Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (11 page)

By the afternoon, the two detectives had called in a dozen uniformed officers and had organised more than fifty volunteers from the village to search the route between Haydon and Shillmoor. The search continued long after darkness fell, but the failing light made searching the woods increasingly futile and somewhat treacherous. It was with great reluctance, despite heated and desperate pleas from Mandy’s parents, that the search was halted until the following morning. Ron Foster and several men from the village continued searching through the night, regardless. John Bryce, Duncan Fairbank and Doctor Herring accompanied Mandy’s distraught father into the early hours and, despite their desperate efforts, they too finally trudged back to the village, dog-tired, dirty and dejected.

Erika Foster’s agonised cries could be heard around the village as her husband stepped through the door, alone and hopeless.

The trip into Rothbury turned into quite a pleasant day out, and a much needed respite from the rising tensions within Haydon. With the spire of All Saint’s Parish Church dominating the skyline, and backed against the Simonside Hills, Rothbury was a bustling market village and tourist favourite.

His first stop, unintentionally, became the graveyard at the church. Seemingly drawn there, he found himself at the gate across the street from the church without even realising it. His feet seemed to draw him across the threshold without his conscious consent, and he soon found himself standing in front of a headstone depicting a mountain stream with a kingfisher upon a rock. On the bank of the stream was a fishing rod, creel and fish. The inscription read:

"But where's the auld fisher, sae bent and sae lame,

Wha cam' ilka spring wi' his rod ab' hois creel?

Death's ca'd him awa' to his lang latest hame,

An he'll wander nae mair by the stream le lo'ed well."

Although he struggled to read it, he grasped at once the sentiment, and felt surprisingly touched by the simple, but eloquent poem. Unnoticed, several tears rolled down his cheeks to moisten his rusty beard. What inscription would be etched into Mandy’s headstone? He found out later from John Bryce that Walter Mavin, the Coquet Angler, had been a much loved figure who had reputedly trained Lord William Armstrong in the arts of fishing.

After mooching around the High Street, taking in Shilton’s Outdoor Clothing and Coquetdale Art Centre, he stopped for a light lunch at Harley’s Tea Rooms on Bridge Street. Satisfied by a ploughman’s lunch, with his spirits lifted somewhat, he popped into The Natural Crystal Shop, followed by a browse in Red Grouse Gallery.

A walk down to Beggar’s Rigg offered the perfect spot to sit and watch the river gently flow by. Several Mallard ducks had settled on the river, occasionally quacking to one another. He felt his tumultuous feelings settle, and a sense of calm embraced him as he sat and observed the quiet scene. The smell of freshly cut grass and the melodic buzz of bees added to his sense of well-being.

A Renault Scenic pulled into the car park and a stressed couple with four kids in tow piled out, descending upon the picnic area accompanied by clattering, stomping and shouting. That was Whitman’s cue to leave. Walking back to the High Street, he made a quick call to Perry to check up on how things were going with Ju and the shop, then stopped off at Flowers and Foliage to get a bouquet for Lisa, followed by Soulsby’s to pick up a little treat for Haley.

A short drive then took him to Cragside House, the former home of the inventor, Lord Armstrong. A walk around the vibrant, meandering gardens and lakes rewarded him with a glimpse of a red squirrel scurrying through the branches of a mighty Douglas fir.

On his return from Rothbury, he spent some time with Lisa and Big Joe, learning of the failed search. He made sure to tell them that he would be joining the search first thing in the morning to do whatever he could to help. Lisa seemed particularly comforted by his spirited offer of support.

The following morning, Whitman rose early. After dressing quickly in jeans and t-shirt, he went through to the en suite to splash water over his face. The vision he had seen in the very same mirror was still fresh in his mind, so there was a slight hint of apprehension as he paused to look at his dripping face. Only his mirror image, refreshed and calm, stared back.

Considering events, he felt he should still feel at least a little nervous, but strangely – and in complete contrast to the last few days – all he felt now was elation. His day out yesterday had more than lifted his spirits; it had renewed his conviction, and cleared his distorted vision. His gifts to Lisa and Haley had also been much appreciated, despite the shroud hanging over the whole village. His high spirits might waver when he eventually had to face the investigating officers, but for now, he felt good.

He was brushing his teeth as a knock sounded at the door. Whitman’s heart skipped a beat. He had an idea who it might be.

Spitting frothy toothpaste into the sink, he shouted, “One sec – just brushing my teeth.” He finished up quickly. No sense irritating them by keeping them waiting.

Whitman swung the door open, to reveal two big men. The taller of the two, who had to be six feet four and looked like an all in wrestler, had short cropped salt and pepper hair and goatee. His slightly shorter friend was balding with a tanned Latin look and a broad smile.

Latino spoke first, flipping open an ID wallet, to reveal his CID credentials. “Mister Whitman, I’m Detective Sergeant Mitchell and this is Detective Constable Wright.” There was a slight Geordie twang to his accent; a posh Geordie or maybe attempting to hide his accent?

“Yes, of course. Sorry I missed you yesterday.” Stepping aside, he gestured for the two officers to enter. “Please, come in.” He finished drying his hands on a peach-coloured hand towel as they stepped inside, then tossed it onto the bed.

“Cheers,” both officers said in tandem as they glanced around the room.

“We’d just like to ask you a few questions regarding the disappearance of Miss Foster,” Wright said, his accent subdued cockney. His genuine smile revealed cigarette stained teeth as he stood, feet apart with both hands thrust deep into his black trousers. He was broad-shouldered with the makings of a paunch, but he had the look of a man more than capable of handling himself.

“No problem. I’ll try to help in any way I can.” Whitman stood in the centre of the room with them. Suddenly the room seemed full and Whitman felt at once quite self conscious. Folding his arms across his chest, he cocked his head towards the window and added, “I was just on my way to join the volunteers meeting on the Green.”

“Yes, the landlord told us,” Mitchell replied, popping his ID back into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “Everyone’s help is much appreciated. We thought we’d have a word beforehand, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Whitman leaned casually against the desk where his laptop lay open, but switched off.

“Good; we won’t keep you long,” Wright said in a ‘let’s get down to business’ tone. “First of all, can you confirm your home address and reasons for being in Haydon?” He flipped open a notepad, pulling a thin pencil from its spine.

“You guys not got PDAs yet?”

“Pen and paper’s just as good,” Wright said matter-of-factly, licking the tip of the pencil.

Whitman raised his eyebrows. “Don’t say that – I’d be out of a job. I sell them, you see.”

Now it was Mitchell’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “I thought you were a writer?”

“I am, but writing doesn’t pay the bills; not yet anyway. The day job is selling mobile communications.” Picking up a compact silver gadget off the desk beside the laptop, he added, “This is one of the new range we’re selling now. Windows O/S, Word, Excel and Outlook, MP3—”

“We get the picture,” Wright politely interrupted, scribbling a few words onto the pad.

“Sorry, force of habit.” Whitman popped the device back onto the desk and said, “I had to save up twelve months of holidays and take some unpaid leave to be able to take this research trip.”

Whitman proceeded to answer their questions, giving the false address in Cumbria and more background into his false identity. Wright was jotting down the last of his notes when Mitchell’s mobile beeped in his jacket.

Shaking his head in irritation, Mitchell pulled out a basic black
Nokia
and glanced at the screen. “Missed call. Bloody reception is useless around here.”

Whitman nodded and said, “Yep, same with mine. I’m lucky to get one bar for miles around here, and then only briefly. Got to go into Rothbury to get two bars.” He offered an apologetic smile.

Thrusting the useless phone back into his jacket, Mitchell asked, “Mind if I use your landline?”

“No problem.”

Mitchell dialled on the circa 1980s cream pushbutton phone and received an immediate answer. “It’s Mitchell, in Haydon … Thanks.” While he waited to be transferred, he glanced towards Whitman and said, “So much for mobile communications.”

Whitman shrugged apologetically. “Yeah, lots of black spots like these out in the sticks.”

Mitchell turned his attention back to the phone. “Aye, you got it. Cheers.” Hanging up the receiver, he turned to his colleague. “We’ve ID’d the boyfriend. Lothian are sending a couple of uniform round to question him.”

“Result,” Wright said, flipping shut his notepad with a flick of his wrist.

“Jesus, do you think he’s done something to her?” Whitman asked with marked concern.

Wright shoved the pad into his jacket and said, “The boyfriend’s always the prime suspect in these cases.” Their eyes locked for a moment longer than Whitman felt comfortable with, but he met his stare and maintained the look of concern.

“But we’re not ruling anything out at this stage,” his colleague smoothly interjected. “Now, we’ve kept you long enough. Thanks again for helping with the search.” His tone was relaxed and he offered Whitman his hand.

Whitman grasped it with conviction “I pray to God that she turns up safe and sound.”

After seeing the two officers out, he sat down on the edge of the bed and let out a long, trembling sigh. As perfectly as that went, he was damn glad it was over and was suddenly acutely aware of how damp his armpits had become.

There was also his less than perfect identity. Would they run a check? Definitely. Would it just be a perfunctory one? It bloody better be. Would Mandy Foster prove to be his downfall? Maybe the test had been a bad idea; catastrophic even? The questions and concerns came in a surge, but, in the end, only time would tell.

Wright and Mitchell walked back downstairs and into the street without a word. The early morning was dull and overcast, but awash with activity. Across the road, on and around the Green, dozens of villagers and police officers were gathering beside the incident unit that had been set up there. As they observed, a police dog section van arrived.

Wright pulled out a crumpled pack of
Marlboro Gold
and stuck one in his mouth. Lighting it with a
Zippo
sporting a red dagger, he muttered, “So, what do you think of our friend there?”

“Seems pleasant enough.”

After taking a long satisfying draw, Wright said, “Yeah, I thought he was lying too.”

Mitchell glanced back at the pub then thrust his hands in his pockets. “Hmm, but what about exactly? I can’t quite make him out. He’s a cool bugger, that’s for sure. Not sure whether he has anything to do with this Foster case, but there’s something about him.”

Wright drew on the cigarette again before replying. “Yeah, don’t think he’s a killer, but there’s something shifty about him. Shame we don’t have enough probable to get a search warrant.”

“A hunch isn’t enough and all we’ve got is a missing person so far. So you reckon the bet still stands then?”

“Oh yes. She’s definitely dead and I reckon it’s foul play, mate.”

“You always think it’s foul play,” Mitchell scoffed. “You have a disturbing lack of faith in the human condition.”

“Ten years of the Marines’ll do that to a bloke, believe me.”

“And then you decided to join the force for some ‘real’ human misery? You’re a glutton for punishment, mate.”

They stood for a minute longer in silence, both men contemplating their thoughts. Wright finally dropped the used butt and crushed it under foot, much to the annoyance of his partner.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

Rolling his eyes, Wright said, “He’s probably just defrauding his company or something. Nothing that interests me.”

Mitchell nodded. “Aye, command can run the usual checks while we get on with this search. Hopefully those Lothian lads can get something out of the boyfriend in the meantime.”

“Only real lead we’ve got so far. Nothing from her friends, family or neighbours. For all intents and purposes she was a real girl scout.”

“Homemade apple pie,” Wright muttered while considering whether to spark up another cigarette or not.

“You’re a sick man, Tone.”

“Takes one to know one, mate.” Wright grinned at him and slapped him on the back.

The Searchers.

The clouds burned off quickly to give way to a hot, still day that had all the volunteers and officers stripping off layers of clothing and dabbing at damp foreheads and necks. The search was slow and painstaking, covering each section of woodland and meadow between the two villages with slow, deliberate precision. Two dog teams assisted in the search, the two Alsatians eager and seemingly immune to fatigue, as they attempted to pick up a scent from the lost girl. They successfully followed her trail to the spot where she had ran into the woods, and even managed to stumble across the area of her final demise. However, a combination of the weather over those early days and Whitman’s meticulous cleanup efforts left them bewildered.

The Forensic Science Service despatched a Scene of Crime Officer (SOCO) to the area to perform a comprehensive grid search of the sections the dogs appeared most interested in, looking for footprints, fragments of clothing, hair samples or traces of blood or other substances. Using a combination of UV lighting and vacuum sweeping and combing, the search revealed little except some recently disturbed ground; no human traces were found.