Page 49 of The Girl in the Grave
It hadn’t worked, though; not once had he tripped himself up. He admitted to associating with Chantel Price, said she would hang around, and yes he’d had sex with her a couple of times, but that was it. He didn’t have any reason to hurt her and he definitely did not kill her. They had nothing of value forensically to link him to the crime. So where did that leave this investigation? Up shit creek, that’s where.
Jason Thompson was nowhere to be found and a search of his flat and workplace had yielded absolutely nothing. Sykes had reported that when the care home staff had been questioned, they’d found that Chantel Price would sleep with anybody for a bit of money or recreational drugs. Walking into the office, he checked the whiteboards; someone had put a big tick next to James Dean’s name, and the search of the funeral home had been ticked off. There was still a question mark next to Thompson.
Sitting down at his desk, he opened the drawer and took out his phone. It had died whilst he’d been in his marathon interview with James Dean. He plugged it into the charger and set about making a mug of coffee. He then logged onto the computer and began scrolling through the missing person’s report for Annie Potts, needing to check which tasks had been completed. They couldn’t perform cell site analysis on her mobile phone because it had been left behind in her room. If she’d had that on her when she’d been taken, they would have been able to pinpoint her location to within three kilometres. Something to go on, at least. They could have flooded the area with officers. But there was no trail for the dog to follow. The press release hadn’t come up with any leads that helped; family and friends had been interviewed; Estelle had been in and done a video profile of the man she’d slept with. Everything was being done to trace him: the profile was being printed in tomorrow’s local paper with the caption ‘Do You Know This Man?’ They’d drafted in extra staff to answer the phones in case they were flooded with calls in the morning. Somehow Josh didn’t think it would be the case. If Annie’s abductor was smart, he would have worn some kind of disguise.
Josh looked down at his notes. Most of the tasks had been completed: ticked off with no result, nothing to move the investigation forward. They were no closer to finding Annie Potts than they’d been on Monday, and the trail to Chantel’s killer was as cold as his last cup of coffee. Under normal procedures, the next thing would be to draft in extra officers to organise a search of every derelict building in the area – but that was a big job, and he knew they could potentially waste valuable time. He considered what he knew about the killer, assuming still that the killer and the kidnapper were the same person, and worked up a list of further tasks to be ticked off.
Likely to be local, knowledge of the cemetery, the area, camera aware.
All recently released violent offenders spoken to and their home addresses checked.
Possible local accent, witness Estelle Carter not a hundred per cent sure.
CCTV footage from the nightclub sent off to be enhanced.
Get a photofit made up.
Hotel to be searched from top to bottom again by task force and dog handler.
Chase up detailed site plan of the cemetery with council.
Any abandoned, disused buildings to be searched.
PCSOs out canvassing local businesses, speaking to members of the public, tourists.
He couldn’t think of anything else for the time being.
His phone began to vibrate with missed calls and messages. He glanced at it. A missed call from Beth. She’d left a voicemail, too.
Sixty-Seven
Beth ran to check the front door was locked. It was, thank goodness. Then, running into the kitchen she picked out the heavier of the two hammers she had in the tool drawer. She knew the score: self-defence with a household item would hold up much better in court than if she used a knife – not that she’d hesitate if she had to use a knife. Her legs were shaking, but not as much as her hands. She didn’t understand how or why someone had left the photograph and the fingernail on her patio table, or how long they had sat there, exposed to the elements. She thought back over the last few hours; she’d come home last night but hadn’t gone outside. She’d been in and out of the house all day, so it could have been left there at any point.
Tucking her phone in her pocket, she held her breath as she heard the floorboard above her creak ever so slightly, as if someone had put their weight on it and had stopped, mid-step. She thought about running to her safe room and locking herself in, but fear took over. She wanted to get out of here, as far away as possible and not give anyone the chance to get the better of her.
Beth’s blood went cold; it was happening all over again, just like the last time. She gripped the hammer, picked up her car keys and began to edge towards the front door. Pulling out her phone, she dialled 999 and heard a voice tell her she was being directed to Cumbria Constabulary. The automated voice sounded too loud in the house, which was too quiet; whoever was up there would hear the voice on the end of the phone and she didn’t want them to know she knew they were up there. She hung up, knowing that the police would trace the abandoned treble nine call and send officers round to investigate. But she couldn’t take the chance of whoever was upstairs getting the upper hand. She needed to get out and she needed to get out right now.
Phil reminded them every week there was no shame in running in a dangerous situation, that it was much safer to try and run to safety than to stay and fight. She was almost at the front door, her heart pounding so hard she slid the bolt back with a loud thud and threw it open.
‘Thank goodness you’ve come!’ she screeched, and instinctively dived towards the person standing on her doorstep. She was surprised to see him but without wasting a moment she lifted her finger to her lips to keep him quiet.
He looked puzzled as she ran at him and whispered, ‘There’s someone in my house, we need to get out now.’
She fell into his open arms and he pulled her close then ran with her towards the car. Beth clambered inside, simultaneously starting the engine and frantically pressing the button on the remote to open the gates.
She turned in surprise when he jumped in beside her.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ve phoned the police; there’s an intruder in my house. We have to get away from here.’
He glared at her. ‘There’s no one inside your house.’
She slowly turned to look at him, dread filling the pit of her stomach. ‘You don’t know that.’
He smiled. ‘I do, because I’m right here. Beth.’
She tried to open her door, but he lunged for her; grabbing a handful of her hair, he launched her head against the steering wheel so hard she felt an explosion of pain and darkness seep into her mind. She clawed at his hands, trying to get him to loosen his grip, but he pulled her hair even tighter and smashed her head into the driver’s window so hard it cracked the glass. With his other hand he pulled a cloth out of his pocket and the strong, sweet smell of chemicals filled the car.
