The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

THE GOLDEN HOUR by Bernie Crosthwaite

17 August, 20.05 hours

THE DOMESTIC is a real downer. Wife attacks husband with a cricket bat. Apparently it’s been going on for years. It started with punching him, then pulling his hair out in handfuls, then stubbing cigarettes on his bare back. While he’s telling us all this the guy is sitting on the floor, whimpering like a dog. That really gets to me.

“What a loser,” says PC Lowery on the way back to the station.

I don’t say anything, just take one hand off the wheel and release a strand of hair that’s got trapped in my plait. I glance out of the window. After a wet day it’s turned into a beautiful evening. The sun is streaking out from under the clouds like fingers. I feel sorry for the kids on their school holidays. It’s been a lousy summer.

The duty officer is talking on the phone as we come in. He puts a hand over the mouthpiece. “Helen – you can take this one. A misper. Caller’s name – Mrs Sally Hunter. Try and get some sense out of her.”

He hands me the phone. Brett Lowery pushes past me on his way to the canteen.

“Hello, Mrs Hunter? My name’s Sergeant Brandling. What seems to be the-”

“My little – girl – my little – girl…” There’s a catch in the woman’s voice like hiccups.

“Hold on, Mrs Hunter.” I signal for a notepad and pen. “Tell me exactly what’s worrying you.”

“She was playing outside – she’s – not there – I don’t know – I don’t know where-” The words are being pulled out of her forcibly. “She’s… disappeared.’ I can barely hear the last word. It’s whispered like it’s an obscenity.

“Is there anywhere she might have gone?”

“She knows not to leave the garden.”

“Did you check up and down the street?”

“She’s as good as gold.”

“Have you looked for her indoors, Mrs Hunter?” It’s surprising how many don’t, how quickly panic sets in. They’re on to the police before they’ve even searched the house.

“I called her. She always comes when I call.” Her voice is getting higher, close to hysteria.

Obsessive mother, rebellious child? Maybe. But my gut twists. I have a feeling about this one.

“Okay, Mrs Hunter. I need a few details. What’s your address?” All I get is a weird noise like a howl. “Try and keep calm, for your little girl’s sake.”

She takes a deep breath. “Thirty-seven Gunnerston Road.”

“And your daughter’s name?”

“Natalie.”

“How old is she?”

“Eight and a half.”

“Can you tell me what clothes she’s wearing?”

“A pink-and-white sundress and pink sandals.”

“And what does she look like?”

“She’s quite small for her age. Light-brown hair. Green eyes.” Her voice falls away as if realizing she’ll never see those green eyes again.

“Okay. I’ll get her description circulated straight away and I’ll be with you in about ten minutes. Please listen carefully, Mrs Hunter. As soon as you put the phone down I want you to have a good look round the house, and check the garden and any outbuildings or sheds. Will you do that, please?”

“But she isn’t-”

“The most likely thing is that Natalie’s hiding. Let’s hope you find her before we get there. That’ll be the best outcome for everyone.”

As soon as the call ends I give the duty officer my notes and he starts logging them into the system. “And can you check the database for known paedophiles in the Gunnerston Road area?”

I’m up the stairs two at a time. Brett’s in the canteen, just about to stuff a bacon sandwich down his neck.

“Forget that. You’re coming with me.”

I give Brett the few details I have as we clatter down the stairs. The duty officer looks up from his computer and shakes his head.

No leads then. Nothing to point us in the right direction. We’ll have to start from square one.

As we run towards our patrol car I check the time. Quarter-past eight. If we can find Natalie Hunter within the hour the odds are she’ll still be alive. As time passes the odds worsen. A day without a sighting and it’s fifty-fifty. After that we could be looking at a murder investigation. The next sixty minutes are crucial.

The golden hour starts now.

I’ve been waiting for an evening like this for a long time.

I had planned to take the Norton to the coast today. I got all my equipment ready last night. But when I woke up this morning it was wet and the rain was forecast to last for hours. It was almost certain there would be a sea fret, a “haar” as they call it in Scotland, and the thought of riding all that way in the rain to find nothing but thick white fog was unappealing and I abandoned the trip.

It’s been a frustrating day, spent staring out of the window and reading my monthly photography magazine. I read the many articles on digital techniques with deep misgivings. I’m not against the new technology. I recently invested in a very expensive digital camera and I’ve played around with images, but it feels like a form of cheating. Capturing my subject in all its natural perfection has always been the challenge for me.

With dinner eaten, the dishes washed up and put away and nothing on television but wall-to-wall rubbish, I’m lost for something to do. Since I retired from the college, if I can’t get out with my camera, time hangs heavy.

When I take the bin bag out I see that the sky is no longer a uniform grey pall. The clouds are beginning to break up and rays of sunshine, like the spokes of a fan, shoot out and touch the ground with gold. The correct name for them is crepuscular rays. Some people call them the fingers of God.

My camera bag is already packed. The motorbike has a sidecar, which Lynette never liked, but she isn’t here any more and that means there’s more room for bulkier equipment like the tripod. I’m ready to go within minutes. And all the time the sky is changing, the clouds dissolving and re-forming in unpredictable patterns.

I feel my excitement rise. Along with dawn, around sunset is one of the best times of day to take pictures. Among photographers there’s a particular term for it.

We call it the golden hour.

20.19 hours

Gunnerston Road is a steep street with houses built against the slope. The garden of number 37 is terraced to cope with the gradient – concrete beds filled with bushy heathers. There’s a steep winding flight of steps up to the front door. We’re both breathing hard by the time we get there.

The door is opened by a small plump woman around forty.

“Mrs Hunter? Sergeant Helen Brandling. And this is PC Lowery.” She doesn’t look us in the eye. She seems mesmerized by our uniforms. Then her gaze darts behind us, up and down the street.

“Can we come in?”

She steps back. A grandfather clock takes up a lot of space in the narrow hallway and we have to shuffle past it to close the door.

“Any sign of Natalie?”

“No. I’ve searched the house. I can’t find her anywhere.”

“I want you to call her friends. She may have gone off to play with someone without telling you.”

“She’d never do that.”

“It’s worth a try.” I look at Brett and nod. He starts to climb the stairs.

“Where’s he going? I told you – I’ve looked all over!”

“No harm in double-checking.”

I’ve known kids hide in the tiniest spaces – the drawer under the bed, behind the bath, the gap between the wardrobe and wall. Sometimes they’re not hiding at all – they’ve been hidden. What’s left of them.

“Is your husband at home?”

Her eyes flicker nervously, looking everywhere but at me. “No.”

“Working late?”

“He left us. About six months ago.”

“I’m sorry.” I wait no more than a heartbeat before I ask, “Have you got a recent photo of him?”

She leads me into a small cramped living room and points to the mantelpiece. “I keep it for Natalie’s sake.”

Florid complexion, receding hair, rimless glasses.

“Is he fond of Natalie? Does he miss her?”

“Of course.” She looks at me directly for the first time. “You think Gary might have…?”

“What’s his current address?”

She finds it for me. I write it down and ask her what car he drives and the registration. Then I point to the phone in the hall. “Try everyone you can think of – friends, relatives, neighbours, anyone Natalie might have gone off with. But don’t ring your husband, okay?”

I hurry down the hall to the kitchen, a gloomy sunless room with units made of dark wood. I open the back door. It’s warmer outside than in the cheerless kitchen. I phone HQ and give them Gary Hunter’s description, address and details of his car, a silver Honda Civic.

The back garden slopes upward to a high fence. It has a crowded neglected feel. A search in the thick shrubs reveals a rubber ball, the arm of a doll and a pink scrunchie, muddy and sodden as if it’s been there a long time.

The door of the rickety shed gapes open. There are empty plant pots, old bikes, a rusty pushchair. I shift the heavy bags of compost. An enormous spider runs out and scuttles across the wooden floor. There are no locked cupboards or old fridges, no hidden trapdoors.

I walk through the kitchen as Brett comes down the stairs. Mrs Hunter puts the phone down. We stare at each other blankly. Natalie’s mother is the first to look away.

“PC Lowery and I are going to start knocking on doors up and down the street.”

The grandfather clock strikes the half-hour. Fifteen minutes into the enquiry already and we have nothing.

“Don’t give up, Mrs Hunter. Somebody must have seen her.”

They call it a lake but in reality it’s a flooded gravel pit. It has a slightly bleak artificial look about it – too symmetrical perhaps and the steep sides are banks of pebbles rather than vegetation. But it has a certain wild appeal and over the years it’s become a beauty spot, a bird sanctuary, even the sailing club uses it.

I drive along the rough path beside the water. Motor vehicles are not strictly allowed but I’m in a hurry and take the chance that at this hour the place will be deserted. The rain-washed sky is filled with furiously active cloud formations which I long to capture, not to mention the shot I’ve come here for – the water gleaming like satin and boiling clouds backlit by the setting sun.

I don’t see anyone, but just in case, I park the bike off the track in a copse of trees. I can’t wait to get started. I’m not a professional photographer. I’m not interested in profit. The paps are always looking for the “money shot” – a drunken politician or a celebrity half-naked on a beach. It doesn’t seem to matter how blurred or badly composed the picture is, they can still make a small fortune from it. But that’s not my way. I only want perfection. With me it’s a labour of love.

20.37 hours

I’m doing the evens, Brett Lowery the odds. Climbing up and down the steep steps to each house is exhausting and time-consuming. This is only the third house I’ve tried. Number 24.

Male, twenties, wearing a loose tee-shirt and baggy shorts. His legs are deeply tanned and muscular, tattoos on each arm, shaven head. He smells clean and soapy as if he’s just had a shower. There’s a dog too, an Alsatian. The man hangs on to its collar even though it looks old and tired. A retired police dog perhaps. I don’t ask. There isn’t time.

While I introduce myself and get his name he looks shifty. “What’s this about?”

“A missing person enquiry. Just a routine house-to-house, Mr Corby. Nothing to worry about.”

He relaxes slightly and I ask him if he’s seen anything unusual in the neighbourhood today.

“What time?”

“This evening, around seven or eight o’clock?”

“I went to the off-licence at half-seven.” A yeasty gust of beer from his belly confirms this.

“Did you see any children playing?”

“Yeah, suppose. But I couldn’t tell you which ones. I don’t take any notice of kids.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mr Corby.” I flip my notebook shut.

“Hold on.” He scratches his neck with his free hand. “There was a car driving dead slow. Old guy on a motorbike nearly went into the back of it. I saw it on the way to the offy and again on the way home. It was going the other way then, like it was lost or something, looking for a house number. They’re hard to see ’cos of the steps-”

“A silver Honda?” I shouldn’t have said that, put words in his mouth.

“No. It was red. A Vauxhall. It was making a chugging noise, like there was a hole in the exhaust or something. Maybe that’s why I clocked it.”

“Any chance you noticed the car registration?”

“Nah.” Mr Corby lets go of the dog and it flops down with exhaustion, its tongue lolling sideways. “Apart from the letters.”

I open my notebook. “What were they?”

“E-T-C. Etcetera. Geddit? That tickled me, don’t know why.” His grin reveals even white teeth, apart from one missing canine, lower right.

“How many people were in the car?”

“Just the bloke driving.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Just a bloke, nothing special about him as far as I can remember.”

“Okay, Mr Corby.”

He comes down the top few steps to see me off the premises. That’s when he notices the police car, parked outside the Hunters’ house.

“It’s not little Natalie, is it? Has she gone missing? Has some bastard taken her?”

I fetch the tripod from the sidecar and begin to set it up. The sky is dissolving from blue-gold to mauve. As I hastily release the telescopic legs of the tripod I catch the skin of my finger and reel back with the intensity of the pain, only eased by sucking on the wound. The skin is inflamed but not ruptured, which is a great relief. I once ruined a shot of snowy mountains with a bloody fingerprint on the lens.

I attach the camera to the tripod. I’ve decided on my new digital model, a Canon that is capable of shooting eight frames a second and has an inbuilt spirit level to make sure the horizon is straight. Then I begin to compose the shot. I fiddle with the equipment until I have the exact angle I want. A sudden ray of bright sun from behind a cloud causes a burst of flare, which is normally regarded as a fault. But it can create unexpectedly interesting effects so I take the shot anyway.

The sky is tinged with pink now. It’s becoming more dramatic every second. I take a few more shots but I’m simply flexing my muscles for the big one, the image that will combine the elements of sky, cloud, water and the blood-red light of the final moments of sunset. I suppose it’s a bit like capturing the last breath of someone dying.

20.41 hours

My phone rings as I reach the bottom of the steps of number 24. They’ve traced Natalie’s father. He’s been fifty miles away all day on business. No sign of a little girl in his rented flat or in his car.

“Shit.”

Brett Lowery runs across the road towards me.

“Have they found her?”

“No such luck.”

He swivels away from me, a grim look on his face.

“Anything from the door-to-door?”

“Nothing. You?”

“Not much. A cruising car, half a registration.”

“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

“Why not? We’ve got bugger all else.”

Redness is staining the sky, most intense near the horizon, then becoming paler, like ink in water. My finger rests lightly on the shutter.

Then I hear something, a faint rattling noise that disturbs the tranquillity of the lake. It sounds like a car whose engine isn’t tuned properly. It’s getting louder. I look up from the viewfinder. After a few seconds I see it, a red car bumping along the same track I used earlier. I shrink back into the gloom of the trees. The car drives past but to my horror it stops a little way along the track, just where I have angled the camera towards the lake to capture the finest view.

I’m almost ready to shoot and there is a bright red car slap bang in the middle of my carefully composed shot.

20.49 hours

We carry on knocking on doors, all the while on tenterhooks, waiting for information on the Vauxhall. An old man keeps me talking. He doesn’t know anything, He’s just glad of the excitement. A couple of others resent being taken away from the footie on telly and can’t wait to shut the door in my face. No one except Mr Corby saw a red car cruising up and down the street around half-past seven.

My phone rings.

“I’ve got a trace on a red Vauxhall Astra, G92 ETC, probably stolen as the car is registered to a spinster lady of seventy-five.”

“Last seen when?”

“CCTV on Victoria Road at… 20.10. Again at the Mill Lane roundabout at 20.14.”

“Could you see which exit he took?”

“Going towards Steelbridge. We lose sight of him after that – he doesn’t appear on the retail-park camera a mile down the road.”

I wave frantically at Brett Lowery across the street and he comes running. We jump into the car at the same moment and I drive off with a screech of tyres.

“There’s a map on the backseat. Find the Mill Lane roundabout.”

Brett studies the map then jabs it with his finger. “Got it.”

“Take the Steelbridge exit. Now tell me what’s off that road before you get to the shopping mall.”

He traces the route. “There’s a big housing estate. He could be taking her to where he lives.”

My heart sinks. If he’s garaged the car then it’s going to be a needle and haystack job. “OK. We’ll come back to that possibility. What else?”

“Industrial park. Sixth Form College. Further on there’s a narrow lane down to a lake but it’s not much more than a track.”

“The gravel pit?”

“It says lake here.”

“Same thing.”

The roundabout is coming up. I swing on to it, taking the Steelbridge exit. I know the track to the lake. I used to go there years ago with my mates. Lager and ciggies and skimming stones on the still flat water.

“What do you think?” asks Brett.

I’m not thinking, not really. I’m relying on instinct, experience, gut feeling. All I know is that time is running out and I’ve got to make a choice.

It’s still there, a bright red blot on the landscape. And all the time the sky is changing, deepening like a developing print, rushing towards the perfect moment.

I’m tempted to go and remonstrate with the driver, but what if he turns nasty? No doubt he’s come here to see the sunset too, but I just wish he would move fifty metres along. There’s movement inside the car. Are there two of them? For God’s sake. If they’re lovers they could be here for ages. And once they start snogging they’ll miss the sunset anyway. I stand there helplessly, watching my hopes die.

But the shadow puppets inside the car shift. The door opens, a man wearing a grey tracksuit gets out. He’s pulling something. No. Someone. A little girl in a pink-and-white dress.

Father and daughter then. What are they doing here? The child is dragging her footsteps. It’s way past her bedtime. Surely they aren’t going for a walk at this time of night, leaving their car stuck in the middle of my shot?

They enter the wood just a few metres away. Now is the moment to confront him and calmly state my case, but he’s striding along with a glazed expression that unnerves me and I draw back, crouching down into the undergrowth. Perhaps the little girl just needs a pee in which case they won’t be long. Maybe I can salvage something from this disaster after all.

From my hiding place I watch them approach. The man looks tense, even angry. The child is being pulled along unwillingly. Why is she resisting if she needs to go to the toilet? She seems tired and scared. There’s something wrong here but I’m not sure what it is. Saliva rushes into my mouth. I swallow. I have an odd feeling that I should do something, but what?

They pass by so close I can hear his laboured breathing and her moans of distress. They disappear into the wood behind me.

The sky is beautiful – scudding pewter clouds against scarlet, deepening every second. That’s my business, that’s what I’m here for. The man, the little girl – they have nothing to do with me. I just wish they would go away.

21.04 hours

The track around the lake is rough and bumpy, not meant for motor vehicles. The exhaust bangs on a stray rock.

“Over there.” Brett points across the lake to where a red car is parked next to a clump of trees.

“Get on the Airwave and call for back-up,” I tell him. “And ask them to put the helicopter on standby.”

We rise inches into the air as I take a curve too sharply. Brett gives me a look but I don’t care if I trash the car. I don’t care if the driver of the red car hears us coming. I know the track becomes impassable beyond those trees except on foot so he can’t escape in that direction. If he drives towards us we’ll throw a stinger in his path and wreck his tyres. Personally I would happily crash into him and bring him to a halt that way. But it’s not an option. Natalie might be in the car. She’s what matters. She’s all that matters.

Even before I’ve come to a standstill Brett is out of the car and running. He yanks open the doors of the Astra then the boot.

“Empty!” he shouts.

I stand between the two cars and scan the scene. The track is deserted up ahead. The water is silky-smooth, unruffled. I turn towards the trees. Something glints in the light from the bright red sunset. Metal? Glass? There’s movement. A man. Grey hair, beard, leather jacket. He looks startled, steps back and disappears.

Brett’s seen him too. He rushes ahead of me into the bushes.

“Get him!” I scream. “Get the bastard!”

I can’t believe it when I hear the second car, coming fast along the track as if this is Silverstone or something. Joy riders, no doubt. I expect to hear loud music coming from the car’s speakers, but as I stand up I see with a shock the jazzy blue and yellow flashes. Police.

A young man in uniform leaps out and checks the red car. A female officer joins him. The car is empty. I could have told them that. They look round in desperation.

Sky and water have almost reached the moment of perfection I have been waiting for so patiently. If they find what they’re looking for and go away, I might yet capture a truly glorious shot.

I take a few steps forward. When they see me, both of them have the same look of disgust and hatred in their eyes. The man hurtles towards me. Some deep blind instinct tells me to turn and run.

I can hear him close behind me, crashing through the bushes. He grabs me round the waist and knocks me to the ground. I feel my right shoulder bone crunch. I lie there winded and shocked.

“Where is she?” he yells. “What have you done with her?”

Now the woman is towering over me, her face tight.

“Tell us where she is.”

“Who?” My voice is shaking. It sounds weak and pitiful but all my strength has drained out of me.

“The little girl. Natalie. What have you done with her?”

I raise my left hand – the right one seems to have lost all connection to my body – and point to the trees. “In there. Both of them.”

They glance at each other.

“Both?” asks the woman. “You mean… there are two girls?”

“No. A child and a man.”

The male officer sets off but she calls him back.

“You stay with him. I’ll go.”

21.07 hours

The bit of daylight that’s left barely penetrates in here. I switch on my torch, pointing it down, and inch my way forward. I strain my ears, listening for human sounds beneath the rustle of leaves, the movement of small creatures, the soft breeze that cools the sweat on my back.

I go deeper and deeper into the wood, searching for a ribbon, a strand of light brown hair caught on a bush. Anything.

There’s a sudden commotion behind me. I swing round and bring the torch level. I see a man running through the undergrowth, arms flailing, heading back towards the lake.

“Brett! He’s coming your way!”

“We saw something shining,” says the policeman. He swipes at the tree branches.

I struggle up from where I’m squatting on a patch of damp moss.

“It’s my camera.”

“Show me.”

I lead him to where the Canon still sits on the tripod.

“Did you take pictures of them?”

“No, of course not. I specialize in landscapes.” I point to the lake and the spectacular sunset. “I was all set up and ready when that man, not to mention you and your colleague, came along and ruined my shot.”

“Ruined your shot?” His voice is full of contempt. “You saw a man take a little girl into the woods, and all you care about is taking snaps?”

“It’s none of my business.”

He bunches his fist and draws his arm back. But at the last moment he slaps his arm down by his side. He takes a running kick at the tripod. It keels over and smashes on to the ground.

“ Have you any idea how much that camera cost?”

From the look on his face he’s going to tell me what I can do with my precious camera. But in the distance we can hear the woman shouting. The man in the tracksuit bursts through the trees. The policeman barges him in the stomach. He collapses, grunting loudly. The officer kneels on him, takes handcuffs from his pocket and secures his wrists behind his back. The man utters an obscenity then lies quiet.

21.13 hours

“Natalie?”

She’s lying very still under a tree. Her dress is muddy and torn. She’s wearing one pink sandal. The other lies on the ground, exposing a smooth pale foot.

“Natalie,” I whisper. “It’s all right. It’s all right now.”

But my throat is thick. It’s not all right. It will never be all right.

I gently touch her leg. Still warm. Her arm, her cheek.

Her eyelids flutter.

“Natalie!” I don’t mean to shout but I can’t help it. She flinches. Her eyes shoot open with terror.

“I’m a police officer,” I say quietly. She puts her arms out to me and my heart buckles. I hold her tight.

The world has gone mad. The air is filled with the sound of sirens. Two more police cars arrive and the man in the tracksuit is bundled into the back of one of them.

The female officer emerges from the woods, carrying the little girl. The child clings to the woman, arms circling her neck, legs gripping her waist, the way a young chimp clings to its mother. The woman walks past me, without so much as a glance, but when she reaches her colleague I hear her tell him to get my details. She places the child in the back seat of her car and gets in the front.

The young man takes my name and address. “We’ll be in touch,” he says, and spits on the ground. Not a word of apology for the injuries I’ve suffered or the damage he’s done to my equipment.

There’s a lot of noise as the cars perform complicated turning manoeuvres on the narrow track. Then they roar off towards the main road.

Peace at last.

I tentatively swing my arm. There’s some pain, but it’s not, after all, a broken clavicle. I should be able to handle the bike. I pack up the camera and tripod. If the Canon is ruined it will be a great loss. But in some ways the greater loss is my failure to get the picture I crave. These opportunities don’t occur very often. I have other cameras but who knows when there will be another evening like this?

Now the clouds have lost all definition and interest. The lake is a dark pool, and in the sky there’s just a prosaic red glow. I watch, filled with regret, until the sun goes down.

Night falls.

The golden hour is over.