[Alicia Friend 01.0] His First His Second Read online

  Wellington smiled, looking down at her. “You want to try?”

  “Sure!”

  Murphy said, “I don’t think we have time.”

  “Oh, we can talk and climb,” she said. “Can someone get me some shorts?”

  Alicia donned the shorts under her skirt, removed the skirt, and tramped up the slope to behind the “Cow” rock. Wellington was grinning, and Alicia figured her being in a smart blouse and a spare pair of old lady’s shorts made comical viewing, but hey, she wasn’t about to let an opportunity like this pass by.

  “So this Tanya went missing around May time last year?” Alicia said as she stepped into a set of straps that would secure her either side of her hips and thighs.

  “Twenty-somethingth of May, yes.” Wellington already had his straps on and now attached a pulley to the buckle on the front of his belt. “The party was at a barbeque, a big one. Had a shark on the go.”

  “Like a society event?”

  “Private invite, hired a marquee. Her cousin James’s birthday.”

  A burly instructor with a full wiry black beard helped Alicia into a second harness, this one full of buckles and clips. He ignored the shop-talk. Another ex-copper, she guessed.

  Wellington went on. “She was last seen talking to her uncle—posh name … Henry, I think.”

  “Henry Windsor,” Alicia said. “Tanya’s guardian.”

  Wellington tugged at his harness, threaded ropes while the instructor saw to Alicia’s. They postponed police matters while the instructor drilled them. Then both Alicia and Wellington hung their backsides over the lip of the rock, feet placed square and firm on the face. Alicia convinced herself the quiver in her stomach was excitement, not nerves. She turned her head and a few wisps of hair caught the wind as she stretched her eyes to take in the landscape.

  Although a cloud’s shadow fell on the gathering here, the sun shone over hills and fields in the near-distance, a straight line cutting off light from dark.

  Wellington said, “DS Friend, may I ask how old you are? You seem awfully involved for someone so young.”

  She smiled. “I’m older than my teeth and the same age as my tongue.”

  “That’s an old person’s answer.”

  “Talk to me about Tanya. Then I’ll tell you my age.”

  Alicia pushed away from the rock, and loosened her grip on the rope beneath her which momentarily disengaged the pulley on her belt. As she dropped four feet, her stomach swam upwards, a tingle jolting up her spine. She cried, “Wheeee!” and then made contact with the rock face, reapplying pressure to her safety rope.

  Wellington joined her. “Tanya was nineteen when she was taken. She wasn’t particularly close to her adopted family, but her uncle was protective of her. He was her father’s brother.”

  “And Tanya threw the party?”

  “Yes.” Wellington leapt out further than last time, descending at least six feet.

  We’ll see about that, Alicia said to herself, and dropped, whooping, to where John Wellington waited.

  “Nice,” he said.

  “Okay then, a taster: I’m in my thirties. Now get on with it.”

  Wellington smiled. Despite his white beard, he didn’t seem old enough to be retired.

  He said, “It was Tanya’s money. The Windsors used to be one of the wealthiest families in the country, but some investments on Henry’s side of the family went belly-up.”

  That was contrary to what Murphy’s report said, but Alicia didn’t interrupt.

  “They maintained their standing and lifestyle by selling properties and artwork. Most people were aware of the situation, but pretended they weren’t. No point getting on their bad side. Not sure what the thinking is. Etiquette or something.”

  “Basic survival,” Alicia said. “A once-powerful family might become powerful again one day.”

  Wellington shrugged. “Some of Tanya’s friends said old Henry only took her in for the cash.”

  “You believe that?”

  They pushed off together and dropped five more feet. Wellington spoke before they halted again.

  “Henry Windsor took her on aged fourteen before he even knew about the inheritance. Plus, I’ve told too many fathers their daughters are dead not to recognise genuine grief. The money was irrelevant.”

  Another drop. Now they were only ten feet from the ground.

  “So a girl with money is adopted into a family with none. I take it she saved the property?”

  “Yes, but after an extensive renovation her uncle wouldn’t accept any further financial support.”

  “And five years later she’s kidnapped during a party she paid for.”

  “James was the only remaining relative she was close to, according to her best friend—Hillary, I seem to remember. He was fun, he listened to her, couldn’t do enough for her.”

  “We should talk to him,” Alicia said.

  “Last I heard he was heading for India, planning on spending the year out there. Maybe Thailand.”

  “My ex works for Interpol. I’ll see if he can track him down via his passport. Meantime, his dad’ll have to do.”

  They completed the final leg of their descent in one huge whoosh and Alicia hit the ground softly, heart beating, face cold, her hands sore.

  Bracing.

  She changed back into her skirt and relayed the conversation to Murphy, who took notes.

  “You should try it,” she said to Murphy.

  “So what do you think?” Wellington asked. “You have everything you need?”

  Alicia was cautious about what she said next. She worried about offending Wellington, especially as he’d been so pleasant to her. “Mr. Wellington, on the surface, this looks like she ran away. Was this the original theory?”

  Wellington removed his harnesses. He didn’t speak until he began helping Alicia out of hers. “Tanya disliked her home life. Her wealth was a burden. Her friends, they said her uncle was using her for the money, always nagging her to leave the Windsor house and come live with them. But at the same time, they wanted her money. Yes. It’s a classic case of no proper friends and an unsatisfying life.”

  At least she had some friends as a kid. There are those out there who never made any, who didn’t twig on until they got to university that you need to project an image of yourself that others will like.

  Alicia said, “She probably knew, deep down. People sense when others are more interested in what you can give them. So if her uncle showed real affection toward her, why would she leave?”

  Wellington disengaged the straps from Alicia’s waist and tugged them down. “I figured maybe she’d been hoarding cash and did a runner. The fact there was no note wasn’t a problem. It happens quite often.”

  “But?” Alicia said.

  He glared at Murphy, then softened when he went back to Alicia. “But James insisted he’d have known. She’d have told him about it, about her plans to run. There was no chance she’d leave without saying goodbye first. Then there’s the final angle. This didn’t come out until a week after the disappearance.” He took in the view once more. The cloud above blew to one side and allowed the sun through. “It was only then that we took it seriously.”

  The three of them stood in the sun, the cold air belying its brightness. Murphy shielded his eyes but Alicia absorbed it, glad of the rays on her face, about to smile until she remembered where she was, what she was supposed to be doing.

  No. Actually, if I want to smile I will.

  And she did.

  “Something funny?” Wellington said.

  “Sun in my eyes,” Alicia replied. “Please. Go on.”

  Wellington heaved his equipment onto his shoulder and returned Alicia’s borrowed items. He said he was calling it a day, and Alicia and Murphy walked him to his car, a new Volvo estate, parked next to Alicia’s Focus.

  “We got a warrant to monitor her bank accounts, the house phones. All her so-called friends gave permission to tap their phones too. Her bank didn’t
get touched for another week, she didn’t phone or write. Her uncle got in touch with various MPs and pressure mounted. Soon it was a definite kidnapping.”

  “But it looked like she ran,” Murphy said.

  “At first, yes.”

  “And you feel bad about it,” Alicia said.

  He threw his stuff into the boot. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I’d have made the same call.”

  He closed the boot. “It’s all in the file. You could see how I screwed up from my notes. Why do you need to talk to me?”

  Murphy and Alicia exchanged a glance. They’d already agreed Murphy would field this one.

  He said, “There are things we come across that we can’t put in official files. I know it, you know it. DS Friend knows it. And you were one of the best coppers I worked with. We all get feelings, John … hunches.”

  “Yes or no, Mr. Wellington,” Alicia said. “Do you know who did it?”

  The wind tossed their hair about, their clothes batting against them. Distant rock formations produced faint howls that tumbled across the dale.

  “No,” Wellington finally answered.

  “No hunches?” Murphy said. “No inklings, no one we could apply pressure to?”

  He sighed and looked back at the “Cow” rock. “I used to think about James. But he’s accounted for, right from when Tanya was last seen up to the end of the party. Six hours after the last witness spoke to her. The uncle, we wondered perhaps he wanted to be ‘closer’ than he should have been, but again he’s covered. One of her friends? Sure, maybe they had a falling out, a fight that went too far. But sniffer dogs scoured the grounds surrounding the party. Fifteen square miles. No. There was only one theory left. One so thin it isn’t even in the file.” A thicker cloud flew across the sun and the air cooled further. “A secret lover.”

  Alicia noticed Murphy roll his eyes, but thankfully Wellington did not.

  “Tanya snuck off to see this guy, something bad happened, he buried her. Her pals couldn’t say for sure whether she had a man or not. When I put it to them they said it would explain a lot.”

  “How so?” Alicia asked.

  “She’d been so much happier lately. She still bitched about her uncle and the pressure of being wealthy but she seemed happier in herself.”

  Ah, the pressure of being wealthy. Easily as distressing as the pressure of having nothing left, of a volcano sweeping away your home and business, the places you played as a child. No, being a millionaire at eighteen is far tougher.

  She said, “It’s a credible theory.”

  “Right,” Murphy said. “Adds to the notion of needing a trigger to set off the chain of events.”

  Wellington perked up momentarily, then pointed out, “But there was nothing in her room, her diary, no word to anyone. If there was a lover, he was probably married. Her dirty secret.”

  “This was your final case?” Alicia said.

  He nodded. “Chief Rhapshaw took me off it after three months. Even Henry Windsor resigned himself to never finding her alive. He stopped dogging us so the family could grieve.” Wellington set his jaw again, his eyes sadder than before.

  Alicia squeezed his arm. “Sometimes you get to know someone even though you’ve never met.”

  Wellington pressed his key fob and the alarm on his Volvo beeped once. He opened the door. “I think we’ve covered everything.”

  “Sir.” Alicia rested on the door frame. “This man, he kills within days. Murphy’s been on it for some time and three more girls have been taken. Two dead. If you treated it like a kidnapping from the start, if you were certain she hadn’t run away, she would still in all likelihood be dead.”

  Wellington tried to smile as he lowered himself into the driver’s seat. He shut the door, started the engine, and wound down the window. “Promise me one thing?”

  “If I can.”

  “When you find him, if it’s the same guy, let me see him?”

  “Sir, I’m not sure if…”

  “Not to be let in a room with him or hurt him, nothing like that. Just to see him. Look at him in the flesh instead of a photograph on the television.”

  Murphy leaned in near the window. “No problems, I promise. When we catch him, you’ll get a good long look in his eyes.”

  The wind rumbled around them and a cry of joy shot across from the Cow and Calf. The latest oldie had made it to terra firma without breaking her hip.

  Finally, Alicia said, “Thirty-two.”

  Wellington blinked back at her. “Pardon?”

  “I’m thirty-two.”

  “Oh.”

  And with Murphy’s promise hanging, and with a confident, fixed jaw, John Wellington put the Volvo in gear, and drove down the steep hill towards Ilkley.

  Before setting off, Alicia placed the request with her ex at Interpol. Tony Proctor and she dated for six months after meeting on a cross-over case, split up due to their vastly differing professional lives, but remained friends to the extent that they sent one another cards at appropriate times of the year. He was eager to help and told her to drop him the request via email and he’d shunt it up the queue.

  Once Alicia steered them back onto the road to Leeds, Alicia asked, “You two know each other well?”

  “John mentored me when I first joined CID.”

  They passed the ruins of some old cathedral, Alicia wondering about the people who lived there back when it was shiny and new. Then it was behind them and out of sight.

  “Thought that was Rhapshaw.”

  “No. He got lumbered with me when I was a probie. Wellington mentored about fifty coppers in CID. We were never mates, just colleagues. But still, I don’t think he liked me not saying anything while you accused him of incompetence.”

  “One bad call is not incompetence.”

  “Switch places with him. How’s it feel?”

  He was right.

  Murphy said, “But I didn’t stop you. You know why?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “There’s no place here for egos. If finding Katie Hague means upsetting a retired CID officer, so be it.”

  “I said I know, Don. You don’t have to justify it to me.”

  “Not to you, no.”

  He activated Alicia’s Bluetooth hands-free kit and paired his mobile to it, then called into Glendale control room and asked if anything new had turned up.

  The controller didn’t answer him at first. The line was open. She wasn’t speaking.

  Murphy closed his eyes. Alicia pictured a middle-aged woman, mouth open and moving only slightly, trying to phrase it right.

  Please not that, Alicia thought. Don’t be what we both think it is.

  Murphy rested his head back, eyes still closed. “Are you sure it’s her?”

  Alicia swallowed hard, as upset for Murphy as for the man waiting for news of his daughter. The news, although obvious now, was something Alicia could do without hearing. She could jam her fingers in her ears—

  “It is confirmed,” the operator replied in a clipped, Eastern European accent. “It matches the description you gave.” The patched-through radio signal clicked off at the other end, then crackled back on again. “I am sorry, Murphy.”

  Murphy fumbled for the button to hang up. He couldn’t find it. Alicia pressed it for him and pulled to the side of the road, where they sat in silence, trying to digest the news that the man who took Katie Hague had killed her two days earlier than anyone expected.

  Chapter Eight

  Freddie Wilcox wondered if he’d done the right thing. He watched from afar, across the road and up a tree, his knapsack hidden in a shrub at its base, using binoculars purchased from the same shop where he made the phone call. As far as his eyes could tell, no one had located his home. He’d cleaned it out pretty well.

  Men, or possibly women, in white suits with funny hoods had descended into the well (actually his toilet, oh yuck!) harnessed to a cable fed by a truck. It seemed someone had already explored the well before Fredd
ie got back from the shops. They’d utilised a long cable, like a giant version of the camera a doctor once slid up his bum-hole to check his prostate, so it was probably that. Now the scientist-type people were here.

  What if they found his stuff?

  Sure, he had all his money safely tucked away, all his personal items too, but there were still his pans, his plates, his latest Stephen King. He’d protected them by placing them all in a carrier bag, and buried it close to his shack.

  But what if they brought dogs, dug it up, thought bad thoughts?

  When Freddie’s wife suspected he was cheating on her, she cut up all his trousers. And that was back in the nineties before he actually was cheating on her. If the police thought he’d murdered someone…

  He tried to calculate the scale of punishment. Cheating equals trousers cut up. So an offence like drink-driving must mean jail. Therefore, murder had to be even worse.

  What could be worse than jail?

  Maybe they had different levels of jail these days. Freddie hadn’t seen a television or read a newspaper for three years and his memories of the “real” world were hazy at best. He preferred Freddie-World, where you could make your life whatever you wanted. Fiction was far more satisfying than reality.

  Case in point—“reality” was happening here and now. Silent men and women, black uniforms, stab vests and white space-suits, vehicles to-ing and fro-ing, coming and going, more visitors in one day than in all his time here before today. And they were unwelcome guests, worse than in-laws or cousins who tried to force their holiday photos on you.

  Couldn’t they just take the body away so its spirit wouldn’t haunt him? Do some fingerprints or DNAing?

  Can “DNA” be a verb?

  Freddie lowered the binoculars. He thought about what would happen if they did not leave. They were erecting a tent of sorts. Were they going to camp out, hope the criminal returns to the scene? Dumbos. That only happens in stupid films. He knew that much about real life.

  No. He had to do something before they wrecked Freddie-World forever.

  He climbed down the tree, far harder than climbing up, his feet not as sure. He had the vague memory of doing this as a kid, frustrated at not finding his footholds on the descent. In that distant youth of his, he would simply have jumped.