had taught him to wait. Her nightly absences were a seamless backdrop to his childhood, unbroken until she became more adventurous.

The first time wasn’t so bad. It was around midday on a Saturday at the start of the long summer holiday. The current man arrived with a suitcase and their mother emerged from her room with two bags of her own. ‘We’re off for a week’s holiday. You and Reena will be fine. There’s tins of soup and baked beans and lots of bread. We’ll be back next Saturday.’ No hug, just a ‘Tell Reena we’ve gone’. As soon as she heard the news, Reena took the chance to spend time at her boyfriend’s.

With everyone out, the whole house was his but all he needed was in his room. There he would spend hours checking his insects against pictures in books and reorganizing his collection. The first and later a second holiday week passed without incident, but things went really wrong when their mother took her third holiday that summer; she didn’t reappear at the end of the week as promised. Reena said to wait until Sunday evening and then lost no time in leaving the house again to go to her boyfriend’s. By now he had grown accustomed to being ignored. Monday morning came and there was still no sign of their mother, but in her place two policemen arrived. They were followed by a lady who reminded him of his first schoolteacher. She helped him pack a bag and drove him to Mr and Mrs Pickering’s house.

‘We haven’t traced your mother yet, but you’ll be safe here. If your mother’s unable to look after you we’ll arrange for you to live with another family.’

‘Where’s Reena?’

‘My colleague’s dealing with your sister.’

It was 27 years before he found his sister, three more before he saw their mother again. Seeing what they’d become and contemplating the arc of their lives had been a revelation. It was then he decided what he must do. That decision set him on the path to this building in the woods, to the girl on the bed, and to this, his private room with its gleaming bottles and jars. Things were different now. His childhood collection had been a pastime; here there was purpose. He loved every item and was dedicated to caring for them. Nos. 4, 5 and 6 were pristine but there were further signs of blood beginning to seep from the most recent addition. It could wait but he decided to clean it. He had time. He always had time. As he decanted the soiled formalin into a bucket, a little splashed onto the flagstone floor.

Behind the chain-link partition, Lucy wondered what he was doing in the far room. She took off the headphones and listened. The door was open and she thought she could hear the sound of liquid being poured. Later there was a faint acrid smell, which she couldn’t place. She knew if she asked he would say it was none of her business but, if it was nothing to do with her, why was he doing it in the building where he was holding her captive? Not knowing accentuated her vulnerability. She missed the security of home and her parents. She was sure they’d be doing all they could to find her but here, in this building, she was isolated and alone, unsure of her fate.

17

Ed was reaching for a magazine when a striking voice, deep and resonant, greeted her from the far end of the room.

‘Ms Ogborne, delighted to meet you.’

The estate agent, Nigel Drakes-Moulton, strode towards her with his hand extended in welcome. He had the confidence born of an exclusive education and the knowledge that his appearance would intimidate men and attract women. His prematurely grey hair and healthy tan were complemented by a light grey suit against which a dark purple shirt, clearly silk and unbuttoned at the neck, signalled a distinctive take on the concept of business casual. His handshake was nicely judged, firm but not aggressively so and prolonged sufficiently to suggest his obvious interest might readily extend beyond the matter at hand.

‘I could offer you coffee but I’m sure you’d like to make a start. My car’s at the rear of the building.’

Ed wondered why they needed a car. The apartments she planned to view were in the centre of town. A gleaming red 300SL with the top down provided one answer; his suggestion, when they had completed the viewings, would provide another.

‘My weekend indulgence when the weather’s good. If you object to the open top we could always take one of the office cars.’

‘I’m more than happy with the Mercedes.’

For Ed it was no contest. The third property was a top-floor apartment with views west across a branch of the river Stour. What really sold it was the larger of the two bedrooms with a window facing east which framed the west towers of the cathedral, Ed’s quintessential image of Canterbury. Her salary as a Detective Inspector and the rental income from the house in Brixton, which she’d inherited from her parents, would meet the mortgage repayments but the deposit would be a problem. Drakes-Moulton was sure they could find a solution.

‘It’s too early for lunch, so may I suggest we discuss it over a drink. I would normally offer you a glass of champagne back at the office to toast the deal but you seem to be particularly taken by the views of the Stour. If you’ve time, there’s a nice riverside pub ten minutes from here in Fordwich.’

‘Fordwich?’

‘A village off the Margate road just as you approach Sturry.’

‘Sounds good to me. This is my third day in Canterbury and I’ve yet to get out of town.’

The village was a small delight with willows trailing their branches in the river. The pub, tight by a humpback bridge, was welcoming but crowded. Drakes-Moulton guided Ed to the back and onto a narrow balcony, which overhung the river.

‘Not the most comfortable spot but by far the prettiest. I’ll get us a glass of white while you admire the view.’ Without waiting for a reply, he disappeared into the pub leaving Ed alone.

At the bar Nigel ordered two glasses of Sancerre and asked if Stephanie was about.

‘She’s just popped to the cellar, should be back any time soon.’

On cue, Stephanie appeared behind the bar.

‘Hello, Nigel, is one of those for me or are you treating your mystery woman to the high life?’

‘Now, now, Steph, it’s not like you to be jealous. The mystery woman as you call her is paying for our next long weekend. Anyway, you’re like the police: you don’t drink on duty.’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I can think of a few things but they’ll have to wait until later this afternoon.’

‘Naughty!’

‘You know me …’

Stephanie smiled. ‘And until then?’

‘Take my keys and, when you see us leave, drive the Merc back to my place. I’ll meet you there later.’

‘And meanwhile, what will you be up to?’

‘I’ll be clinching the deal before getting a cab, dropping the mystery woman at her hotel and hot-footing it to you.’

‘Promise?’

Nigel leant across the bar and Stephanie dipped her head to meet him. He nuzzled her ear and whispered, ‘When have I ever failed to come back to you?’

‘Eventually …’ Stephanie withdrew to her side of the bar ‘… never.’

‘Exactly. Now, be a good girl, put these on my tab and organize a table for two.’

Drakes-Moulton was some time getting their drinks. Ed stood up and walked along the wooden balcony, glancing through the leaded windows into the pub. Despite the distortions of the small glass panes she saw him at the bar talking to a young woman with long auburn hair. They seem to know each other well but Ed guessed estate agents would make it their job to be on good terms with many local people. There was a pause in the couple’s conversation and they leant towards each other across the bar. Drakes-Moulton kissed the woman’s ear and she withdrew, smiling. He reached for two glasses of white wine and turned to leave. Shrugging, each to his own, Ed returned to her seat at the far end of the balcony.

One glass became two and when they were offered a table for lunch Ed smiled and said it would be churlish to refuse.

‘Would you like to stay with white or shall I get a bottle of red? Don’t worry, we’ll take a cab back.’

‘You appear to think of everything, and have everything covered.’

Nigel smiled, caught the eye of the auburn-haired woman at the bar and mouthed ‘the red’ before admitting, ‘There are things I don’t know and I’m intrigued. What’s an attractive, bright, discerning young woman doing buying one of the best apartments currently available in central Canterbury?’

‘Aren’t you jumping the gun, Mr Drakes-Moulton?’

‘Nigel, please.’ He paused to taste the proffered bottle of red wine, nodded for it to be poured, and asked, ‘Am I jumping the gun, Ms Ogborne?’

‘It’s Ed, Ed Ogborne, and yes, Nigel, you haven’t said how I’ll finance the deal.’

‘I’ll have a word with people I know; it won’t be a problem. So, back to my previous question: why does the attractive, bright, discerning Ed Ogborne want to buy the best apartment currently available in central Canterbury?’

‘I’ve moved to a new job but I don’t want to sell in London to buy in Canterbury. Salary plus rent from my Brixton house will cover the mortgage but I don’t have cash for the deposit.’

‘As I said, no problem. Where are you working?’

‘I’m the new Detective Inspector – at least, I shall be as of tomorrow morning.’

A startled look crossed Drakes-Moulton’s tanned features but he quickly assumed an air of pleasant surprise. ‘Congratulations! This calls for a celebratory glass of bubbly.’

‘I’m still drinking my red wine.’

‘Shall we say dinner this evening?’

‘Tomorrow I start the new job. I need a good night’s sleep and an early start.’

‘So, it’s not a no then? I can look forward to your company later in the week.’

‘I’m expecting a busy week …’

‘Busy people must organize their time.’

‘… and a busy day tomorrow. Time for that cab.’

Back at her hotel Ed was disinclined to do anything strenuous. She selected three of the art books from her car. The books had been her grandfather’s. Egon Schiele was the artist he’d admired most. Ed remembered evenings at home, sitting beside her grandfather’s chair. He would slowly turn the pages, pausing at images which brought tears to his eyes. The semi-clothed chalk-and-gouache women; the angular portraits in heavy oil, distortions emphasized by outlines in confident black; the drawing of his pregnant wife Edith rendered without sentimentality just hours before she died. ‘Edina.’ Her grandfather would say her name before speaking. ‘It was the Spanish Flu, the pandemic of 1918. Three days later Egon followed her on 31 October. He was just 28 years old. Think what wonders he would have given the world had he lived as long as Klimt.’

Ed would see tears wet his eyes and wondered if he were speaking to her or to his wife, her grandmother, from whom she took her name.

Her grandfather’s tears would begin as tears for the brilliance of Schiele, a brilliance he could not match, then the tears became tears for his own lost youth, for the Ringstrasse, the Secession and the Akademie der Bildenden Künste, which he had been forced to leave. The tears became tears for the loss of tolerance; tears for his flight from Vienna to London; tears for his English wife, Ed’s grandmother, whose surname he’d adopted. He had the courage to acknowledge early that he would be no Schiele, the courage to accept that, despite his ideas and passion, his lot was to teach. He had the courage to let the tears come and not to turn away. When his granddaughter sat with him the tears would become tears of love. ‘If you cannot be the best, Edina, do your best for others.’

Edina Ogborne, her grandmother, had died before Ed was born. Inspired by her grandfather, Ed was determined to be the best and to do her best for others. On leaving university she joined the Metropolitan Police. She’d just started the graduate training programme when her grandfather passed away. The doctor said it would have been swift and painless. Ed remembered the tears. She knew that her grandfather’s death had been long, starting in Vienna and accelerating when his wife died 23 years ago. Ed cried for his passing and consoled herself with the requiem masses which had been his favourite music. Two years later she cried again for her mother and her father, lost in the space of three months. Alone in the family home, she’d been content to live with her memories.

In the room at the hotel in Canterbury, Ed was about to begin a new stage in her life. Tomorrow she officially started her new job. Soon she would have a new apartment, a home that would truly be her own. With that thought she fell asleep.