The Missing Hours (27 page)

I sigh. ‘Buggered if I know.’

But she isn’t looking at me now, is looking beyond me, at a house across the street. I turn, squint at the bay window, the sun reflecting off it.

‘What?’

‘Will you wait for me?’

‘What, again?’

She grins. ‘Cool your jets, hotshot. Your big sister has a potential witness to interview.’

She walks off, not waiting for my reply.

‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but if Orla Britten decides to go loco and stab me too, it’s on you.’

‘I’m okay with those odds.’ Her voice drifts over her shoulder.

The watcher

DC Leah Mackay: Friday, 11.11 a.m.

THE NEIGHBOUR SITS
in the window, the thickly stuffed armchair pulled up unapologetically close so that his knees must touch the glass. He sees me coming, as I knew he would, pushes himself to his feet so fast that he nearly tumbles. Has yanked the door open long before I have the opportunity to knock.

‘I was wondering when you’d come.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Well, I heard. You know. About Mrs Fancy Pants over yonder. That you were asking around. Only I wasn’t here, see. My daughter, she’d driven up to get me. Cotswolds she lives. Pretty, if you like that sort of thing.’ A sniff suggests he doesn’t. ‘Mind, expensive. Scandalous what they charge for them houses.’

He looks eighty if he’s a day, the kind of short that suggests he was once much taller, but that life has worked him down into the miniature package before me. He leans on a walking stick, has a shock of white hair that rings his head in a halo.

‘Can I …?’

‘Yes, come in. Come in. About time we saw the police doing something, all that taxpayers’ money, and on what? Never see them around here. Not ever.’

I nod, patient, fight back the urge to remind him that this quiet hamlet in the countryside is hardly South Central LA. Follow his awkward progress down the narrow hall. The living room is small and breathtakingly full. Ornaments, papers, things adorn every surface. A smell of damp hangs in the air.

‘Sit down, then.’

He waves me to a two-seater sofa, its cushions bowed and warped, and returns to his armchair, his gaze settling back on the street beyond.

‘I’m Detective Constable Leah Mackay.’ I am talking to the back of his head, watch it bob up and down in response. ‘I did call to see you, on Tuesday, but there was no answer. You said you’d heard about the disappearance of Dr Cole?’

‘Doctor, is she? Well, I don’t know about that. Never spoken to the woman. See her taking those girls of hers out, but that’s all. Aye, Tuesday, well, I was away with my daughter. Like I said.’

I let my gaze track over his head, the street beyond laid out like a television screen, the Cole house front and centre. ‘You have quite the view here.’

‘Aye, well, nothing on the box these days. All sex and blood. Who wants to see that, eh? So I sit here. Mind, not that much happens, but still, it’s something to do.’

I look beyond him to the leafy street, the clambering mountains behind. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t get your name?’

‘Ernest Thomas. Mister. Lived here for forty years now. Me, the missus. Of course, she died, ten years ago now. Still, they never really leave, do they?’ He waves at a sepia photograph in a heavy gold frame. ‘There she is on our wedding day. Not much to look at, mind, but still … we made do.’

‘Of course. Um …’ I am thrown. ‘So you said you were away with your daughter on the day Dr Cole went missing …’

‘That’s right,’ he agrees, affably. ‘Lower Slaughter with our Beth.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘So if you weren’t here …’

‘Oh, well,’ he says, shifting in his chair so he’s looking at me. ‘I didn’t go till that morning, did I? Beth was late. She usually is. And, thing is, I get up early, about four normally, so there’s lots of time to kill. And it was there, even then.’

‘Sorry, what was there?’ I ask.

‘The car.’

It feels like trying to grip the tail of a tiger. ‘What car?’

‘Well, I get up, like I always do, at four or thereabouts, put the kettle on, and get two Rich Tea biscuits. I come in here, and there’s this car parked right in front of my house.’ He looks indignant. ‘I mean, that’s just wrong, isn’t it? Parking in front of someone’s house like that?’

‘Do you drive?’

‘No, but that’s not the point. Where was Beth supposed to park? Anyway, I thought, oh no, Ernie, leave it, wait and see. They’ll probably move soon. But I thought, well, you know, I’d keep an eye to make sure, and if they didn’t, then I’d go and see if I could get them to shift. But the funny thing was, he was in there.’

‘Who was in there?’

‘The man. Sitting in the driver’s seat as bold as you like. At four thirty in the morning. I mean, who does that?’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m telling you, I nearly went out then and there to tell him to sling his hook. Only the thing is, once I had a better look at him, I thought maybe best not. Big lad, see. Looked like one of those squaddies you get hereabouts. Always drifting over from Stirling Lines. Said to myself, now, Ernie, Beth will be properly angry if you get into a physical with one of those boys.’

I nod, keeping my face flat, trying to bat away the image of eighty-year-old Ernest Thomas taking on the might of the SAS.

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Big.’

‘Okay. Anything else you remember? Hair? Skin colour?’

‘Oh, he wasn’t one of those immigrants like you get nowadays.’

I bite my lip and make a show of writing on my pad.

‘Dark hair, short, you know the way them squaddies have it.’

‘And what about the car? Can you describe that at all?’

‘I can do you one better than that.’ He pushes himself up effortfully and, leaning heavily on his stick, makes his way to the mantelpiece. ‘I took his licence plate. Thought, well, you never know. Course, if I’d been here when you came round, I’d have given it to you then. Then I heard she was back, that Mrs Cole or whatever her name is, so I figured, well, you wouldn’t need it. But anyway, there it is.’

He hands me a sliver of paper, the licence number written in spidery ink.

CV02 HTY.

‘Was it blue?’ I ask, thinking of Beck’s file, the information it contained and straining to hear my voice over my heart beating.

Ernest watches me intently, nodding furiously. ‘Ford Fiesta. Closer to navy, I’d say. Know it, do you?’

I smile. Do not answer.

Yes.

Beck Chambers.

Chasing the money

DC Leah Mackay: Friday, 12.02 p.m.

I STAND IN
line, waiting for the bank teller to finish with the middle-aged couple before me. The teller sits patiently as they squabble amongst themselves, which account it should be, who’s in charge of it, who forget to close the fridge door so that the food inside spoiled.

Am I wrong? Am I seeing monsters where there are none?

And yet …

Few people would have unrestricted access to the business account of the Cole Group, such that the withdrawal of fifty thousand pounds could happen without some very serious questions needing to be answered. Seth didn’t know about it. Orla didn’t seem to either. And so honestly, unless they have been subject to fraud on a prodigious scale, that only leaves Selena Cole.

‘I told you to bring the chequebook. Didn’t I tell you to bring the chequebook?’ The woman’s voice has clambered up an octave, has become querulous and shrill. The man turns to the bank teller, rolls his eyes in exaggerated toddler style.

Could it really be a coincidence? Selena Cole vanishing at the same time as fifty thousand pounds? So what is it? What does that mean? She’s stealing from her own business?

Why was Beck Chambers parked outside her house on the morning of her disappearance?

And what about Dominic’s murder? Where does that fit in? Does it fit in at all?

I had returned to the Cole house, was the one who arrested Orla. In spite of the questioning, in spite of what we had said, I don’t think she was expecting it. She looked at me, her gaze pinned to my lips as if she was deaf and the only way she could translate what I was saying was by their movement. I had expected a fight, some kind of token protest at the very least. But instead, she merely nodded, allowed me to lead her by the hand, a small child in my grasp. Looked at me like I had betrayed her.

They are arguing about parking now. I can see the teller, her face sliding into a flat irritation loosely covered in an ineffectual smile.

I had dropped Finn at the station, watched him leading Orla inside and felt a splurge of guilt. For abandoning my duty yet again, or for arresting someone who had grown to trust me, I’m not sure. I watched them go. Did I think she was a murderer?

I don’t know.

They are moving finally, the woman painfully slow, tucking a wad of notes into her handbag, the man striding away, a loud huff of impatience following in his wake. I wait for her to clear the desk.

I no longer know what the hell to think. Instead I am just following where the evidence leads. What I should have been doing all along.

I lay my warrant card down before the teller, take a breath and say it. Hold my breath.

‘Yes, we have the Cole Group business account here.’

It feels strangely unsteadying.

‘I understand that rather a large withdrawal was made from that account recently,’ I say.

She types, frowns. Then, an eyebrow raised, says, ‘Yes, a total of fifty thousand pounds.’

‘When was this?’

‘Ah …’ More typing. ‘The first withdrawal was Tuesday at 5.26 p.m.’ She bites her lip. ‘Ten thousand pounds. That seems high … oh, here it is … the Cole Group have a long-standing arrangement with us that allows for large withdrawals. Still, that is a lot.’

And it is during the missing hours.

‘The first withdrawal?’

She nods. ‘A request was put in on that day for a withdrawal of an additional forty thousand pounds. We need time to accumulate that amount of cash, so the balance wasn’t released until yesterday afternoon.’

‘And can you tell me who made the withdrawals?’

‘Just a … Dr Selena Cole.’

I am not sure if I have heard the words or if I have willed them into being. All the same, there they are.

The deck is reshuffling, fast. What does this make it? A kidnapping? A classic case of burundanguiado? Drugging, emptying the bank account? So then, the next question is, who? It comes back to Beck Chambers. Beck Chambers who has been watching the house, who has a history in South America, who would have access to the drug. Did he drug her, take her, empty her bank account … and then what? Go home? Sit on his couch and watch
Jeremy Kyle
?

Or is it Selena herself, stealing from her own company for her own gain?

I think I’m getting a headache.

‘Could I possibly see your CCTV footage?’

The CCTV room is quiet, a blessed relief. I rest my head back, breathe. Think that the end is in sight and that when I reach that end, I can return home, to my babies.

The footage shows a dwindling day in the bank, crowds dissipating as the clock drags closer to 5.30. At 5.25, Selena Cole walks into the bank. She is wearing the wool coat, has her back to the camera so I can’t see her face. She heads straight to the desk. I pause it, study the room. Because if she is the victim of a drugged kidnap, wouldn’t the kidnapper want to be there, to keep an eye on his prize? There is a young woman, bent forward over a buggy, a recalcitrant toddler caught mid-scream. Two slightly older children hang off her from either side, look like their even distribution of pull is all that is preventing her from toppling over. A middle-aged man stands behind Selena. He is clutching a sheaf of paper, his glance caught over his shoulder, at the mother, her young children. The curl of his lip suggests they are irritating him.

I switch to a different camera, this one positioned directly behind the teller’s head. In this shot, I can see Selena’s face. What am I looking for? What would make someone obvious as burundanguiado? Would there be a dazed look to them, the suggestion of one who is sleepwalking through life? Would they look afraid or lost? Selena looks none of those things. Her glance flicks up to the camera, once, twice. She has been crying. I pause on that.

She stares at me.

It occurs to me that if I was the teller, I wouldn’t know she’d been crying, but that I have begun to understand Selena Cole, that I have made her a matter of close study. I can see the slight downturn at the corners of her mouth, the very subtle puffiness that edges her eyes. I have learned to see behind Selena’s show.

I unpause it. Watch as the teller leads her away, into a side room. Switch to another camera, a different room now, small and sparse. Watch as Selena sits in a solitary chair, waits, picking at a thread on her coat. Then the door opening, a woman, a different one, entering – a manager? She smiles brightly, her mouth moving in silent conversation. Selena leaning forward, her gaze hooked on the money tray before her. And then the money. A pile of notes, stacked like a row of terraced houses, then slipped into a large envelope.

Selena picks it up, cradling the envelope that contains ten thousand pounds. Spares some thin words to the woman who holds open the door for her, and vanishes into the waiting foyer beyond.

I flip back to the original camera, watch the foyer. Wait for someone I haven’t noticed before, beyond the lip of the camera’s angle maybe, to peel away, follow Selena with her ten thousand pounds.

But there is nothing.

Okay.

I turn to the outside camera.

They have to be here. Surely. If it is a kidnapping for ransom, they will be waiting to collect, if not inside, then right outside the doors.

There are people moving, the crowd thinned out by the weather. I curse. Umbrellas are up, and so from my angle I can see little but a series of circular shapes moving through Hereford city centre. Even if Beck is here, I may not recognise him.

There she is.

Selena comes out. Pauses.

Is she afraid? Is she considering running? Or is she too drugged to know where she is?

Or is none of that the case?