“They tracked her to the river towpath.” He grinned. “She wasn’t in the pond, after all.”
A collective sigh of relief.
“What about the divers?” asked Jenny. “Did they find anything?”
“Only her mobile phone,” said Rob. “She’s definitely not there.”
The Chief Superintendent had left for the day, so Rob had a quiet word with Mallory. “I’ll pay Sergio Wojcik a visit on my way back.”
Mallory nodded. “See you later.”
They both knew no one was getting any rest tonight. Not while she was still out there.
The bloody press was still camped outside.
As he drove out of the underground parking lot, they swarmed in to have a closer look, but Rob put his foot down and screeched up Church Road, not even bothering to look in his rear-view mirror.
He was almost at the nature reserve when his phone rang. He converted it to hands-free.
“Jenny. What’s up?”
DS Jenny Bird’s voice was breathy with excitement. “Sir, it turns out Sergio Wojcik has a criminal record in Poland. He served six months for burglary back in 2006.”
10
Rob slammed his foot on the break, just stopping himself from careening into the delivery van in front of him.
“Burglary, did you say?”
“Yes, apparently he robbed his girlfriend’s house.”
Hmm… Rob turned down the radio. “His girlfriend?”
“Well, his ex. She laid a charge against him and got a restraining order.”
That was interesting. Burglary was a very different crime to kidnapping and required a different mindset.
“Were there any cases of domestic abuse?”
“Not that I can find, guv.”
“So why’d she take out a restraining order?”
“The order states that he wouldn’t stop pestering her.”
“But he never assaulted her?”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
“Jenny, contact the ex and get the full story. In the meantime, I’ll be sure to ask him about it when I see him.”
The river Thames was grey and foreboding. It was like a bipolar person, Rob reflected, as he marched along the darkening path towards the officers assembled further down, changing moods on a daily basis.
The overcast sky added a shadowy tinge while white crests danced on the surface on account of the surging current. There were no rowers this evening. They preferred still water. The Thames on a pushing tide was not something to be fought against.
It was still hot and humid, made worse by the oppressive cloud cover, and sweat dripped down his back between his shoulder blades. He took off his jacket and swung it over his shoulder.
“Thanks for waiting,” he said to the dog handler, who nodded in response. “What you got?”
“The trail was pretty strong from the reservoir down to the river path,” he told Rob. “But we lost her round about here.”
The German Shepherd on the leash barked in confirmation. His handler patted his head. “Harley tried his best, but there are just too many people on the path. The smell was diluted.”
“At least we know she came this way,” said Rob. “Lonsdale Road is a hundred meters away. That gives us something to go on.”
The dog handler nodded.
Rob was about to walk away when his colleagues said, “Glad she wasn’t at the bottom of that reservoir, sir. That’s a relief.”
Rob patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks guys, great job.”
A relief was an understatement. Katie Wells might still be alive.
Sergio Wojcik lived in a brown-brick multi-storey housing estate on Mortlake High Street opposite the old brewery, a sad, derelict building scheduled for redevelopment. It was also one road back from the river, which meant if you followed the towpath from Barnes, you’d eventually get here. It was a solid two-mile walk, a bit far for an eleven-year-old, but not impossible.
The Polish builder’s apartment was on the third floor, at the back of the block. He didn’t have a river view. Instead, he looked out onto a small, concrete play area and a narrow alleyway that ran between two blocks of houses.
Not bad, thought Rob as he walked along the external corridor to flat number 27. The playground was clean, the alleyway free of graffiti, and in the distance, he could hear church bells ringing.
He rang the buzzer. It was after eight o’clock in the evening, so Sergio should be home from work.
Katie had been missing for twelve hours.
The beginnings of a headache throbbed at his temples, but that was probably due to lack of caffeine as much as the strain of the investigation. Every minute that past, the chances of finding Katie alive diminished.
The door swung open.
“Hello?” The stocky Pole stood there in tracksuit bottoms and a sleeveless vest, holding a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger.
Was that Pink Floyd playing in the background? Rob recognised the laid-back melancholic music and was hit by a wave of nostalgia – no, not nostalgia, but something. His father used to play it while he worked on his motorbike in the garage and ignored his wife and son.
“DCI Miller. I need to ask you a few questions. Can I come in?”
“I remember.” Sergio stood back to allow the detective entry.
Rob stepped into a cloud of smoke, but instead of swatting it away, he inhaled. Old habits died hard. As the smoke filled his lungs, he felt the niggles of a craving. How long had it been?
Since Yvette left. He’d thrown away his last pack the day she’d walked out the door. A fresh start in more ways than one. He eyed the burning fag between Sergio’s fingers and longed for the relaxation a good drag afforded him.
“You want one?” Sergio pulled the tattered Stuyvesant box out of his tracksuit pocket and held it out.
Was he that obvious?
He shook his head. “No, thank you.”
They went into the living room, a decent-sized area with an adjoining kitchen. The flat was frugally decorated with a corner sofa, standard issue carpeting and gauze curtains over the Juliet-style balcony windows, which let in ample sunlight. The air was heavy with smoke.
Rob took a seat on the sofa while Sergio turned down the music and sat opposite him on a well-used armchair. The television was positioned in front of the chair on a purpose-built cabinet.
