It was clear that the shoe had been dropped by accident. It was a mistake. Whoever had taken Laura hadn’t realized she’d lost it. There was no sign that it had been placed in the ditch to hide it and it wasn’t there to make a point. The water was so low that it was clearly visible sticking out of the mud. Vera was sure this had nothing to do with the placing of the bodies. There were no flowers. It was just a shoe. A flat, black shoe with no heel and no back, simple, the fashion of the summer. The kidnapper would know now that it had been left. Would it be preying on his mind? Would he think the forensic team would be able to work some magic with it, that they would deduce immediately who and where he was?
Julie recognized the shoe at once and began to cry. Until then it had been possible to convince herself that Laura had bunked off school. To pay her back for being such a crap mother. For not being there that morning when she set off for Whitley High. She looked at the shoe in its plastic evidence bag and she howled. Vera couldn’t bear to see her in such a state. She persuaded Julie to take one of the tranquillizers prescribed for her by the doctor. This was more for her sake than for Julie’s. The sound of the crying woman got under her skin and stopped her concentrating. Even when she’d gone outside to speak to the supervisor of the search team the noise remained with her.
Of course the shoe told them nothing. It could have told them about Laura. About how tall she was likely to be, about the way she threw her weight forward when she moved, about where she’d been walking. It didn’t tell them anything about the man who’d taken her. But close to the spot where it had been found there were tyre tracks on the verge. The grass was very dry there. The tyres had only crushed the grass and left no real imprint. However, just where the grass sloped down to the tarmac was a small patch of reddish builder’s sand. Perhaps it had been left during road repairs or spilled from a lorry. And there a perfectly formed tyre mark remained. Only a fragment, half the width of the tyre and about ten centimetres long, but enough to excite CSI Billy Wainwright, who crouched over it, like a toddler concentrating on making a perfect mud pie.
‘Well?’ Vera knew she shouldn’t really be there. She should be back in her office, pulling in all the information, keeping on top of things. Only she didn’t feel on top of things.
‘I’m not sure we’ll be able to identify the make of tyre from this.’ Billy stood up. She thought he looked knackered and a bit stressed. He was too old to be playing away with his new young lover. Too decent to do it lightly. Again she wanted to tell him to be glad of what he had. A wife he could talk to at the end of the day. Not to throw it all away for some mid-life fantasy, however young and however bonny. ‘But if you find me a suspect vehicle, I’ll be able to tell you if there’s a match. Look, there are very specific marks of wear, chips and nicks in the rubber.’
‘So we’re not looking for a new tyre?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘The treads are very faint. This is hardly legal.’
It was a perfect late afternoon in mid-summer Less humid than it had been earlier in the day, when everyone had been muttering about thunderstorms. Vera stood for a moment watching the search team inch their way towards the horizon and the swallows swooping and dipping to pick up insects over the stubble field.
‘If you can get an ID on that tyre, you’ll get in touch?’
He nodded briefly and, looking at him, she thought he knew already how mad he was to take up with the pretty pathology assistant. He hated himself but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to admit he was making a fool of himself, or he was too old, or that the woman was using him. He’d persuaded himself that he loved her.
In Kimmerston, the incident room was unusually quiet. A strained expectant quiet, so every ringing phone or unexpected raised voice set nerves jangling. She’d just settled into her office when her phone did ring. Not an internal call. This had come through on her direct line. She gave her name and there was a pause. In the background the sound of echoes in an enclosed space, a metal gate slammed shut and locked, rowdy men’s voices. Then a different, quieter voice. ‘This is David Sharp.’ Davy Sharp in Acklington Prison. It would be teatime. She pictured him on the wing. He’d have had to queue to get to the phone and there’d be a line of men behind him. All listening in.
‘Yes, Davy. How can I help?’ Keeping it easy. Her voice low too so only he could hear.
‘More the other way round,’ he said. ‘More what I can do for you.’
‘What can you tell me, Davy?’
‘Nothing on the phone. You’ll need to visit. And it could be nothing at all.’
‘Run out of tabs, Davy?’ She couldn’t leave the investigation and rush off to Acklington just because he wanted a cigarette. Not without news of Laura. ‘It’s impossible today. Can I send someone else?’
‘No,’ he said, his voice still even. ‘It’s you or nobody.’ There was a moment of silence and she thought the phone had been cut off before he continued. ‘It’s complicated. A bit odd. I don’t understand it. But no rush. Tomorrow will do.’
‘There’s a girl missing, Davy,’ she said. ‘I need anything you have now.’ But this time the phone was dead and she wasn’t sure he’d heard what she’d told him. She replaced the receiver, angry with herself. She should have handled it differently.
Despite what she’d said to him, she was tempted to go. At least it would be action of a sort, the drive to Acklington, the banter with the prison officer on the gate. An escape from the waiting. But Sharp hadn’t sounded urgent. There was no way she could justify it.
The collection of Parr’s stories on her desk caught her eye and she was distracted by thoughts of the writer. She had a sudden picture of him, sitting with the rest of the group in the garden at Fox Mill, the night they’d found Lily’s body. The four men and the one woman on the veranda. It occurred to her now that all those men were a little bit in love with Felicity Calvert. It wasn’t the birding which glued them together. It was the woman. The ideal housewife with her flowery skirts and her perfect baking. The men were all lonely, screwed up, frustrated. Like me, she thought. Just like me. Then she was taken back to the story she’d been reading when Julie had phoned, the abduction of the young person at the height of the summer, the loving description of the capture.
Vera opened her door and yelled for Ashworth. He came immediately and she saw the people in the rest of the room look up from their desks to watch. She realized they were thinking there’d been a development. A body. It might even come as a relief for them, a break from the tension, if the girl was found dead. At least then they would know what they were working with.
‘There’s no news,’ she said, speaking to the room in general. ‘Soon as there is, I’ll tell you.’
Ashworth shut the door behind him and leaned against it. She thought he looked tired, then remembered his wife, the baby due any day. Things got uncomfortable the last few weeks of pregnancy. Especially in this weather. So she’d heard. Perhaps neither of them was getting much sleep.
‘Read this,’ Vera said. She nodded to the book on the table. ‘There’s this story, written by Parr. It’s not exactly like the abduction of the girl, but near enough.’
Joe looked at her as if she’d completely lost it, but he picked up the book and began to read.
‘I started it last night,’ Vera went on. ‘Now I can’t get it out of my head.’
Joe looked up from the book. ‘You think it’s a sort of fantasy. Parr’s written about it and now he’s playing it out.’
‘Crazy, isn’t it? Ignore me.’ And really she couldn’t believe it. It was too theatrical to be true.
‘There’s no evidence he ever met the Armstrongs,’ Joe said slowly. ‘Certainly no motive.’
‘I told you,’ Vera said. ‘It’s a stupid idea.’
‘It’s pretty weird stuff. And as you said, very close to the abduction and the murders. Not all the details perhaps, but…’ he paused for a moment ‘… the atmosphere. How does the story end?’
She was pleased he was taking her seriously. Her earlier irritation at his lack of focus in the case was forgotten. For this she would have forgiven him anything. ‘I haven’t got that far. I don’t know. And I’m too busy to sit here reading.’
His attention was pulled back to the pages. ‘What do you need to do?’
‘I want to pin down where they all are,’ Vera said. ‘The people who were there when Lily’s body was found. What are they doing today?’
‘Felicity Calvert’s at home. I went to look in the cottage at the mill. Just in case the girl was being held there. This morning Felicity went into Morpeth. Shopping, only she never bought anything. And nobody saw her. The only proof she was there is a parking ticket from the car park in the town centre. I phoned Calvert at the university. He’s there somewhere. At least, his secretary said he signed in this morning and then went into some sort of conference which was going to last most of the day. She promised to track him down and get him to phone me back, but I’ve not heard anything yet. Clive Stringer’s been at work. I spoke to him in the museum earlier.’
