Before It's Too Late Page 7

  Some pushing toddlers in buggies, some in couples chatting as they wandered through the stores. Clinging dresses with scooped backs and plunging necklines. Crescents of curls dangling from tied ponytails.

  Royal Priors was busier than he’d anticipated this morning. Shoppers catching the stores early to avoid the heat of the day. A redhead dashed towards him, the trickle of sweat running down her neckline causing a stirring in his groin as she passed.

  He stole a deep breath, continued through the mall and glanced around. A department store was what he needed now with ample obliging assistants to tend to his every whim. Assistants that would move quickly from one customer to another. Not like the boutiques and smaller shops in Stratford, where assistants would recognise you, single you out in a crowd.

  No, he’d thought this one through. He wandered down the aisles and collected the provisions he needed for stage two. Very soon it would be time to shake things up a bit. And he couldn’t help but wonder what the detective would make of that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I stared at the two bottles of water that leant against the concrete in the corner of the pit, one almost empty, the part-loaf of bread, wrapped in an orange plastic wrapper, the few chocolate bars and a collection of apples beside. Last night’s delivery.

  It had been late when he’d come. I knew that because the gap at the top had only emitted a soft grey light and the pit was at its darkest. He. I’m pretty convinced that my captor is male. I’ve turned it over and over in my head. He needed to be robust, strong enough to carry me down here.

  Last night I’d heard footfalls above as he approached. At first I thought it might be a prowling animal, but then I heard the determined chink of metal, a thud as the chain fell to the floor.

  Thoughts of what he might have planned had reverberated around my skull. I was trembling even before the dazzling light burnt my pupils, causing me to bury my head in my hands. The next thing I knew packages were being fired into the pit like missiles. Later I discovered they were food parcels and blankets, but at the time I had no idea and I’d never experienced terror like it. Thud after thud made me shriek. A brief silence was followed by the scraping sound of the grill.

  Anger tore through me. I had an opportunity to see something, do something, at the very least pick up on something that might help me later – a slight lilt in his voice, the colour of his eyes, the shape of his frame. But I saw and heard nothing.

  I smoothed out the creases in the blankets wedged beneath me, lifted a corner up to my nose. It was fresh and clean, not yet tainted by the musty stench of concrete powder and urine that pervaded everything else in the pit. Clean. Like the scent that fills the bathroom when you step out of the shower. I held it close, not wanting to ever lose it.

  My stomach gurgled and swirled around like a washing machine. Sickly bile rose in my throat as a childhood memory wormed its way creepily out of the dark shadows in my mind. I was barely twelve years old when the owner of my father’s neighbouring factory disappeared. Ling Chen made metal screens for a Western company. He was a good friend to my father, he and his family lived in our apartment block when I was young. One day, he left home and didn’t turn up for work. Days passed and nobody heard any news. Rumours circulated like snakes, sliding their way into the minds of the local community. But no body was ever found, no funeral took place, no explanation came forth. Time passed and his wife and son moved away to the country. Another family moved in. The authorities took over his factory. We all moved on but every time I passed the door to their apartment I could see his face in my mind.

  Would that happen to me? One day at college, the next nothing. But why continue to feed me?

  Maybe my parents weren’t able to pay the demand yet. Maybe they needed more time. I clung to this tiny thread of hope, closed my eyes and willed a happy memory from home – my mother at the kitchen sink, the pinny tied to her waist, my father sat at the table reading. It was rare we were home on our own. Usually he was entertaining some client or business partner. But when we were, he read voraciously. Constantly soaking up the knowledge of some book or another. Always facts. Never fiction. I could see him now, pointing a forefinger at his temple, ‘Books make you clever. Read well, Lan Hua, for they will determine your future.’ ‘Lan Hua’ or orchid was my family nickname. I was rarely called Min outside of school until I came to the UK.

  Guilt pained me. When I was much younger I plagued my parents for a sibling. A brother to roll around the floor and wrestle with, a sister to read to and share confidences. My father had a brother. My mother was one of three. I saw the idea of a sibling as a plus, a playmate, someone to play with on long summer days when school friends weren’t around. I envied my parents and couldn’t understand why I or any of my friends were denied such a privilege.

  But my pleading words on this subject were always hushed, my spirits dampened. It didn’t stop my yearning though. Even as a teenager I was dogged by a silent fear and loneliness. I read Little Women and, like most readers, I cried when Beth died. But unlike others, I didn’t cry because she died, I cried because I wanted to be her, to experience that fun and camaraderie in the circle of those sisters even for just a short time. It made me determined that I would never do that to my own child. I would have a large family, with lots of children running around, playing together, lost in their own little innocent world. Children that would grow up together, support and comfort each other later in life.

  I massaged my stomach and wondered if my child could hear my thoughts. I hadn’t intended to start my family now. Not here. Not like this. Tom wanted me to abort our baby. In some ways I understood why. It would upset our parents, our studies, present huge problems for our future. He’d talked to me about a clinic on the edge of Stratford where, for a sum, they would discreetly complete a termination procedure. Termination. It sounded so final.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fingers of sunshine reached through the gaps in the clouds as Jackman arrived in Tiddington Road. For once, Warwickshire Radio had been right in their predictions that Stratford would be the last area in the region to join the ongoing heat wave that Wednesday, and the light morning breeze that had provided a welcome reprieve now worked hard to wipe the clouds from the sky.

  He passed the entrance to Loxley Road, where specially trained officers sat, covertly watching Tom Steele’s home and couldn’t help but wonder if the Galloways’ close proximity to the Steeles was significant? Their homes would have been less than a ten-minute walk apart.

  Jackman glanced at the golf club on his right, continued until he reached a detached sandstone house set back from the road and swept his Honda up the drive to the entrance. He was greeted by an array of large terracotta pots and window boxes, bursting with a range of pansies in a variety of colours.

  Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he crossed the drive and pressed the doorbell beside an imposing hardwood entrance door. He couldn’t hear the road from back here, just the gentle breeze rustling through the tall hawthorn hedge out front and the distant sound of dogs barking, although it wasn’t really surprising. This was the most salubrious area of Stratford. Houses on this stretch fetched almost a million each. Apart from an occasional burglary during his early days, it wasn’t an area he’d frequented much in the line of duty.

  He pressed the doorbell again. The sound of the dogs grew louder. A sudden bang, metal on metal, made him jerk around. At the side of the house was a wrought-iron gate where two Springer Spaniels were now jumping up and barking in harmony.

  “Can I help you?”

  He followed the voice that battled with the din of barking and flashed his badge. “Morning,” he said. “Would you be Mrs Galloway?”

  She squinted to look at his badge. “Enough! In your beds.” The barking stopped immediately. Two hooded pairs of eyes glanced up at her momentarily before they slunk off around the corner.

  She waited for them to retreat, clicked open the gate and stood aside for Jackman to enter. Jackman
eyed her navy cotton dress, the smoothness of her grey hair. She wore no make-up but her face held a soft English-rose prettiness.

  She clasped her hands together. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking to speak to Mr David Galloway. Is he home?”

  She stepped back and narrowed her eyes. “No, he’s away at the moment. Is everything alright?”

  “It’s nothing to be alarmed about. I just felt he may be able to help with our enquiries.”

  The sound of a phone ringing in the distance broke the conversation. Mrs Galloway looked perturbed. “You’d better come inside.”

  He followed her through the kitchen, across the hall and into a living room that overlooked the drive at the front of the house. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said as she picked up the phone and wandered out of the room.

  Jackman sat on the edge of a brown chair and glanced at the fresh tracks from the vacuum cleaner that looked like broken crop circles on the rug in front of a log burner.

  A floorboard in the hall creaked and Mrs Galloway appeared in the doorway. “Sorry about that. Can I get you a coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The dull scent of an air freshener sweetened the air around them as she walked into the room and seated herself on the large sofa. “You asked about my husband?”

  Jackman nodded.

  “He’s not here, I’m afraid. He works in Dubai and won’t be back until the end of June. Can I ask why you wanted to speak to him?”

  Jackman ignored the question. “Do you own a black BMW?”

  A slight flicker of recognition appeared behind her eyes. “We do. It’s in the garage.”

  Jackman vaguely remembered the double garage set back from the house. “May I ask you where you were on Monday evening?”

  Mrs Galloway hesitated a moment and looked at the floor. “Yes, I was at our book club annual dinner. We do it every May, take it in turns. This year it was held at the pub in Luddington.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  She glanced down at her hands. “Around 10.30, I think. I dropped a friend off in the town centre on the way home and stopped for a coffee. I guess I was home around midnight.”

  “What vehicle did you use?”

  “The Range Rover parked out front.” She shifted in her seat.

  “Are you sure you didn’t use the BMW?”

  “Absolutely! I never use David’s car. Can’t abide the damn thing. Far too low. Look, what is this all about?”

  “Are you sure the BMW is in the garage?”

  “Yes. I saw it this morning when I went to fetch some garden twine.”

  “Well it was spotted in the centre of Stratford-upon-Avon on Monday night.”

  “Impossible.” She shook her head as if to dismiss the thought.

  “It was picked up on the cameras. There’s no mistake. Is there anybody else with access to the vehicle?”

  Mrs Galloway smoothed her skirt uncomfortably. “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “Are you sure? Is there anyone else living here with you?”

  “Only my son, Andrew. My daughter is away at university. And Andrew is only seventeen. Still having driving lessons.”

  Seventeen. Only a year younger than Tom Steele, Jackman thought. They could have been at school together. He fixed a stare on Mrs Galloway. Her son had no licence. No wonder she was feeling uncomfortable.

  Jackman softened his tone, “A girl went missing in the town on Monday night. The car was spotted near to where she was last seen. Whoever drove it may have witnessed something.”

  “I’m sure Andrew wasn’t involved.” She swallowed.

  “I do need to speak to him.”

  The roar of an engine filled the room, followed by the sound of a door slamming shut, a chuckle and a chorus of dogs barking.

  Mrs Galloway stood, her face twitching with anger. “Well, it looks like you have your wish. He’s here right now.”

  A scrawny boy who looked younger than his seventeen years, with blue eyes, shaggy blond hair and oversized clothes appeared in the doorway.

  Mrs Galloway stood. “Andrew. This is Detective Inspector Jackman.”

  Jackman wasn’t sure if it was the tightness in his mother’s voice or the mention of the police that turned the boy’s face ashen. He froze, like a toddler caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  “The inspector’s got some questions for you.”

  Andrew slunk into the room. He cast a furtive glance at Jackman who gestured for him to sit down on the sofa opposite and asked him to run through the events of Monday night. Initially, he denied involvement, until the camera footage was mentioned, then he cast his gaze to the floor.

  “Look, I’m here to investigate the case of a missing girl, a Chinese student,” Jackman said. “She was last seen leaving the Old Thatch Tavern at 10.35pm on Monday. The cameras show your father’s car passing through around that time. If you saw or heard anything, it may well help our enquiry.”

  A faint glimmer of hope flickered across Andrew’s face. This wasn’t the admonishment he was expecting.

  “Did you see anyone?”

  He nodded. “We’d been cruising around for an hour or so.”

  “We?” The interruption came from Mrs Galloway, her voice indignant.

  “Jem and I.”

  “Might have known.” She didn’t attempt to hide the disapproval in her voice.

  Jackman ignored her, “Go on.”

  “A girl was walking down Rother Street towards the police station as we drove up in the direction of the market place.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “Short, Chinese. She had a long, pale, silk skirt on. We pulled over to talk to her.”

  “I don’t believe this!” a splintered voice squeaked from behind Jackman.

  He whisked around. “Mrs Galloway, please?” She averted her gaze, but her face was like thunder.

  Jackman turned back to the boy. “What did you say?”

  He lifted the corner of his lip. “Not much. Just asked her if she wanted a ride. It was only meant to be a bit of fun.”

  “This is important now, Andrew. Think carefully. You are currently the last person known to have seen her. What did she do then?”

  “She looked across at us, but didn’t answer. She looked like she’d been crying. So, we just hooted and pulled off. It was only for a laugh.”

  “Did you see anybody else nearby, any people or vehicles?”

  Andrew looked at the floor and chewed the side of his lip. “I think there was a van parked on the market place, near the clock tower.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “Not really. White. Maybe a Volkswagen.”

  “Was there anybody sitting in it, or nearby perhaps?”

  Andrew shook his head. “Didn’t see anyone.”

  Jackman sat back in his chair and folded his hands into his lap. It was time to change tack. “Andrew, do you know Tom Steele?”

  Tight creases formed along the boy’s forehead. For a moment he was lost in thought. “Yes, he was in the year above me at school. Why?”

  Jackman ignored the question. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Jackman took a deep breath to calm his frayed patience. An hour spent with Andrew had yielded little result. He claimed that he hardly knew Tom and hadn’t seen him since he left school. Nothing in his body language indicated that he was lying, although the close proximity to Tom’s home still bothered Jackman.

  He considered the scenario. Andrew had claimed he and his friend had been cruising around for the best part of the evening when they happened upon Min. She was walking in the direction of the police station when Andrew saw her, yet when the cameras caught her she’d turned the corner into Greenhill Street. Had she stomped out of the pub in a temper and taken any direction just to calm down, or was she heading somewhere in particular? And what made her turn back? Did Andrew Galloway, harassing her in his dad’s BMW, frighten her? Did he give her
a message from Tom, or was there another reason?

  He turned Andrew’s account over in his mind. ‘She looked like she’d been crying.’ He wondered if that was due to the argument with Tom, or if something else was bothering her.

  Back in the car, Jackman called the station. It was answered on the first ring.

  “Sir?” Annie didn’t wait for him to respond. “We’ve traced the white van, or what we thought was the van.”

  “What do you mean?” he said as he pulled out of the Galloway’s driveway.

  “The owner lives in Coventry. He’s been working in Huddersfield. Contract only finished yesterday. He was driving back to Coventry last night, arrived in the early hours of this morning.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Completely. We’ve checked it out. Doesn’t look like this is our guy.”

  “The number plates match?”

  “To the letter.”

  Jackman indicated and pulled over. “Are we thinking cloned plates?”

  “Certainly looks that way.”

  Jackman felt a surge of adrenalin. But the lead was marred with a chequered reality. If the van was connected to Min then they could very well be looking for a body. “Okay, get everyone on it. Try all the garages in and around the region to see if anyone’s ordered new plates recently. Also check the police cameras to see when and where this number plate has been clocked over the last three months. Whoever was driving this van has taken careful steps to conceal their existence.”

  “Will do,” Davies said. “How did you get on with the BMW owner?”

  “Rich kid snuck out in his father’s car. Couldn’t tell me much. Claims he saw the victim, but only for a few seconds. Lives around the corner from Tom Steele though which might be significant. Hold on.” He retrieved his notebook from his pocket and relayed the details of the friend that had accompanied Andrew in the car. “Get someone out to interview him, will you? Let’s see if his account checks out.”

  Davies didn’t answer immediately. The line crackled. Suddenly Jackman became aware of a kerfuffle in the background. Raised voices. Annie spoke quickly, “Hold on a minute, sir.” She disappeared from the end of the line.