Missing, Presumed Dead Read online

  Two floors below him, Percy Peach studied the words he had scribbled down on the pad as he listened to Tommy Bloody Tucker’s lordly release of the information. So the investigation proper could now commence, and the foot soldiers could get on with it. He glared at his ball-penned phrases, as if by sheer concentration he could develop some detail around the bald facts of the girl’s identity and age.

  Peach knew, as Tucker knew but had not cared to acknowledge, that they must now begin to build up a picture of the dead woman. Murder is one of the few crimes where the victim cannot speak for herself, cannot give her own version of the criminal act which has sparked an investigation. Her personality, her sexual inclinations, her prejudices, above all the way she has lived, are the most important indications of who has killed her. Yet these things must be built up through the mouths of others, through accounts which often conflict, and which come from people who have their own reasons to conceal parts of the truth.

  And this victim had been dead and undiscovered for two years. There was the added dimension of time to complicate the normal obscurities for those attempting to assemble the picture of the victim.

  Peach pondered these things, then snapped at Lucy Blake, ‘First job is to tell the parents. You’d best get round there and break it to the mother.’

  His sergeant looked at him steadily from beneath the dark red hair. ‘Tea and sympathy, is it, sir? The woman’s role? Arm round the poor creature’s shoulders, whilst the men get on with the investigation? It’s a job that needs doing, certainly. I suggest we get a uniformed WPC to go round there right away, whilst we get on with some detection.’

  ‘Don’t order me about, Sergeant Blake. I’ll decide who does what round here. And if you don’t like it, you know—’

  ‘I didn’t order anyone about, Sir. It was a suggestion. At most a reminder of what I’m supposed to be here for. Sir.’

  Peach noticed how white his spotless knuckles were on the edge of the desk in front of him. Why did this woman rile him so much more than any of the criminal riff-raff he dealt with so readily? Wasn’t she supposed to be on the same side as him, for God’s sake? He snapped, ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake stop the bloody “Sirs”, can’t you? At least when we’re alone.’

  He was the more enraged because he knew he had seen her in just the role she had rejected, comforting the afflicted mother whilst he got on with digging for the facts. Well, women were supposed to be good at that, weren’t they? So why did this woman have to be so damned touchy? So unfeminine? She didn’t look like a dyke to him. She didn’t even smell like one, he thought for the first time, becoming aware of a light perfume which his small office had probably never encountered until today. But then he had not the vaguest idea of how lesbians were supposed to smell.

  She stood not five feet from him, awaiting orders, her face unsmiling, save for the ghost of amusement he thought he detected in her green eyes. He allowed himself the heavy sigh of the exploited but eternally patient male. Then he said, ‘We’ll go to the Mintons’ house together. See what gives. Play it by ear. Watch their reactions to the news. You’ll probably end up comforting the poor woman though, like I said.’

  Neither of them had any illusion that Percy Peach had saved face.

  ***

  The pleasant semi-detached house looked much like the others in the road. It had a neat front garden where roses still flowered profusely, as if by their activity they could delay the autumn and prolong the Indian summer which yet hung bright over Lancashire.

  Lucy Blake was still young enough for death to be something of a novelty. It still seemed wrong to her that violent death could have such an ordinary setting, that its horror should not be marked by some livid mark upon the victim’s house, which would set the place apart and warn those who came here on routine business to wrap the tragic occupants in metaphorical cotton wool, until their scars were healed enough to be displayed to the world at large.

  The lawn was cut and edged: there was not a weed to be seen. The tidiness was almost obsessive. But then there was a reason for obsession, if that was what this indicated: this house had lost a daughter two years ago. It was only the final sentence, the line that drew finis at the end of a life, that was to be announced today.

  It was Derek Minton who opened the door to them, and their trained, observant eyes saw immediately that the house was as tidy inside as out. Nothing was out of place. The spotless kitchen they glimpsed through the door from the hall might never have seen a meal prepared. In the living room where Minton led them, even the day’s newspaper was folded neatly within the brass magazine holder, as if it had never been opened. The curtains were held in their swatches, each fold answered by a matching fold at the other side of the window. And the woman who sat upright in the armchair and looked at the empty fireplace was still as a statue.

  Minton said, ‘They gave me the day off. Compassionate grounds, you see.’ He smiled at them nervously. They could see in his eyes that he knew.

  Peach said awkwardly, ‘I think it would be better if you sat down for a minute, Mr Minton.’ He knew he was not good at this sort of thing. For a moment, he wished that he had let the uniformed branch handle the breaking of this news. But he had the instincts of a hunter, and experience as well as statistics told him that those closest to a murder victim were often involved in the death, even if not directly. He needed to study the reactions of these parents.

  Derek Minton said, ‘It’s Debbie, isn’t it? We heard about the body being found, you see.’

  With the mention of the name, the woman in the armchair turned to acknowledge them, showing no surprise, though previously she had given no sign that she had even been conscious of their entry into her house. Perhaps she hoped that they would be able to deny what her husband had said. But there was no real hope in her face.

  Lucy Blake went and knelt beside her, taking the listless hands into her more active ones, surprised to find them warm where she had expected a marble cold. She nodded at Shirley Minton, feeling the tears starting to cloud her own eyes, holding them back because she knew they would not help. Behind her, Percy Peach said, ‘I’m afraid it is Debbie, yes, Mr Minton. We’ve had the report in from the forensic people. I’m sorry, but there’s no room for doubt.’

  There was a small movement in the hands which Blake held tightly. But no wild sobbing. No screaming that this could not be so. Not a tear, as yet. Shirley Minton said quietly, ‘Can I see her?’

  For the first time since she had met him, Lucy was glad to hear the inspector’s voice. It was firm but a little husky as he said, ‘That wouldn’t be wise, Mrs Minton. It will be better to remember her as you knew her. That’s the real Debbie, you see.’

  The mother nodded, accepting the advice as meekly as if she had been guided on a choice of dress for a function. ‘She’ll be damaged, I suppose, after all that time in the water.’

  Lucy nodded, grateful for this acceptance, fearful that if she spoke she might break the fragile acquiescence. When there was no word from either of the men behind her, she said, ‘You’ll be able to have a proper funeral, of course, and mourn her as you would want to. It—it’s awful news for us to bring to you, I know. But you and Debbie’s dad will have to comfort each other. At least after all this time you know for certain. Now you can begin to grieve for your daughter…’

  She was aware that she was talking too much, trying to find a way out of the emotional cul-de-sac into which she had led herself. It was a relief when the woman smiled down at her and said unexpectedly, ‘Derek isn’t her father you know. Her dad’s dead.’

  Behind her, Lucy heard Derek Minton’s voice say nervously, ‘But I’ve been around a long time now, you know, love. Since Charlie was eleven and Debbie was nine. They were like my own children to me.’

  ‘He was always good to them.’ Shirley looked straight into Lucy’s wide green eyes, as if it was necessary for her to convince her of that, to defend her husband. ‘And he’s been a good man to me, has Derek. We’ll be all
right, I expect, now we know.’ She nodded, as if considering the proposition for the first time and approving it. Then she looked back into the concerned young face of the woman who knelt beside her. ‘You’re not much older than our Debbie, lass. Did you know her?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, Mrs Minton. I’ve only just been posted here, you see. From over Garstang way.’ She dropped into the Lancashire accent she had striven to lose, straining for closeness with the woman in shock beside her. Shirley Minton was about the same age as her own mother, whom she had been so happy to leave as she struck out into the world on her own, so glad to return to in times of stress. ‘But we shall be talking to lots of people who did know her. You’ll be able to help us there, I expect. Give us some names.’

  ‘When shall us bury her, Derek?’ Shirley’s own Lancashire came out strong as she spoke directly to her husband, for the first time since they had come into the house.

  Minton hesitated, looking at Peach, knowing what was coming.

  The inspector said, ‘There’ll have to be an inquest. But the coroner will open it in a couple of days’ time. That will only be a five-minute job, and there won’t be any need for you to be there: we can give the evidence of identification. I’m sure the coroner will be prepared to issue a death certificate and a burial order, so that you can make funeral arrangements.’

  Minton said, ‘You must find out who killed her for us.’ But he spoke without real passion, as if this was a sentiment he had rehearsed because he knew it would be required of him.

  Peach noted automatically that Minton had accepted without needing to be convinced that this was murder. That was not significant; the press reports of the corpse at the bottom of the quarry pit had all suggested foul play, and Tucker had already admitted as much as he courted the television publicity. He said, ‘We shall find the person or persons responsible, Mr Minton. You can be assured of that.’ He looked from the man beside him to the woman in the chair. ‘We shall need your help with that. Not today, of course, but as soon as you feel that you can—’

  ‘She left here at eight o’clock on October the twentieth. That will be two years ago, in nine days’ time. We haven’t heard a word from her since that day.’ She spoke evenly, like one in a dream. For the first time, the visitors had a vivid glimpse of what this couple had been through in those two years.

  Derek Minton said, ‘I’m going to be off work for a couple of days. Perhaps I could come and see you tomorrow, and answer whatever questions you would like to put to me?’

  His wife looked up at him, offering the first smile that any one of the four had given since this had begun. ‘He likes to shield me, you know, when he can. But I shall be here, when you want me. I expect you’ll want the names of her friends. She was a good girl, you know, Debbie. Lively, yes, but always a good girl to us.’ Suddenly, she was weeping, clasping the policewoman to her, as she would never clasp again the daughter she had loved.

  ***

  In the car outside, Lucy Blake said, ‘I’m glad that’s over.’

  It was her first admission of any sort of weakness to him. He said, ‘It’s never much fun, that sort of thing. I’ve known much worse. I thought we did well, really.’

  They rode back to the station in silence. She was surprised to find that she rather liked that ‘we’.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Because Tommy Tucker rarely moved out of the new block which was the Brunton Police headquarters, the resources which formed the back-up to a murder inquiry were readily available.

  Tucker might be held in contempt by working coppers, but human nature operates as predictably in the police force as in any other large organization. He carried the rank, so people were careful not to offend him. Indeed, while Percy Peach was a notable and admired exception, most people took pains to please Tucker. The man might be a prat, but he was a prat who controlled careers, and the men and women involved recognized it.

  Because Tucker was always around, because he was better at checking the easy things like furniture and photography than how his staff were conducting themselves in the public world outside, the Murder Room assembled to pursue the killers of Debbie Minton was most impressive. Computers and operators; filing cabinets and a filing clerk; tables, chairs, trays; a blackboard and a plaster board with photographs of the remains at the shattered old quarry; large-scale maps of Brunton and the North Lancashire golf course; three extra telephones and an overhead projector.

  It was all very impressive, as were the rotas of officers and the residences they had to cover on the house-to-house inquiries. Personnel are expensive, and there are never enough of them. But on a murder inquiry, the stops are pulled out and there are not the normal queries from on high about exceeding the overtime hours allotted in the budget.

  This energy was all very well, thought Percy Peach, except that the girl had been dead for two years. Piecing together her last hours, the normal first objective in any murder search, was going to be almost impossible. Tommy Bloody Tucker had everything set up impeccably, but was all this equipment going to lead them anywhere?

  As if to confirm his doubts, the phone on his desk shrilled with the latest news from forensic. The pathetic remains of the foetus which had reposed within the water-damaged body would yield no information beyond the bare fact that Debbie Minton had been about three months pregnant. Neither a blood group nor a DNA profile could be extracted for possible matching with any possible father. If they were going to find this father, the man who might well have dispatched this unfortunate mother-to-be, it would have to be by detective work alone.

  He went back to his office to wait for Derek Minton.

  In the spotlessly tidy semi-detached house on the outskirts of Brunton, Lucy Blake studied Shirley Minton, watching for any reaction to the sound of the soft footsteps above their heads.

  The grieving mother had raised no objection to the search of her daughter’s room, seeming scarcely to hear the carefully worded explanation of the clues it might offer to her daughter’s movements and companions in the weeks before her death. Nevertheless, Lucy had thought it politic to stay with her in the comfortable lounge, whilst the man and woman in uniform went about their task in the tidy room upstairs.

  There was no knowing, of course, how much the parents had already removed, wittingly or unwittingly, which might have been of value. Debbie Minton had been nineteen and a half when she disappeared: few girls of that age kept their rooms as clinically neat as the one they had been ushered into upstairs.

  As if she had caught that thought, Shirley Minton said suddenly, ‘I tidied the place up, when she didn’t come back that first weekend. No one has slept in there since, of course. It was waiting for her to come back.’

  The police saw it often enough when they went into people’s houses. The room preserved as a shrine to the youngster who had disappeared, even when he or she had died in a road accident and the parents knew from the start that they could never be back. You tried sometimes to talk them away from it, as if you were a medic or a social worker. Usually they said, ‘It’s all we have left, you see,’ as if that were all the explanation that was needed. It might be morbid, but there was a kind of logic in it. And those who had never experienced such losses should not push the sufferers too hard. WDS Blake, sitting watchfully attentive on the edge of her chair, knew by now that the worst thing that you could say was that you understood.

  Lucy said, ‘You haven’t taken anything away from the room that you can remember? It’s surprising what can be useful to us, you see. We don’t always know ourselves what is going to be significant, at first.’

  Shirley Minton shook her head, her brown eyes as earnest as a child’s. ‘No. I’ve thought about that. I washed a few of her clothes, that she’d worn earlier in the week. The other things I just tidied away into the drawers. There wasn’t a lot. A few CDs and tapes. She didn’t have a library book up there. There were a couple of paperbacks on the floor by the bed, but I just put those on the shelves.’

 
; ‘I suppose you washed the sheets that were on the bed.’

  A little start. ‘Yes. I suppose I should have told you about that. Does it matter?’

  ‘No, of course not. It was a natural thing to do,’ said Lucy hastily. But there could be no tests now for semen, no suggestive fibres from clothing which did not belong to the dead girl. She was beginning to appreciate Peach’s complaints about the scent being cold.

  ‘She was a good girl, you know. Always a good daughter. Never forgot my birthday, nor Derek’s. We didn’t bother much with things like Mother’s Day. American invention, we thought.’ Mrs Minton studied the backs of her hands as if there might be a clue there to these inexplicable events.

  Lucy left her for a moment, looking out over the trim lawn to where a spray chrysanthemum glowed like new gold against the evergreens. She fed her questions in whenever an opening offered itself; your timing had to be subtle with the bereaved. ‘Did she have many boyfriends?’

  ‘No. I don’t think she ever brought one home. She was a lively girl, mind, but I think she liked to be in a crowd. She went to the youth club a lot, round at St Margaret’s. Leastways, she did when she was younger, and I think the same crowd went around together, even after they felt they’d grown out of table tennis and Coke.’ She smiled over the last phrase, and Lucy knew suddenly that it had come from the dead girl herself.

  ‘She worked as a typist, I believe?’

  ‘At Postlethwaites’ yes. The furnishers in the centre of town. She hadn’t been there long but she was doing quite well. Apparently there was the chance of her becoming a secretary to one of the bosses. Only they don’t call it that now, apparently. A personal helper or something.’

  ‘Personal assistant, yes. She was doing well, then. Were there people from work that she associated with? In the evenings or at the weekends, I mean.’ There was one at least who would need to be checked out: the one who had chosen to promote this so far unremarkable girl to be his PA. If, of course, that was more than a fond mother’s illusion.