purpose. There are all sorts of explanations why someone might want to disappear. We don’t know what goes on in people’s lives. Look … remember back in the 1980s, there was the case of the Oxford don? He was about to be awarded a professorship and made head of his department. The kids from his first marriage were all grown-up and successful in their own right. He had another kid on the way courtesy of his second wife, who was a lot younger than him and hot as hell. I mean, this guy had everything to live for. Yet, the morning after the award ceremony he vanished. They found his car in a lane off the M40. The keys were still in it. His wallet was still in it. There was even a solid gold watch, engraved, that his family had bought him in honour of the award – it had been left on the dashboard. Aside from that there was no trace. Then, about six years later, he was found – working under a false name on a sheep farm in the Outer Hebrides. And living rough. I mean, this guy slept in a croft with a peat sod roof.’
‘Remind me why he did that.’
‘I don’t know why. Some kind of breakdown. The point is it happens.’
‘Gemma, that was a one-off. We’re talking nearly forty people … ’
‘None of whom you’d class as vulnerable.’
‘Exactly.’ He took another swig of coffee. ‘There are no children on our list, no OAPs, no mental patients. The youngest was eighteen, the eldest forty-nine. More to the point, they’re mostly professional types, organised, able to look after themselves. Like it or not, that’s a pattern. I mean, it’s an unlikely one, but it’s still a pattern. Not only that, all our women vanished during routine activities … while they were doing something they did every day. None were taken while on holiday for example, or on day trips to other parts of the country …’
‘Heck …’
‘If you’re going to abduct someone, and not make a complete bollocks of it, you’ve got to watch them, memorise their patterns of behaviour. I hate using this analogy but, in nature, predators hunt along game trails. Because then they know exactly when the prey animals are coming, and exactly how many or how few of them there’ll be. After that, all they have to do is pick their moment and intercept …’
‘Heck!’
He clamped his mouth shut.
‘Funnily enough,’ she said, ‘I read your comparative-case-analysis. You know … the one you left in my in-tray and covered with red marker pen “More urgent than anything else you’re doing today!” I’m fully aware why you fingered these particular cases and clumped them together. But it’s still too thin. Apart from the circumstantial stuff, there’s no evidence of abduction, let alone abduction by the same individual.’
‘So what are we doing here? Why are we having breakfast together?’
For a few moments, Gemma looked as if she didn’t know. She pushed her plate aside, even though it was still full. ‘Tell me about this new lead you’ve got. The one you mentioned yesterday morning.’
‘Oh, yeah … that.’
She jabbed a warning finger. ‘Don’t you dare tell me that was a lie!’
‘It wasn’t, don’t worry. Look … you go through to the incident room. I’ll finish getting dressed.’
While Heck got dressed properly, Gemma took their dirty dishes into the kitchen, scraped them and shoved them into the dishwasher, before drifting through to his so-called incident room. She peered again at the faces ranked on its far wall. So often in her career, she’d perused photographs of victims of violent crime. On first viewing, they nearly always enraged and appalled her. Only later on was she able to click into ‘professional investigator’ mode, and treat them as just another part of the job.
As she’d insisted several times, there was no guarantee that this particular bunch actually were victims, but somehow, seeing them all together like this, linked if nothing else by so much painstaking analysis, she began to suspect that they probably were, and it had a melancholy effect on her. In almost all cases, they were smiling or laughing, having been photographed among friends and loved ones. The majority were family snapshots, taken on holiday or at functions. How happy they’d all been while posing for these pictures, how bright their world had seemed. How terrified they’d have been to know the darkness that awaited them.
Heck reappeared in jeans, pulling on a sweater.
‘Well?’ she asked.
He started sifting through papers. ‘I actually had two new leads I was going to run with.’ He found a bulging buff folder, checked it was the right one, and then sat on the desk, indicating that she could have the chair. ‘First of all,’ he said, opening the folder, ‘you accept that in some force areas these disappearances were treated as abductions?’
‘Which is why they were passed to us.’
He nodded. ‘Two summers ago down in Brighton, a lady called Miranda Yates dropped out of sight while loading shopping into the boot of her car. Both the car, which was left with its boot open – I’m guessing the abductor hadn’t closed it properly and the wind caught it – and the car park, were treated as crime scenes. This photograph was taken later in the day.’
He handed Gemma a glossy, which depicted a mass of bystanders held back by police tape. She assessed it. It was common practice to take covert photographs of crime scene onlookers. Astonishing as it seemed to police officers, some perpetrators actually did return to see if anyone was appreciating their handiwork.
‘Which face are we looking at?’ she asked.
Heck pointed out a young man in the front row. He was in his early twenties, with neatly combed dark hair. His vacant expression was not wholly visible because he was turning slightly, plus he was wearing a pair of sunglasses. Aside from that, the only noticeable thing about him was his slightly overlarge forehead.
‘I’ve sent copies of this to every local intelligence officer in England and Wales, and it’s a non-starter,’ Heck said. ‘As his features are partly obscured, no facial recognition has been possible thus far. But have a good look at him, and now check this other photo.’ He produced a second glossy, also depicting a crowd, though on this occasion gathered against a row of skeletal trees. ‘This was taken in Aberystwyth last March. Julie-Ann Netherby, a student at the university, was last seen in the basement of her hall of residence, doing her laundry. This picture was taken outside the hall, the following day.’
Gemma scanned the picture and almost immediately spotted someone who might have been the same man. Even less of this second chap’s face was visible – he was standing behind someone else, but aside from having shorter hair and a thin, wispy moustache, he was undoubtedly similar. He even had the same prominent forehead.
‘I suppose it looks like him,’ she said.
‘Agreed, but I know what you’re going to say. It isn’t definitely him.’ Heck took the photos back and filed them. ‘I admit this one’s a long shot. At present I’m referring to him as “the Kid”. He’s a suspect, but until we find out who he is – and all enquiries at the uni drew a blank – there isn’t much more we can do on that.’
‘So what’s the other lead?’
Heck dug out three more photographs. ‘Do you remember in one of my previous reports when I mentioned a suspect called Shane Klim?’
Gemma
