Concrete Evidence (27 page)

“Yes, not far from your mother’s house.” Annie nodded and took the picture away. “Do you know him?”

“No. I know of him.” He insisted. “He was all over the news. I’ve never met him.”

“You’re sure that you don’t know him?”

“I’m sure.”

“A few days ago, he blew his own brains out with a shotgun.”

“Good!” Tod snapped. “He was a paedophile. Why would I give a toss about him?”

“Funny!” Stirling turned to Annie. “We didn’t find any kid’s underwear at Barton’s house did we?” he held up the file again. “We did find two pairs at your house. Who is the paedophile?”

“Bullshit!” Tod shouted. “I have never seen those before today.” He turned to Bartlet. “I’m being set up here. You can see that can’t you?”

“We need to talk alone,” she answered flatly. 

“I don’t believe a word you’re saying and neither does your brief,” Annie said thoughtfully. It was a long shot that Tod would identify Barton as the mysterious accomplice. Not that she believed for certain that there was one. “You’re a murderer, a rapist and a paedophile. They’ll love you in jail.”

“You can go and fuck yourself, you goggle eyed freak,” he turned purple and snarled at Annie. “This is a fix up. I’m not saying another word to you. Screw you, you bastards!”

Annie felt the sting of his insult but tried to push it from her mind. She needed to keep her head clear. She looked at Stirling and shrugged. “Like I said,” she smiled coldly and picked up the file. “I’ll find out who every single one of those people are, starting with the young boys.” She paused for effect. “Obviously we’ll have to question those close to you first to see if the boys are related to you,” she paused for his reaction. His eyes widened. “Are they nephews or neighbours’ children?”

He looked stunned. “No of course not,” his voice was a whisper. “I don’t know them.”

“We’ll have to question everyone connected to you to track down who these boys are.” Annie sighed and shook her head. “We’ll have to start with your mother of course,” Annie looked him in the eyes. “Imagine how she’ll feel having to look at a little boy’s underwear.” She paused again. Tod was shaking. “Your poor old mother,” Annie sighed again. “She will be mortified won’t she, Tod?” The reality of what his family would think of him hit home. His eyes widened in horror. As she watched his discomfort growing to epic proportions, Annie felt a surge of adrenalin. ‘
Goggle eyed freak,’ am I
? She thought.

“Don’t do that!” he shouted. Spittle flew from his lips.

“We have to, Tod. Unless you want to tell us who they are?”

“I don’t know!” his voice was panicked. “Please don’t show these to my mother,” he pleaded. “Please!”

“Charge him,” she said standing up.

Tod Harris let out a wail of anguish. “Fucking bitch!” It was animal like. He banged his forehead on the table but nobody paid him any attention. There wasn’t much sympathy in the room. 

CHAPTER 29

Annie twisted the bottle and felt the top crack open. Ideally, she would have left the Merlot to breath for an hour or so but tonight the need to drink outweighed the need to improve the taste. She poured a third of the bottle into her glass and took a long sip, closing her eyes as she swallowed. She released a deep breath and felt the stress of the last week flowing out of her. Not all of it, just enough to feel normal for a few moments. She picked up a side plate that she had prepared. There was a selection of mixed cheeses, dark chocolate and salted biscuits. She carried the wine in one hand and the plate in the other. Annie walked into the living room and put her supper down onto a low marble coffee table. As she sat down, the leather couch felt cool on her bare legs. Her dressing gown felt loose and comfortable. The towel around her head was warm and damp and her freshly washed hair smelled of apples. The television screen was blank and the sound of Emile Sande drifted from her CD system.
‘I’ll be your clown, behind the glass.’

She slipped a piece of chocolate on top of a slice of cheese and put them into her mouth, leaning back into the cushioned leather; she closed her eyes and chewed slowly. The flavours complemented one another and she wallowed in the taste explosion. It was a rare moment of personal pleasure. A stolen minute of selfishness, a snippet of peace and quiet in a life filled with horror and grief. She sat forward and washed it down with a mouthful of wine and opened her laptop.

She logged onto the city’s missing person’s site and narrowed her search to males under the age of eleven. A copy of the photograph found in Harris’s souvenir file sat next to her computer. She sighed as the list of the missing filled three columns on the first page, which went back only three months. The faces on the page were a mixture of family photos and custody suite images. She resisted the urge to read each profile. If she started, she would be there all night. She scrolled back in time, six months, twelve months, two years, three years. Nothing. Bland pictures, blank faces and a few lines of information was all that remained of them. Each page was just more of the same. The faces of the lost and the missing. Some would be alive and some would be dead. Each one had a family somewhere, however distantly related they were. Each had a different story but the one thing that they had in common was that they had disappeared. Annie knew that they couldn’t all be sleeping in cardboard boxes under railway arches and there weren’t enough park benches on the planet to accommodate all the missing.
‘Where are they all?’ 
 

An hour later her eyes were sore and her head ached. She had munched her way through her supper and swallowed the last drop of wine. She was tired. Emile Sande had sung her album twice and was starting again for the third time. Annie stood up and towelled her hair. Once she would have done it in front of the mirror but not anymore. Mirrors were still not in favour. All bar one in the house had been replaced with modern black and white prints. She shook her hair loose and walked into the kitchen to recharge her glass. The white tiles felt cold beneath her bare feet. She tipped another third of the bottle into the glass unsure if she could stay awake long enough to finish it. Sleep was calling her but she wanted to give it another half an hour at least before she gave up and climbed the stairs. She took a long sip of merlot and headed back into the living room. She paused at the CD player and invited Adele to perform for a while. The melancholy in her voice took her away from the search for a moment.
‘But I set fire to the rain, watched it pour as I touched your face. Well it burned as I cried, cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name,’
Annie sang along with the track, her feet moving slowly to the beat. Her eyes closed and her hips swaying in time. She could have stayed there all night listening to her voice but she had work to do.             

Annie sighed and slumped back down onto the couch. She sipped her wine and clicked onto the next page of lost children.  She wondered if she would be as good at her job if she’d had children of her own. She doubted it. How could a mother sit and look through pages of faces without thinking about her own offspring? They were all someone’s sons. Sometimes she wondered if the job had made her tough or if she was born cold. How else could she do her job without breaking, drowning beneath the sea of dross that she had to swim through every day? She slurped another mouthful of merlot and clicked to another page. She swallowed the wine with a gulp and sat up straight. The shape of the eyes was the same. The nose and mouth were identical. The boy in the picture was looking right back at her. Annie clicked on his tab and read the information. The date of his disappearance rang alarm bells in her mind. She reached for her mobile and dialled. 

“Annie?” Alec answered. “I thought I told you to get some sleep.”

“Sorry it’s so late, Guv,” Annie said excitedly. “The boy in the photograph is James Goodwin, aged ten. Reported missing from a care home in Childwall the same day that Simon Barton was abducted. He was from a travelling community, in and out of the care system for years and a serial runaway.”

“Any indication that his disappearance is connected to the Barton kid?”

“I’m looking at the missing persons website, Guv,” she shook her head and sipped more wine. “There are hardly any details. We need to speak to DI Haig at Halewood to see if there was any link. Barton was from a good family, decent school, nice home so I can see why his case attracted the news and Goodwin’s didn’t.” She sipped the wine again. “Care home runaways are a dozen a day. The fact is, Tod Harris has his picture and his underwear in his collection and he has never been recovered.”

“God almighty,” Alec sighed. “We should do the world a favour and string him up from the bars in his cell.”

“By the bollocks!”

“Language, Inspector,” Alec joked.

“I’ll call Haig first thing in the morning, Guv.”

“Good work, Annie.”

“Thanks.”

“Get some sleep. That’s an order.”

“One more glass of wine and I’ll sleep.”

“Have two just to be sure,” Alec smiled. “Goodnight, Annie.” Alec hung up. Annie looked at James Goodwin’s face once more and then turned off her laptop. Enough was enough for one night. She sat back and closed her eyes, emptying the wine glass as she did so. Adele was mourning the loss of yet another boyfriend but she was adamant that one day she would find someone just like him.
‘Don’t forget me, I pray,’
she crooned. Annie wondered if James Goodwin had been forgotten and if he had, by whom.

       CHAPTER 30

Kathy Brooks was wrapping up her autopsy. It was about as straightforward as it could be. The cause of death didn’t need to be explored blindly. The lack of facial features and skull above the bottom jaw made it simple. Massive head trauma caused by a twelve bore shotgun being placed into the mouth and discharged. That would do it every time. The internal organs had shown signs of alcohol abuse and the lungs were stained and blackened by smoking but he would have lived for decades. The death was a clear suicide.

Still, procedures had to be followed. Weights and measurements were recorded. Incisions made, the organs removed and weighed. Blood samples were drawn for analysis and fingerprints were taken to be crosschecked. It should have been a simple one. She had an indication of who the victim was and the cause of death was obvious. Peter Barton was already in the system. He had done time. Checking her findings was the last part of the procedure.

*********************   

“James Goodwin, aged ten,” Annie explained. “He went missing from a care home in Childwall the same day that Simon Barton disappeared.”

“Simon Barton is ancient history for heaven’s sake. Why are you asking me about this?” DI Haig said yawning. He took a swig of coffee and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands. “It’s seven thirty in the morning. I’m still at home.”

“I’m sorry,” Annie said sarcastically. “If you can tell me what time detectives clock on for work at Halewood, I’ll call back when you’re officially working.”

“Ouch!” Haig said embarrassed. “No need for that kind of attitude.” He said defensively. “I’m sorry if I seem a little groggy but it’s early, I’ve had a very long week and you’re asking me about a case from years ago.”

“Apologies if I’m intruding while you’re at home,” Annie sighed. “I’m asking you about a missing child on your patch. Do you remember him or do I need to go to my DS for permission to access your records?” There was an awkward silence. “Obviously it would be easier for us if you can tell me what you can remember. If you can’t I’ll have to apply for access. You know what a pain in the arse that can be.”

“Wait a minute,” Haig flapped. There was no wriggling away from the MIT detective. She had a reputation as a ball breaker. He really did not need a historic case scrutinised by the brass. “What was the kid’s name again?”

“James Goodwin, aged ten,” Annie sighed. “He went missing from a care home in Childwall on the same day as Simon Barton.”

“I remember now,” Haig said taking another slurp of coffee. “He was a gypsy wasn’t he?”

“He was from a family of travellers,” Annie corrected him. “There’s nothing to say they were gypsies.”

“It amounts to the same thing,” Haig said flippantly. “They flit about from one place to the next leaving a trail of bin bags behind them. We had a nightmare tracking down his family and when we did, no one would talk to us. They don’t want to help themselves never mind the police.”

“Whatever you think of travellers shouldn’t matter when one of their children goes missing should it?” Annie asked. “He was ten years old and he was reported missing the same day as Simon Barton.” She paused. “Surely that was seen as significant to the investigation?”