The Crossing Read online

  “Yes, well, anyone’d do what they could with a pervert about, wouldn’t they?” Cindy Painter fidgeted in her chair again, but Verity could tell the compliment had pleased her. “You want a cup of tea or something?”

  “No, thanks. It’s kind of you to ask. Were the girls frightened when they got into the car?”

  “Not that frightened. They didn’t like the look of him, though.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “Not clearly. They may have done. They was closer than we was.”

  “Could you describe his build?”

  “He was very small, almost girlish. He was wearing a mac, so it was hard to see much else. And a cap.”

  “Can you remember any more about his clothes?”

  “The mac was grubby. Beige, but grubby. I don’t know about the cap. It was certainly darker than the mac.”

  “And you didn’t know him?”

  Cindy Painter rolled her eyes.

  “I’d hardly have reported him if I had, would I?”

  “I see. Well, I’ve written down what you’ve told me, Mrs . . . Cindy. I’d be grateful if you could read through the statement and sign it if you agree that it’s accurate.”

  She took the sheet of paper from Verity and worked through it slowly, pointing at each word and repeating it to herself under her breath. Verity had the impression that she found reading difficult. After some time, she signed it and lit another cigarette.

  “That’s all correct.”

  “Thank you,” said Verity. “We’re going to make sure a police car regularly patrols the area around the school. Let me know if you see the man again. Here’s my card.”

  “There’s one other thing,” said Cindy Painter, drawing fiercely on the cigarette.

  “Yes?”

  “That Mr Lennard. He didn’t believe me. He thought I’d just invented the whole thing.”

  “I don’t think he thought you’d invented it, Cindy. He perhaps thought you’d attached more significance to the man’s being there than he would have done. But he wasn’t there.”

  “No, he wasn’t,” she agreed vigorously. “So he shouldn’t cast aspersions.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think he’s up to the job?”

  “I don’t have an opinion on that,” said Verity. “I’m sure he must be well-respected in the teaching profession. Otherwise he wouldn’t have the job.”

  “Yes, well, I’ll show you out, then,” Cindy said, unconvinced.

  Chapter Seventeen

  STILL IN A good mood after her meeting with Louise Butler, Juliet had started work on the cold case folder. The files contained details of more than a dozen unsolved cases, some of which were relatively recent, some almost as old as herself. One related to a burglary at a jeweller’s shop which had happened when Juliet was a very young trainee. She remembered it well, though she’d been too junior to be assigned to the case. The owner’s wife had been hit with a crowbar and left blind and mentally impaired. Another contained details of the murder of a market stallholder who’d been attacked very early one morning almost twenty years before while loading her van from a lock-up shed. At first, her death had been assumed the result of a botched robbery, but various circumstances – the fact that the woman had been alone when she was usually accompanied and the lack of defensive wounds – had caused the police to suspect her sister, who was also her business partner. The sister had produced an alibi, however, and there was no proof that she’d been present. Juliet lifted out the notes to see if the police had kept evidence that might be re-tested for DNA. She saw that the victim’s clothes and the hammer that she’d been hit with were preserved at the police warehouse. They’d last been tested for DNA five years ago and yielded nothing that could be used. Juliet didn’t think that the testing techniques had become significantly more sensitive in the intervening period, but she removed the documents from the file and put them to one side. She’d check this was correct before she dismissed the idea.

  More than half the files covered missing persons cases. Most were assumed to have left home because they wanted to, possibly deliberately changing identity to get away from relatives or start a completely new life. Not much resource was devoted to investigating ‘mispers’ unless they were minors or suspicious circumstances suggested they’d come to harm. Juliet always hated having to tell worried parents or desolate partners that the police had no reason to believe their loved one had not left home of their own volition and therefore his or her disappearance would not be investigated further. Even so, she knew that this was the correct way of handling it: most would either turn up again eventually or successfully build the new life for themselves they wanted. Sometimes they were located but refused to get in touch with those they’d left. It wasn’t just that the police didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with all of them: it was also a question of the individual’s right not to be pestered. Juliet sighed.

  She worked methodically through the folder, lifting out the mispers files as she went and spreading them in a semi-circle round her desk, each with the first page open so she could see their photographs. There were eight altogether. Several belonged to women who’d been victims of domestic abuse. There was a chance they’d finally summoned up the courage to leave their partners and make a new start, but Juliet knew this was unlikely. Without exception, their expressions looked squashed and totally defeated, as if they were no longer able to think for themselves. Their files had been kept because the police thought it more probable they’d been murdered than escaped. Two of the more recent files were of local villains – not known to each other as far as she could see – who’d absconded from an open prison that had gained some notoriety in the Press because of its higher-than-average number of runaways. Juliet was just lifting out the last mispers file when Tim appeared and looked over her shoulder.

  “Not mispers,” he said. “Don’t bother to pursue any of those: you’ll be on a hiding to nothing. Unless you can help to re-arrest those two,” he added, indicating the two cons.

  “I often wish we had more time to give mispers,” said Juliet. “Probably more of them need our help than we think.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but we could spend all our time on them and, for every two we find, at least one won’t thank us for it. Obviously if we think they may have been murdered, that’s a different matter.”

  “Several of these were battered wives.”

  “Well,” Tim frowned, “read the files carefully and see if there are any leads that have been missed, or real possibilities that more advanced forensics can throw up something new. Otherwise, if you must focus on mispers, I’d stick with the cons. We’ll get a few brownie points if we can catch them. Surely all the cases in that file aren’t mispers?”

  “They aren’t,” said Juliet. “There’s the Bourne jewellery burglary . . .”

  “Oh, for God’s sake don’t dig that up again. It’s been reopened at least three times. Dreadful that the victim was so badly hurt, but we’ll never solve it. I’m convinced it was a professional contract job. Thieves from London or Birmingham, probably. None of the jewellery ever showed up with any of the local fences. Complete waste of time even trying to work out where it went.”

  Juliet snorted.

  “You sound more like Superintendent Thornton every day,” she said. “Do you really want me to work on any of these?”

  “If I’m entirely honest, no,” said Tim. “But Thornton’s requested it and you know his hands are tied. He’s got to be seen to be doing something. He’d prefer you just to focus on one, if you can. Have a look at the cons. We know some of their cronies and we can . . . PC Tandy, did you manage to meet the schoolgirl’s mother?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Verity, drawing closer.

  “Get anything useful?”

  “Not really. Mr Lennard may be right about her. She wasn’t a very impressive witness.”

 
“Ah,” said Tim. “That doesn’t surprise me. I thought as much.” Juliet threw Verity a quick smile.

  “I still think that his attitude was strange,” said Verity defensively. “It didn’t seem right for someone who’s in charge of several hundred girls. It was almost like listening to one of those men who think that women who get raped deserve it.”

  “No-one’s been raped, have they?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “I know what you mean,” said Juliet. “You get a feeling sometimes. If I were you, I’d hold on to your first impression. It’s an odd kind of attitude for someone in his position.” She was opening the final mispers file as she spoke.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Tim airily. “Once Juliet gets started on intuition, I begin to feel lost.”

  Verity wasn’t listening.

  “Who’s that?” she said.

  “What? Oh, it’s a misper. I haven’t checked it out yet. Let’s see. Helena Nurmi. An au pair from Finland who disappeared in 1993.”

  Tim stopped in his tracks.

  “It doesn’t sound promising,” he said. “You can bet that she ran off with her boyfriend. Something like that, anyway. Don’t bother with that one. Why are you so interested in her, anyway?” he said, turning to Verity. He found the look on her face disconcerting. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s just that . . . she’s the image of Philippa Grummett. And Cassandra Knipes.”

  “I’m beginning to think you’ve got this doppelganger idea on the brain. Let me have a look.”

  Juliet passed him the file. Tim scrutinised the photograph for a long moment.

  “It’s a poor photo,” he said. “But you may have got something. Not many women have such very fair hair, do they? Not round here, anyway. Maybe it’s not just an au pair’s normal vanishing act.”

  Juliet took back the file.

  “Helena Nurmi,” she read. “Twenty years old. Disappeared in the summer of 1993, a few weeks before she was due to return home. The main suspect was Matthew Start, the son of her employer.”

  “Matthew Start! Any relation to Councillor Start?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It just says ‘ son of her employer’.”

  “Look into it, Juliet, will you? I don’t like coincidences, as you know. And we’ve got at least two here. There’s the Grummett daughter, Philippa, who apparently has a double and also looks like a woman who disappeared twenty years ago; and there’s Councillor Start, at whose house that woman was possibly employed, who turned up at the Grummett house immediately after the accident yesterday. Check out the missing details, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about the school prowler, sir?” said Verity. Juliet sensed she had spoken at least in part because she wanted Tim to acknowledge her quick-wittedness.

  “What about him? You’ve just told me he was a figment of the parent’s imagination.”

  “I didn’t quite say that,” said Verity carefully. “I think Mrs Painter may have over-reacted. But obviously there was someone hanging round the school.”

  “You promised to send a patrol car every so often, didn’t you? We’ll do it for a week, see if anything else happens. If not, we’ll consider it an isolated incident.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  MY LIFE RUNS within narrow limits because I am a prisoner, but I am sane. The Lover is not sane. Our daughter lives with me and I protect her. The Lover and I wage a perpetual bargain. These are the facts of my existence.

  He brought me here when the sun was shining brightly. I could feel it on my neck as I stepped inside. He had given me flowers from the garden (“Impractical,” he’d smiled, “but I want you to have them.”); he’d paid for my ticket. The ticket was tucked in my purse, in the cheerful red handbag swinging from my shoulder. He’d given in, understood that I must move on. My suitcase was in his car; he was ready to take me to the station. He just wanted me to see his new office, then we would leave. I crossed the threshold. He kissed me quickly as he closed the door behind us, heaving it shut with a clang. There were thick blinds at the windows, all of them tight shut.

  I was afraid. I didn’t want him to close the door. I caught a glimpse of his face as he blotted out the sunlight. It was set, determined. No longer smiling. Then we were in total blackness.

  “Put on the light,” I said. I was terrified. He knows I can’t bear the dark.

  “In a minute,” he said soothingly, but I heard the metallic edginess of control in his voice. He stroked my cheek. I shied away.

  “Put on the light!” I shouted.

  “Later,” he said. His voice was harder now. Truculent, not wheedling. He pinched my arm. I shook him off, flung myself at the wall, scrabbling for a light switch. He grabbed me from behind, turned me round, hit my face with his open hand. His accuracy was uncanny. It was as if he could see me, even in the pitch black of this place. I covered my face with my hands.

  “You stupid bitch! What do you think you’re doing?”

  I tried to shout out. The noise that came from my mouth was a strangled croak.

  “Shut up!” he said grimly. He put his hand over my mouth. “If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll shut it for you. Are you going to stop now?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you going to stop?” I could hear the rage.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Good. Give me your hands.”

  I stretched out my hands to where I thought he was standing. One was sticky with blood. The blow had made my nose bleed. He tied them tight, fastened them to something above my head. He grabbed my neck roughly so that I was facing him: I could feel his breath on my cheek, smell the mint that he’d been sucking. He was squeezing my neck. I thought he was going to throttle me. I jerked my head away.

  “Hold still if you don’t want me to hurt you. Then I’ll put on the light.”

  I obeyed. I could cope if I could see.

  He fastened something round my neck. It was made of rough leather. I heard a click, then a louder one. I could hear him cutting at something. My hands fell to my sides. He taped them behind my back. I heard him step away.

  “I’m going now,” he said. “I’m going to leave you to think about what you’ve done. You haven’t been nice to me. You haven’t been good. Be nice and good and I will love you.”

  “Put on the light!” I shrieked. “You promised me you’d put on the light!”

  “All in good time.” He wasn’t trying to soothe me now. “Light is a privilege. It must be earned. You have to be good. Good and nice. Then I’ll love you.”

  I heard him walk the few steps to the door. A narrow strip of sunlight glowed on my prison momentarily before it was extinguished. I was facing the wall. A smooth grey wall. It was featureless, except for a bracket that had been fastened to it at more or less the height of my neck. A chain was attached to the bracket and its other end to the halter around my neck.

  Just before the door slammed shut I looked down at my feet and caught a glimpse of the scattered flowers and my red handbag lying beside them.

  I don’t know how long I remained standing there. I remember flushing with shame when I could stop myself from peeing no longer, feeling the urine trickle down my legs.

  I could not banish my fear of darkness, but I alleviated the panic by closing my eyes and thinking of daylight. The chain restricted me too much to allow me to sit down, but I could lean my head against the wall. I think I even slept in short bursts, like a horse standing in its stall.

  He kept me there for a very long time. I don’t know how long, but it must have been for days. My terror at being in the darkness was eclipsed by the fierce certainty that I’d die of thirst. My lips swelled and my throat inside the halter felt like sandpaper. The halter chafed the skin on my neck until it was raw.

  He came back when I could barely s
tand. I’d been thinking that if I fainted I would break my neck.

  This time he turned on the light. As if I did not know who he was and he needed to protect his identity, he was wearing a balaclava and black leather gloves. I could see his eyes gleaming through the slits of the helmet. He pulled back my head by the hair so that my face was upturned and thrust a baby’s bottle between my lips. I sucked on the teat, drawing the water thirstily into my mouth. When I’d gulped a few mouthfuls he took it away again, pushing my head down so that the halter jarred my neck as he did so.

  “Please!” I whispered, my voice hoarse and broken. “Please, more water!”

  “Please, more water!” he mimicked in a little-girl voice. “Not yet. You’re not being nice to me. And you stink!”

  He removed the teat from the bottle, poured the rest of the water on the ground, and replaced the teat, reversing it and wedging it into the neck of the bottle as tenderly as if he were a young mother meticulously obeying the rules of hygiene she’d been taught. He turned to leave.

  “Please, don’t go!”

  He shrugged and walked away, snapping off the light again as he went.

  I had not cried until this point: I didn’t want to jeopardise my sanity by giving way to the fear and the hopelessness. But now I screamed and howled like a wild animal in the darkness. After I’d sobbed myself into a frenzy, I gradually managed to calm down. The sobs died in judders. It was at that moment that I took a grip on myself and vowed that this man would not win. I’d be patient and canny and I would escape, or he would have to let me go. People would come looking for me. He would not dare to keep me here for long. First I must assert myself.

  Only a few hours later he came again, this time with soup, which he tried to feed to me from the baby’s bottle. I dashed it from his hand. He was still wearing the balaclava, but I saw his eyes register shock, even fear, before the anger eclipsed it. Without a word he abandoned me once more to the darkness. I felt triumphant that I’d made him retreat, but it didn’t last. I was hungry, cold, thirsty and filthy. He was trying to break me. I would have to find more intelligent ways of defying him if I wanted to survive.