Private Investigations

Twelve

‘I can’t be one hundred per cent certain,’ Bob Skinner began, ‘not as in under oath, but there is a very good chance that Francey’s our man . . . sorry, your man.’

‘Thanks, gaffer,’ Sauce Haddock said, over the landline in the North Berwick police office. ‘We’ve just looked at video footage we had sent to us from the car park and we’re agreeing with that. We had a better look at him than you did, and we’re one hundred per cent certain.’

‘What did I tell you about calling me “gaffer”?’ Skinner chuckled. ‘Those days are over.’

‘You’ll always be the gaffer to us, sir. You’d better learn to live with it.’

Replacing the handset on its cradle he turned to Pye. ‘He . . .’ he began, stopping when he saw that the DCI was on his mobile, and looking grim faced.

‘Indeed,’ he heard him murmur. ‘Yes, I’ve got that. Call me back when you hear more from the hospital. Thanks.’ He ended the call.

‘That was Jackie,’ he said. ‘She’s in the mobile HQ at Fort Kinnaird. She thinks we’ve identified Zena.’

‘She thinks?’ the DS repeated.

‘Provisional, but it looks likely. Just after nine o’clock this morning a woman was found by a cyclist at the roadside just outside a village called Garvald, out beyond Haddington on the other side of the A1 from here. She was unconscious with obvious head injuries. The bloke called the three nines, and she was rushed to Accident and Emergency. We attended too; the assumption was that she was a hit-and-run victim . . .’

‘Fucking assumptions,’ Haddock growled.

‘I know, but that’s how it appeared to the cops who attended. It was only when the ambulance got to the hospital that the woman was identified, through a debit card she had in her purse. It took a while for the bank to come up with her details but eventually they did. Her name is Grete Regal, and the address they had for her was Shell Cottage, Garvald. The electoral roll has her living there with her partner; his name is David Gates. She went back to the bank and asked about him. All they could tell her is that he’s in the Royal Navy, ’cos that’s where his salary comes from.

‘The cottage isn’t in the village itself; it’s a few hundred yards along a country road. As soon as the victim had been identified and located, the traffic guys went back to Garvald, to her address. It was locked, but they’d taken some keys that were found on Grete.

‘It was obvious that a child lived there; the biggest clue of all was a sign on a door that read “Zena’s room”. By that time the two of them knew about our investigation, and that we were trying to identify a female child. They were smart enough to take photographs and sent them to Jackie, in the mobile command unit; this is one. It’s a framed poster above a child’s bed.’ He held up an image on his phone. ‘It’s an entry in a thing called The Urban Dictionary.’

‘“A Zena,”’ Haddock read, peering at the little screen, ‘“is a beautiful, funny, nice and caring person. Great in all aspects of life. Will kick ass if you mess with her friends! Usually very skinny and has brown eyes. Awesome tastes in music and literature. Zenas are always right.” Could the label on her jacket have been a nickname? Aw Jesus, and she was a skinny wee thing with brown eyes.’

‘Exactly,’ Pye exclaimed. ‘At that point, Jackie’s check had turned up no reports of missing children as such, but there were the usual absences, and she was thorough enough to note those for follow-up, if it was necessary. As soon as she saw that poster she went back to the note she had on Garvald Primary School. A five-year-old child, called Olivia Regal Gates, was marked absent this morning, without a notifying call from the parents.’

‘Is there a photo of her?’

‘Jackie called the head teacher. She has pics of all the kids; she’s going to scan Olivia’s and email it to her. But . . . she said that everyone at school calls her Zena. She was only asked for the names of absent children, and she gave them off the register, without thinking.’

‘Did Jackie ask if she has any siblings?’

‘Yes, and she doesn’t; she’s an only child.’

‘How about the mother?’ the DS asked. ‘How’s she doing?’

‘She’s still in surgery; she has a fractured skull and brain swelling. However . . . Jackie spoke to the doctor who saw her in Accident and Emergency. She asked whether there were any other injuries, anything to indicate that she was hit by a car. There were none. So forget the hit-and-run theory. I’m sending the scientists out to the scene to see what they can find.’

Haddock whistled. ‘This was well planned, Sammy.’

‘It was, mate. Dean Francey knew exactly what he was doing; he, or someone else, must have studied Grete’s routine, and worked out when she and her child would be alone and at their most vulnerable.’

‘Surely there’s no “or someone else” about it, boss. There must be another person involved. Dino doesn’t strike me as a planner. And what would he do with a five year old anyway? Ransom her? Nah.’

‘Sell her?’ Pye suggested, quietly.

‘To a paedo ring? No, surely not.’

‘Like you said earlier, Sauce, no fucking assumptions. We rule nothing out. For now, everything is focused on finding Dean Francey.’