“So, the one at Felixstowe is a clone.”
“One more thing, guv,” she said, with a self-satisfied grin, “he confirmed that he’s insured with Olympia.”
“Right, I’m going to see DCS Flynn. Search warrants for both those containers I think. Let me know as soon as you get a call back from the Lexus owner, Kelly.”
* * *
When Souter collected Sammy from Alison’s house next morning, she looked a lot better than even the night before. Although the bruising had started to turn autumnal colours, Alison had done a professional job with camouflage make-up. Hair freshly washed and dressed in her jeans and a tee shirt borrowed from Alison, Sammy looked more like an ordinary nineteen-year-old girl than the rough provocative woman who had first visited him at the Yorkshire Post offices.
Jeremy Bullen met them in the reception of the Town Hall in Wood Street, opposite Strong’s police office. He was certainly different from the spindly young lad Souter remembered playing in their school football team some twenty-five years earlier.
“Bob, good to see you,” he said, gripping Souter’s hand tightly in his.
“You too,” Souter responded. “I’d never have known you though. Colin told me you’d changed.”
“Bulked up, you mean.”
“Well,” Souter hesitated, “the last time I saw you, you’d be about eight stone wringing wet.”
Bullen laughed. “I got pissed off being picked on so I did something about it. Not by you lot, I must add, mostly those in my year. Anyway, I went to the gym and started working at it. All legal, none of that steroid shit. I found I enjoyed it and this is the result.” He opened his arms wide to demonstrate.
Souter turned to his companion. “Sammy, this is Jeremy. He was a year below me at school. We played in the same football team for a while.”
“Look,” he said, “call me Jezza. Everyone does. You lot started it.” His grin confirmed he bore no malice for the taunting. “So, what can I do for you?”
“Sammy’s a friend of mine and I wondered if you might be able to help us. I understand from Colin you have access to the town’s CCTV footage. Specifically the Market Square from last Saturday.”
“Come down to the office. I’ll make us a brew.”
Bullen turned and led the way along the ornate corridor of the old Victorian building, stone floors, leaded windows and stained wood panelling, to a staircase dropping down to the basement. Beyond a door proclaiming Jeremy Bullen as Assistant Head of Security, lay his small windowless office.
Flicking the switch on the kettle in the corner he turned to ask the obligatory tea or coffee question. While the water boiled and the drinks were made, Souter outlined what was known about Maria’s disappearance.
“We have a problem with prostitution around the Market area,” he said, giving Sammy a stare. “Police don’t seem too concerned but the Council are getting pissed off.”
Sammy was about to respond but Souter put a restraining hand on her shoulder.
“We think there may be something more serious here, Jezza. We’re worried about Maria.”
Bullen raised an apologetic hand. “Of course. I understand.” He stood up. “Now, last Saturday, between eleven and midnight?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, let’s have a look and see what we’ve got.” Bullen paused at the door. “Remember, you didn’t see this.”
“Message received,” Souter said.
They followed Bullen into the room next door where a bank of television screens was being monitored by a solitary operative.
“Big brother lives,” Souter said quietly.
“You’d be surprised how much this benefits the town,” Bullen responded. “We’re getting more teams of shoplifters coming in, especially in The Ridings shopping centre. They’ve got their own setup there but we liaise with them and the police. It’s estimated it would cost stores around half a million a year without this.”
“Listen,” Souter said, “if it would help, I could give this operation a bit of a plug, not the sensitive or detailed stuff, but if it puts some of these gangs off and sends them somewhere else it might make your job easier?”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to my boss and see if he might want to take that up. But hold fire for now.”
“Sure.”
Bullen began to peruse the shelves of video tapes along one wall. After a few seconds, he pulled one out.
“Here we are,” he said, “Saturday 27
th
Market Square, 20:00 to 00:00.”
He took the tape and placed it in a player at the far end. Fast forwarding it to around three quarters of the way through, he stopped it and pressed play. A grainy black and white image appeared with the time in the corner indicating 23:08. The view was a general one from the bottom end of the square looking towards the cathedral. Four young women were standing on the right hand side.
“That’s Maria there,” Sammy said pointing to a dark-haired girl dressed in a short, light coloured skirt and dark top, smoking a cigarette.
Souter recognised Sammy with her shoulder length straight blonde hair. “Is that Tracey in the boots?”
“Yea.”
“So who’s the other girl?”
“Calls herself Bridget but that was the first time I’d seen her. I think she goes off in a big Jag soon.”
Sure enough, a dark Jaguar pulled up alongside her, she leaned in towards the passenger window and after a few seconds got in the front seat. The timer read 23:13.
“Is this the only view of here?” Souter asked Bullen.
“There’s another camera at the top end but that was out of action for about ten days. Pity, because that’s a lot better resolution.”
“It must have been about five minutes after this,” Sammy said.
A drunk came staggering down the road, gesturing to the girls.
Sammy shook her head. “Forgot about him. Fucking nuisance.”
The drunk had moved away when a small hatchback approached the kerb.
“This is Jerry,” Sammy said.
On screen, she had just climbed in when a white van came into shot, stopping at the top of the road for a few seconds. As the hatchback pulled slowly away, the van moved alongside Maria and Tracey. Maria exchanged a few words with the driver through the passenger window before getting in. The van then moved off and turned right in front of the camera. The resolution wasn’t good enough to read the number plate but the line of dark colour on the bottom of the door, presumably the rust, could clearly be seen.
“Don’t suppose you could enhance any of that, Jezza? Any chance of getting the number or closer shot of the driver?”
Bullen puffed out his cheeks. “If it had been the other one, probably, but this is one of the originals. We’re due to replace it this year. I’ll see what I can do.”
The tape played on and about fifteen minutes later Sammy returned. Tracey had gone off about five minutes before in a light coloured BMW. Sammy was on her own until Tracey came back at 23:52. From Sammy’s body language she was obviously agitated about Maria not returning.
“How much longer did you wait around?” Souter asked.
“Tracey went off about half twelve and I suppose I must have given it another half hour.”
They watched until the tape ended at midnight. “Want to see the next one?” Bullen asked.
“Better check it out if you don’t mind,” Souter said.
They fast forwarded the second tape until 03:00 with no further activity of interest after Sammy had left.
Back in Bullen’s office, he presented them with two A4 stills from the camera, one of the front of the van, zoomed in as far as possible to see the windscreen, an indistinguishable driver and Maria in the passenger seat. The other showed the side detail and rust markings on the passenger door.
“Thanks, Jezza. Appreciate this,” Souter said as they made their way back along the ground floor corridor to reception.
“No problem. Only wish I could get more detail for you but if I zoomed in any more, we’d lose any advantage.” Bullen shook hands with Souter. “I hope you find her. I have a daughter not much younger than her.”
“Thank you,” Sammy said.
“You take care,” Bullen said with genuine feeling.
* * *
Strong pulled out of the station’s car park and was about to turn left onto Wood Street when a familiar figure walked across the road. Souter and a young blonde-haired girl looked up the road before spotting his car. A raised hand then Souter broke into a jog to join him.
Strong dropped the passenger window and Souter stuck his head in. “Now then, mate,” he said with a smile in his eyes, “Not like you to put a Saturday in.”
“Cheeky sod. Least I’m not bumming a free ticket to a match and calling it work.”
Souter grinned and knelt down by the car, Sammy ambled over and stood on the pavement beside him. “Any further forward with Chris Baker’s murder?” he asked.
“Halliday’s running that but we’re still trying to get to the bottom of activities at Meadow Woods Farm.”
“Still no sign of his younger brother?”
“Nothing. Nor of his mate, Steve Chapman. Only lead we have is a cousin Chapman was close to as a kid. Some bloke by the name of Barry Whitefield, living down south somewhere, we think. But he doesn’t seem to feature on police records. On top of that, I’ve still got a missing Albanian woman.”
“I know the feeling.” Souter looked round to his companion. “Sorry, Colin, this is Sammy. I told you about her missing friend.”
The young blonde girl bent down, gave a brief smile then stood back up looking disinterested.
“Just been to see Jezza,” Souter continued. “What we saw confirmed Maria getting into a white Ford Escort van with rust along the bottom of the passenger door. Unfortunately, the only pictures we have aren’t good enough to get the number plate or a particularly clear view of the driver.”
“You got stills there?”
“Yeah, Jezza printed them off.”
“Let’s have a look.”
Souter passed them through the window for Strong to study.
“I see what you mean. How long has this been now?”
“A week.”
“You need to make this official, Bob.” Strong handed the photos back.
“I know,” Souter turned and looked at Sammy.
“No time like the present.” Strong nodded towards the station entrance behind his friend. “Ask for DS Kelly Stainmore. She’ll be sympathetic, if your friend’s not too keen on us.”
“I’ll do that, Colin. See you.” Souter watched as Strong raised the window and set off down Wood Street, turning right on a green light and disappearing from view.
28
Sunday
A short dark-haired stocky man was hosing down his Vauxhall Astra on the drive of the modern semi-detached house in the quiet cul-de-sac in Sharlston. Soap suds had formed a trail into a drain in the gutter.
“Excuse me,” Souter said as he approached, “is it Mr Duggan? Mr Paul Duggan?”
The man turned and eyed him suspiciously. “Who wants to know?” He continued to rinse the car.
“My name’s Souter, Robert Souter.”
“And what do you want, Mr Souter?”
Souter hesitated. Now he was face to face with Mary’s brother, things could go one of two ways. “Do you have a younger sister who went missing in 1989?”
Duggan put the hose down and walked over to the tap and turned it off. He sauntered slowly back to face him. “Who are you?”
Souter pulled out a card and handed it to the man. “Robert Souter,” he repeated. “I think I might have some new information.”
Duggan studied the card. “Yorkshire Post? You’re a journalist? What sort of new information can you have that the police haven’t already told me?”
Two young children were cycling past on the pavement and a neighbour across the road had stopped cutting his postage stamp of a lawn.
“This is a little unusual, Mr Duggan.” Souter looked all round. “Is there somewhere private we could talk?”
Duggan paused, glanced over Souter’s shoulder and waved to his neighbour. Quietly, he said, “If you’re here to rake up some crap over Mary, I’ll lay you out.”
Souter didn’t doubt the man’s sincerity.
“Come in, the wife’s taken our young un riding.”
Leading the way round the side of the house and into a small kitchen, he indicated for Souter to take a seat at the breakfast bar. “So, what is it that you’ve got to tell me?” he asked.
Souter took a deep breath. “This might seem odd to you,” he said, “but I’ve spoken to someone who thinks they may be able to help solve Mary’s disappearance.”
Duggan sat opposite with no intention of offering any refreshment. “Who might be able to help? And how?”
“Can I ask you a couple of questions first?” Souter held both hands up. “I promise you this is no cheap way of trying to dig up a story. That’s not my style.”
The man studied him for a few seconds. “Go on,” he finally said.
“As I understand it, you were the oldest of the family.”
Duggan nodded.
“And Mary was, what, seven years younger than you?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I ask, before Mary’s disappearance, did you ever have an accident? One that involved hospital treatment?”
The man looked puzzled, thought for a moment, then said, “Well, yes, I broke my arm when I was about thirteen, just before Christmas.”
“And how did you do that?”
“I fell out of a tree.”
Souter smiled. “And it had a cast, yes?”
“Of course, it was a broken bone.”
“And what did Mary and your friends do?”
“What do you mean, ‘do’?”
Souter sighed. “I’m trying not to lead you here, Mr Duggan. You need to tell me what, if anything your friends, and Mary, did with your cast.”
“Are you talking about drawing cartoons and signing their names on it?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I meant,” he said with a grim smile.
Duggan seemed confused. “What’s that got to do with Mary’s disappearance?”
“That incident – or fact, whatever you want to call it, as far as I can ascertain was never in the public domain. There were no reports in any of the media. Would that be correct?”
Duggan reached for a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “Not as far as I know,” he said, holding out the opened packet to Souter. “It’s so insignificant, I can’t possibly see its importance.”