In Bitter Chill (5 page)

At the use of the victim’s Christian name, Connie’s head snapped up.

Llewellyn saw the movement and frowned. ‘You went to her bungalow. What was it like?’

‘Very sterile. She can’t have had a very fulfilling life. And I met a strange neighbour. Told me the bungalow had been built over an old plague pit. Something about inherited memory.’

Llewellyn was stony faced. ‘You’re going to come across this a lot. Everyone’s got an opinion. Everyone remembers the case. You’re going to need to see past it to get to the bottom of what happened.’

Palmer wasn’t to be put off by the distraction. His question about Rachel Jones’s reaction hadn’t been answered. ‘And Rachel Jones? When do you think we should go and see her?’

Llewellyn looked at him coldly. ‘She’ll need to be re-interviewed, of course. But make sure you’ve all acquainted yourself with the case first. I don’t want us going in with stupid questions. She’s suffered enough over the years.’

Llewellyn looked at the three of them. ‘I know what you’re thinking – the old fool is reopening a case because it’s haunted him all these years. Like in the TV shows. Well, you’re right and you’re wrong. I’ve seen my fair share of stuff since and some of it much worse than this investigation. But we don’t know what happened on that January day and we had no repeat of the incident. No further child abductions, no paedophiles. Whatever happened was out of the ordinary and I think enough time as passed to give it one more shot.’

Connie watched Sadler out of the corner of her eye. He definitely wasn’t convinced. ‘What are we hoping to achieve in the ideal scenario?’ she asked. ‘Discovery of Sophie’s whereabouts or we find out what happened that day?’

Llewellyn looked down at his large hands and flexed them as if he were about to play the piano. He was shaking his head. ‘The two are unfortunately inseparable. Discover what happened and we will find Sophie’s body.’

‘You think she’s definitely dead?’ said Connie.

Llewellyn opened a drawer and took out a file. They were dismissed. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Muuuuuuum!’

Sophie’s wails were increasing in pitch and Rachel swallowed the bile rising in her throat as she struggled to find a way out of their situation. She’d already tried the car door. She flicked up the button at the window, which should have meant that the door was now open, and she’d braced, ready to hurl herself out of the door and make a grab for Sophie to pull her through too. But the door had refused to budge and the windows weren’t winding down either. It didn’t make sense and this, along with the noise from Sophie, made her head feel like it was about to explode. She looked across at Sophie, who was banging hard on the glass, her face pressed up against the door.

The woman was sitting in front of Sophie, her large sunglasses covering most of her face. Her mouth was set in a thin line and she hadn’t spoken to either of them since they’d got into the car.

‘Are you going to kill us?’ It was the only question Rachel could think of to ask, even though it set Sophie wailing even louder.

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Now the woman looked round briefly at Rachel and lines knitted across her brow. She could feel this woman’s anger.

‘Can’t you shut your friend up?’

Rachel slid along the seat and laid an arm round Sophie’s thin shoulders. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. Sophie was now purple in the face and would take no comfort from anyone. Rachel stroked her friend’s hair and wiped a tear away from her own face with her sleeve.

Suddenly the car halted and Rachel lifted her head to see where they were, but through the watery film in her eyes all she could was a sea of dark green snake-like fingers tapping against the car window. Where were they? The wind was whipping up and behind them she could see a slick of black glistening in the pale sunlight.

The woman turned round to them. ‘Are you going to be good girls?’

Sophie’s scream caused Rachel’s eardrums to vibrate. She looked in alarm at the woman, who was reaching into her huge handbag.

‘Right. That’s it.’

Rachel woke up and found herself on the back seat of a car. It was cold and the windows were misted up. Her head was fuzzy, like she’d felt in the winter when she’d had a cold and her mum had fed her with hot milk and digestive biscuits laid out on the plate that she always had when she was sick. She pulled herself up, her hands sticky against the cold black vinyl of the car seat. The woman who was sitting in the front seat had gone and so had Sophie.

A wave of sickness assailed her and she sank back down onto the seat. She listened but could hear nothing outside the car. Where was Sophie and why had she been left here? She looked down at her feet and saw that one of her shoes had come off. She put her hand down onto the floor and found it. She stared and stared, trying to focus on the shiny leather. She looked at her foot with her sock around her ankle and in one sweep pulled it off. She scrunched it up in her hand and used it to wipe the side window of the car. She could see only green fields. Where was she now? This wasn’t where they had first stopped. She shuffled across the seat to the other side of the car, Sophie’s side, and used the same sock to wipe that window. She could see trees. Lots of them. She had been here before, she was sure. With her mother, the week she looked after Nana Nancy’s dog.

She could see people – maybe two, or perhaps three. The window was blurring everything, making the images look like the bottom of a kaleidoscope. She used her bare hands this time, making an arc across the window. There were two people there. One tall and the other shorter. Where was Sophie? ‘Sophie!’ she shouted, but no one could hear her. Her tongue was stuck to roof of her mouth. But perhaps she had been heard, for one of the tall figures had broken away from the other and was walking back towards the car. Towards her.

Rachel’s head was swimming. A man opened the car door. She couldn’t understand what he wanted. She couldn’t understand the words. They were coming out of his mouth but by the time they entered her mind they disappeared. Nothing would stick and so nothing made sense.

But now he was gone and she was left in the car again. She looked out of the window and saw a man and woman standing together. The man and the woman. There was no one else around. No other cars. No one to help. A wave of sickness came over her.

She leaned against the car door and it swung open. The man mustn’t have closed it properly. She lurched sideways, half her body hanging out of the car.
Freedom
, she thought. Her brain could assimilate that.
Freedom
.

A cold bitter January evening in Bampton
, thought Sadler, as he drove home, noticing that the icy roads had already claimed a few victims. Abandoned cars were perched on verges, discarded by their owners as they waited for the longed-for thaw. Most of Bampton were keeping to their warm homes, only venturing out on foot to the local pub or restaurant.

Inside his canal-side cottage, Sadler drew his curtains against the January gloom, watching for a moment as a fresh wave of sleet tapped against the frosting windowpane. He couldn’t bring himself to cook anything, although his stomach was beginning to groan in protest at the enforced starvation.

It was a mistake to reopen the case. Llewellyn didn’t, in his experience, make many mistakes. He had honed the art of being respected by the rank and file along with an ability to appease those at the top of the hierarchy, most importantly the chief constable. Sadler had seen flashes of his famous Celtic temper, but it had rarely been directed at him. Usually some hapless bureaucrat, as Llewellyn hated anything that paid lip service to the latest government directives but slowed down policing. But here Llewellyn wasn’t thinking strategically. That, Sadler could identify with. They would be investigating a case with a thirty-six-year-old cold trail. And with only one unreliable witness. It was going to be a nightmare to add anything meaningful to the original investigation, and as to finding out what had really happened – forget it.

Sadler felt a pang at his lacklustre response to the case. Palmer and Connie were not only experienced detectives, they were ambitious and competent. They deserved a stronger sense of purpose from their commanding officer and he would have to give them this. Palmer had seemed distracted in the meeting with Llewellyn. But Sadler suspected that it was wishful thinking that Palmer’s doubts matched his own. His mind was probably elsewhere. His wedding was coming up next month. Perhaps this was why he had sensed a lack of enthusiasm from his detective sergeant. Connie Childs, on the other hand, once she got her teeth into the case would need close management. He had spotted the spark of interest in her expression. And given that she was too young to remember the case as well as he, the investigation would have the benefit of being a historic curiosity.

In 1978, Sadler had just started secondary school. He had been eleven and his local authority had been one that had still embraced the grammar school tradition. It had been taken for granted by his parents that he would pass the eleven-plus exam, and he could remember now sitting in that classroom with his fellow schoolmates trying to answer the questions that had been a mixture of fun and a challenge. And then off to Bampton High, a grammar school where, because he was good at sports, especially cricket, he had enjoyed himself. The case of the missing schoolgirl he could remember from the news. The papers had plastered the photo of the missing Sophie Jenkins across their front pages. The image of both girls had become a symbol for the late 1970s, before the days of rolling news coverage and Internet media.

Sadler could remember his dad sitting down to the six o’clock news and neither he nor his sister had been allowed to talk while the headlines were being read. It hadn’t seemed strange at the time, but now Sadler could hardly believe that his busy architect father had finished work in time to see the six o’clock news.

The news of a girl missing in Bampton had shocked the whole community, obviously, but at eleven, Sadler had been at the age between boyhood and those turbulent teenage years and had paid little attention to what was going on. Even his parents hadn’t felt the need to reiterate that he mustn’t get into cars with total strangers. Sadler couldn’t remember them mentioning the incident at all to him. But surely his sister would have been more affected? She had been older than both girls, but at thirteen would still have been vulnerable to any potential predators.

Sadler looked at the clock on his wall. It was quarter to eight, not too late to call. Camilla, as usual, answered the phone on the first ring. Sadler had long suspected that she carried the phone around the house with her and this had been confirmed on his last visit when he had spotted her stuffing the phone into her bra as she wandered from room to room.

‘Hello? Camilla speaking.’

‘For God’s sake, Camilla. You’re not supposed to answer a phone giving out your name straight away. I could be anyone.’

‘Francis, it’s you. Don’t be such a fusspot. I’ve got a perfectly good burglar alarm that I switch on at night should nefarious forces come knocking.’

She could always make him laugh and Sadler felt the tension leave his shoulders as his sister carried on unheeding.

‘I was thinking about you today when I saw on the news about that woman who died. Are you involved at all? I looked out for you on the television.’

‘I was at the hotel for while – but I try and dodge the cameras if I see them.’

‘Poor woman. I can’t imagine what I’d do if I lost any of mine. Not that they’d be getting into a car with a stranger. Man or woman.’

‘Do you warn them against women too?’

‘Of course I bloody do. And those parents should have done so too. It was after Myra Hindley, wasn’t it? What the hell were they doing getting into a car in the first place?’

‘Actually, Cam, that’s what I was calling about. I’m struggling to remember the attitudes of the time. What was and wasn’t acceptable. Can you remember our parents saying anything to you about what you should and shouldn’t be doing? I don’t remember them talking to me about it at all.’

‘They wouldn’t have bothered. You were still into your train sets and cricket bats then. It was before you discovered girls, then there was no stopping you.’

‘Thanks, Cam. If I wanted—’

‘Keep your hair on, Francis. I was stating a fact. You were oblivious to it all.’

‘And you?’

His sister sighed down the line. ‘You remember Mum and Dad. Dad was as grumpy as you are. No, don’t interrupt – it’s true. We weren’t allowed to talk to him for about two hours after he came home from work. And Mum compensated for his coldness by joining every society going. So she was never in. I don’t think either would have said a word to me if it hadn’t been literally on our doorstep. But it was a bit hard to ignore something like that taking place near by.’

‘So they did say something?’

‘They?’ laughed Camilla. ‘Dad didn’t say a word. He would have been mortified, discussing anything like that. It was Mum who took me to one side and told me that if anyone approached me, especially a woman, I had to tell her straight away.’

‘And were you scared. By the warning, I mean?’

‘Do you remember me at thirteen, Francis? I was about five foot six and eleven stone. I wasn’t going to be hoiked off the street by anyone. But I remember Mum implying that there were ways of tricking you.’

‘Tricking?’

‘Yes. I’m sure that’s the word she used. That it was easy to trick people and that was what you had to watch out for.’

‘And did anyone try to trick you?’

‘God no, Francis. I was a hefty thirteen-year-old, interested in Abba and Wings and mooning over Prince Andrew. Those were the days. Have you seen him recently?’

‘Who?’

‘Prince Andrew, idiot. I can’t believe I used to fancy him.’

This was always the way with Camilla. You started at one point and then you ended up somewhere completely different. Francis could feel himself beginning to smile.

‘I have to go. If you remember anything else about those days you will call me, won’t you? In any case, I’ll ring you again soon.’

‘Preferably before next Christmas,’ she said cheerfully and cut him off.

She must drive her husband mad
, thought Sadler. Her relentless cheerfulness didn’t come from either of their parents. She was right. His father had been a serious, easily irritated man who had weighed up his words with care. Their mother was more light-hearted but had spent most of her evenings flitting between Labour Party gatherings and the Woman’s Institute, an organisation that behind the jam making and home-baked cakes provided a network of camaraderie and support for rural women.

His sister hadn’t told him much that he didn’t already know, but it had been useful to get a contemporary view of the events. The trouble was that she had been a child when the kidnapping had occurred. Llewellyn had made it clear he didn’t want the team relying on newspaper coverage, but neither did he want them combing through old police files. Sadler needed a person who could provide a contemporary version of events and he had just hit on one possibility. He dialled another number.

‘You free, Clive?’

‘Do you know what, I was just thinking about you!’

Another one
, thought Sadler.
I seem to be on everyone’s mind this evening
.

‘Fancy a drink? There’s something I’d like to ask you.’

‘Sure. Is it too much of a cliché to say “your place or mine”?’

Clive Mottram lived in the adjoining cottage. A solicitor with one of the local firms, after the early death of his wife, he’d downsized and moved into the small end terrace. Sadler had nothing to do with him professionally – the man dealt mainly with matrimonial cases, a specialism which kept him at work till all hours, although this may have also been to stave off the loneliness of an empty house. For the first three years, they had been on nodding acquaintance only, but one evening Clive had invited Sadler into his cottage for a drink. Sadler had enjoyed himself and every six months they repeated the evening, chatting about inconsequential matters.

Sadler opened a bottle of French wine and, as he let in Clive Mottram, he noticed that he was still wearing his work suit underneath his coat.

‘I hope I haven’t dragged you away from anything important.’

The solicitor grimaced as he shrugged himself out of his winter coat. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve just had Christmas. This is the busiest time of the year for us, although most come to nothing, thank God. Most people seem to trot down to the solicitor before they’ve even decided whether or not they want to leave their spouse. I let them know the process, they get cold feet, mainly at the cost, and I thankfully don’t see them again.’

Sadler poured them both a glass of wine and sat opposite his guest. Clive had settled into the leather chair and seemed glad to have someone to talk to.

‘I saw on the news that the woman who died was Yvonne Jenkins, Sophie’s mum. You’re not reopening the case, are you?’ He caught sight of Sadler’s face. ‘You
are
reopening it. Jeesh. You’ll have your work cut out for you after all this time.’

Sadler took a sip of the wine. ‘We’re giving the case one of its periodical reviews. But I agree with you about the difficulties we face. It’s one of the reasons I called. Without wishing to make any bold assumptions about your age, I need to speak to someone who was an adult at the time and can remember some of the details of the case. I thought you might be able to help me.’

Clive looked thoughtfully at his glass. ‘I do remember it actually. I was in my twenties and had just joined my father’s practice. I’d had these grand ideas about how I was going to change the world with my legal career, but one of the first things I remember noticing was that more couples were splitting up. People talk about the swinging sixties, but when I was growing up no one’s parents got divorced. It was the seventies when society, primarily women I have to say, took a good look around them and if they weren’t happy with what they saw, decided to make some changes.’

‘So you specialised in matrimonial law. Yvonne Jenkins was divorced.’

‘I handled the case. Don’t look at me like that, Francis. How many solicitors’ practices were in Bampton then? There were two of us. Me and Daniel Weiss. And Daniel’s practice was far more traditional. Little old ladies doing their wills.’

‘It’s still going, isn’t it?’

‘We both are, thank God, although there’s far more competition these days. But we’re both fixtures, Daniel Weiss and me. Danny’s son Richard has more or less taken over the business and I have a two partners working for me. So it’s not all doom and gloom. Anyway, Yvonne Jenkins came to me and asked me to handle her divorce and I agreed. Do you still want to talk or am I now connected to the case?’

Sadler did some rapid thinking. How many independent witnesses was he likely to find? ‘Sophie’s parents were eliminated as suspects early on. Were you interviewed by the police in relation to this?’

‘No one came near me. It wouldn’t have done any good anyway as I was still negotiating some of the financial arrangements for Sophie. They would have been protected by client confidentiality, even though the girl had gone missing. For a long time we really thought Sophie would return alive so we kept the case files in the basement.’

‘And now?’ Sadler looked across at his neighbour and thought about how little he knew about the people living around him. ‘Are you still protected by client confidentiality?’

‘It’s been over thirty years. The passage of time gives me more freedom to talk about the case and, to be honest, I always wondered what really happened.’

Sadler poured them both another glass of wine.

‘It all started routinely enough. A nervous Yvonne Jenkins walked into the practice one day and asked to see a solicitor.’

‘Did she have your name specifically?’

‘God, Francis, I don’t remember that much. All I remember is she saw me without an appointment. In those days I had time to see people who came off the streets. Now you have to wait a week, sometimes two, just to get an appointment with me.’

‘Not as bad as a dentist yet.’

‘We’re getting there. Anyway, so Yvonne Jenkins sat down in my office and told me that the previous evening, her husband had announced he was leaving her for another woman.’

‘Just like that.’

Clive sipped at his wine. ‘It’s funny, really, but now I come to think of it, it was much more like that in those days. Grand gestures and sudden schisms. Now, it’s about attrition, complicated lives, second and third marriages.’

‘Was she shocked? Yvonne Jenkins?’