Twisted

Chapter 25

Reid received a phone call from DCI Jackson telling him that his murder team were based at Belgravia and Reid and his misper colleagues were to report there for a debrief and handover. Jackson thought it convenient as it was three miles from Fulham, where Amy was last seen, and under two from Marcus Fulford’s flat in Mayfair. Reid was not so impressed, as he lived miles away in Surrey and the journey would be horrendous during the rush hour. Jackson also told Reid that DC Barbara Burrows could be attached to the murder team as she had been the family liaison officer for the Fulfords. DS Lane and DC Wey were to complete the actions they had been allocated and then return to the Richmond misper unit.

By the time Reid arrived at Belgravia all the files and data he’d accumulated had been loaded on the murder squad computers. He had not yet had an opportunity to share any details about the journal, and knew it would have to be disclosed, but there had been no chance to do so in their opening encounter. Jackson introduced himself and gave him a few words of what seemed like a warning. ‘You’ve not been a detective very long, so you might not like the way I approach an investigation. I’ve got twenty-five years’ service, so my advice to you would be to watch, listen and learn, and don’t get under our feet, especially mine.’

Reid felt like he was being belittled, but wasn’t going to show it. ‘Pleasure to be on board, DCI Jackson.’

‘Yes, well, if we’d been given this case earlier we’d probably have cracked it by now; ten days have elapsed and we’re playing bloody catch-up.’

Jackson was a big raw-boned man with a bald head and small piercing eyes. He wore a suit that looked a size too large and a wide tie over a crumpled shirt with the collar sticking up at the corners. He also wore thick crepe-soled shoes that made him walk in a flat-footed way with his feet splayed out, but for such a big man he moved fast and due to his shoes very silently.

Reid and his misper team had a lengthy meeting with DCI Jackson and his fellow members of the murder squad went over everything to date. Already up on the walls were large LCD TV screens with aerial maps of the high-priority locations: Fulham, Mayfair and Richmond. Marker flags with dates and times signalled each alleged sighting of Amy and possible routes that she might have taken were also highlighted. Reid reflected that it was all very high-tech and impressive as Jackson began to list his team’s assignments for the following day. Smirking at Reid, he remarked that he had the assistance of forty uniform officers to redo the house-to-house at the priority locations, just in case they weren’t done properly in the first instance. He would personally interview both parents, and the Newman family. Standing with his legs spread apart, he clapped his hands.

‘You are all aware that there has been an investigation by the small Richmond misper unit into Amy Fulford’s whereabouts, with no strong lines of investigation or suspects emerging. For me it has to be one of these three or a mixture: runaway, abducted or murdered. We find Amy, dead or alive, and we find out what happened and why. Enough time has been wasted already and somebody out there saw or knows something and we are going to find that person.’

Reid remained sitting at the back of the incident room, listening as Jackson spoke with authority and confidence that he would solve the case. He proposed to check out any attempted abductions of tento eighteen-year-old females, London-wide to start with, over the last two years. He said to look at solved and unsolved rapes, and indecent assaults, and check on anyone with a record of sexual crimes living on or close to the Fulham Road, Mayfair or near the house in Richmond. It was difficult for Reid, as he knew his inexperienced team had done the best they could, but with the murder squad there was a totally different attitude. They were a much bigger unit and appeared tougher, and first and foremost they were focusing on the possibility of abduction. Reid was upset that Jackson hadn’t once praised his officers for their hard work, but what depressed him most was the ever-growing possibility they would never find Amy Fulford, dead or alive.

Jackson called Reid into his office, his small beady eyes boring into him as he came too close for comfort. ‘You got a feel for this father as maybe screwing his own daughter?’

‘I can’t be certain. I think there is considerable dysfunction, but we have been unable to break his alibi for the time Amy went missing.’

Jackson prodded him with a stubby finger. ‘Listen, Vic, you haven’t even viewed all the Stamford Bridge security CCTV or all the Mayfair ones.’

‘I only had a small team and there’s hours of the stuff-’

Jackson prodded him again. ‘If he slipped out during the game he’d stick out like a sore thumb, same if he got there late. If ’s he’s in a seat on CCTV and never seen leaving then so what, he may have popped home before going to the girlfriend Justine’s place. He could have found Amy getting her stuff together to run away, and, pop, he gave her a beating that killed her. He could have left her there dead, gone to Justine’s to create the alibi and disposed of Amy on the Sunday or early Monday morning.’

Reid nodded. Jackson was right and he was quick-thinking around the possible case scenarios; it was his arrogant attitude that galled Reid. He had even offered to be present when Jackson interviewed Marcus and Lena Fulford, but the DCI declined to have him along as he stressed he needed to make his own impression of the family.

Reid had been home for an hour and it was after ten when his phone rang. It was Marjory Jordan and she apologized for the lateness of her call, but she had taken her time reading Amy’s journal. She said it was very dark and contained some disturbing emotions, but she didn’t really feel she could assist him. A perplexed Reid asked why not and she explained that she was not qualified to give evidence about the contents in a court of law. Reid asked if she would give him an ‘off the record’ opinion, but she still declined, stating that she didn’t want to upset Lena Fulford, breach her trust or break any rules of confidentiality. Reid could see her issues were valid, though he suspected she was making excuses because she just didn’t want to get involved in the whole sordid mess. He asked if there was anyone she could recommend to give a professional opinion on the journal. She thought for a moment and then recalled a forensic psychiatrist she had heard speak at a conference earlier in the year – his name was Professor Elliott Cornwall. He seemed to know his stuff and had been giving psychiatric assessment evidence in court for years. Before she rang off she had managed to find Professor Cornwall’s practice address and phone number in Harley Street.

Wednesday, day eleven, and DCI Jackson set off with his DS, a younger man called David Styles. Nothing had quite prepared Jackson for the obvious wealth and luxury of the Fulfords’ home, and he had not anticipated that Lena herself would be so glamorous. He had seen her on the TV programme, but in the flesh she was stunning, and her skin glowed and her perfume was one he had never come across before. It was like fresh roses, and when she shook his hand it felt feather-light; she had an air of fragility, yet a strong sexuality. As they went to the sitting room she gestured to him to be seated and he chose to sit in the centre of the sofa that faced her. She was wearing a soft cashmere dress in ice blue, a set of pearls and her legs were very shapely. As she crossed them he could see the six-inch high heels in a dark navy.

‘Mrs Fulford, there is no easy way for me to explain my presence. I am now heading up a murder team that has been brought in to lead the investigation into your daughter’s disappearance.’

She licked her lips and glanced towards his DS, gesturing for him to also take a seat. He hesitated and then sat in a hard-back chair by a window.

‘My job is to go over every possible scenario and re-question and check every detail in case there has been anything overlooked by DI Reid and his team. That is not to say I am in any way demeaning his officers, but I will be approaching the investigation in a slightly different manner. Firstly I’d like to ask you about your impending divorce.’

Lena nodded, folded her hands in her lap and said she had no reason to think that her daughter was in anyway upset by the forthcoming divorce and that it was a very amicable arrangement.

‘That’s not true, is it, Mrs Fulford? It appears to be a very fraught separation, your daughter caught between her father and yourself. She may have seemed to be physically coping with the situation, but the reality is very different. Your daughter has been caught on CCTV camera by the vice squad attempting to sell her body, and her bedroom in the Mayfair flat was a hovel of dirty underwear, some of which belonged to prostitutes. There is a peephole giving access into the bedroom used by her father and pornographic videos and magazines hidden beneath her bed.’

He had expected some reaction – denial, even tears, but she remained impassive, staring at him.

‘So, Mrs Fulford, I am asking you, and now is the time to tell me the truth, I believe your daughter is a very disturbed young woman who is sexually permissive and-’

Lena stood up, interrupting him. ‘I have told you the truth; you are describing someone else, not Amy. Please don’t treat me as some brainless idiot. You have not for one moment considered what it means to me to be told a murder team are now running the investigation. You think she has been murdered, is that right? THAT IS RIGHT, ISN’T IT?’

‘In my job, Mrs Fulford, we deal in facts,’ Jackson said confidently. ‘It is not what I think, but the facts are your daughter has been missing for almost two weeks. We have had no sighting of her that gives us a clue as to where she could be, so I have to consider that she might have been abducted. If you have any doubts about any person who you think might have been involved then I need names. All I’m asking is that you give it up to me.’

She stood in front of him and her mouth formed into a thin tight line. ‘Give it up to you?’

She folded her arms. Jackson in all his years in the force had never come across a woman like her. The fragility had gone; she was like steel and her beautiful face looked ugly and vicious. It was the way her mouth turned down, as if she was gritting her teeth.

‘I have given DI Reid everything I possibly can, and I find your attitude unsympathetic and painfully brutal. If your intention is to force me to falsely implicate someone close to me in Amy’s disappearance then you are sorely mistaken in me. This really is most distressing.’

‘Time is of the essence, Mrs Fulford. All I am attempting to do is find answers, and I apologize if I upset you by giving you distressing details.’

‘You have implied that my daughter is a prostitute – just exactly how do you expect me to react? I do not believe a word of it. She is fifteen years old, for God’s sake.’

Jackson gave a shrug of his shoulders. ‘No matter how distasteful, I’m telling you the truth. Now let me ask you again: if you have any suspicions regarding close members of your family or associates whom I should question, please tell me. I assure you it will be treated with the utmost discretion and without prejudice.’

‘Are you implying my husband?’

‘I don’t know, you tell me.’

‘Have you read Amy’s journal?’

Lena mistook Jackson’s puzzled look as one of confirmation. ‘Detective Reid gave me his word that no one else would read it.’

Jackson was taken aback as he had no record of any journal in the files from DI Reid. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs Fulford.’ He glanced towards his DS, who shook his head.

‘It’s written by Amy, and if you are now taking over the investigation then you have my permission to read it, but I want it returned as soon as possible.’

The fragility returned and she was obviously having difficulty controlling her emotions when, to his astonishment, she began to sway and struggle to breathe, flapping her hands as she took gasps of breath. Quickly he went to her side and his DS rushed to help him guide her to sit down.

‘Bag, get me a paper bag,’ she spluttered and became even more incapable of catching her breath as he realized she was having a panic attack.

The DS ran to the kitchen and informed Agnes, who hurried in with a brown paper bag and handed it to Lena. She covered her mouth and nose with the open end and breathed in and out deeply.

Gradually the panic attack subsided and she sat back, leaning against the cushions on the sofa. She closed her eyes and Jackson decided it would be best to give Mrs Fulford some space.

Jackson went with his DS to speak with Harry Dunn. Agnes showed them where the garage was and, returning to assist Mrs Fulford, found her walking unsteadily in the hall. She was ashen-faced and shaking but no longer short of breath.

‘Let me help you upstairs to your bedroom.’ Agnes reached out to put an arm around Lena, but she recoiled and moved away.

‘Leave me alone, just leave me alone.’

Agnes watched her climbing slowly up the stairs; she could hear her crying and for the first time she actually felt compassion. She had been unable to hear the conversation as the doors to the sitting room had been closed. She wondered if the reason for Lena’s panic attack had been the possibility they had found a body or evidence that suggested Amy had been murdered. She quietly followed Lena upstairs, keeping her distance, as she wanted to make sure she made it safely to her bedroom. At a knock on the front door she turned back and opened it. DCI Jackson told her Harry was not in the garage or outside in the garden. She realized he must be in the kitchen and they found him having a coffee and Penguin biscuit.

Jackson asked Agnes to leave, but on closing the kitchen door she decided to listen. She could hear Harry explaining about the boxes they had taken and him being questioned about cleaning Mr Fulford’s car. She heard him say that Agnes had told him to valet-clean the Mini as it was in such a filthy state. ‘Little bastard’s putting me right in it,’ she thought.

Lena sat on the edge of her bed. She suspected Agnes had been trying to listen at the sitting-room door. She had read in Amy’s journal about her hatred of Agnes and had started to monitor her herself, noticing just how intrusive she was around the house. It had never really interested her before, but now it did, and she was becoming irritated by seemingly inconsequential things, like how everything had to be in a straight line and the fridge was full of plastic cartons of meals with handwritten sticky labels on them detailing the date and contents.

The phone rang, and it made Lena physically jump. She was about to answer when the red light came on and she knew Agnes had picked it up. After a moment her phone rang again.

‘Mrs Fulford, it’s your husband.’

She sat on the edge of the bed, peering at the lights on the phone, wanting to make sure Agnes put the receiver down, worried the woman would attempt to listen in on the call.

‘Lena? It’s me, Marcus,’ he said and still she waited for the phone light to go out.

‘Are you there?’

‘Give me one good reason why I should talk to you after what you did to me with Gail,’ Lena said in a distressed voice.

‘Because right now we need each other more than ever. Gail means nothing to me, she never did. She offered to get the bank documents and I stupidly agreed, and for that I am truly sorry.’

‘I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for being so underhand, Marcus.’

‘I accept that, but right now I need your help.’

‘Why, what’s happened?’

‘I’ve just had Simon’s lawyers on to me, he wants to sell Green Street and they have asked me to leave.’

She said nothing and he asked if she was listening, but she still said nothing.

‘Sweetheart, I have no place to stay, and I was wondering if I could come to yours; I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom. Lena, please?’

There was another pause before she agreed and started to tell him about the visit of DCI Jackson, but Marcus was unable to make much sense of what she was saying as she began to sob uncontrollably. He said he would be at the house as soon as he could get there and cut off the call.

Lena lay back sobbing, still holding the receiver, unable to deal with what Jackson had told her. Amy was her precious baby, her beautiful perfect little girl; the disgusting things Jackson had said were lies, all horrible lies, and she couldn’t understand why they had told her such hideous things.

Reid had gone straight to the lab first thing that morning with the journal. Once there he had two more copies made, one for Professor Elliott Cornwall and one for DCI Jackson. He had already phoned Cornwall, explained the circumstances of Amy’s disappearance and the existence of the journal. Cornwall said he could see Reid at ten a.m., but could only spare about half an hour as he had patients to attend to.

Reid took the original journal to the fingerprint section where he spoke with John Reardon, who was the forensic scientist in charge. He briefed him about the investigation and importance of the journal.

‘It would be better to get a document examiner to look at it first before we start treating it,’ Reardon said.

‘Why?’

Reardon looked surprised by Reid’s remark. ‘The different handwriting styles – the Questioned Documents section can look at them and compare them against known samples of Amy Fulford’s and tell what is or is not her writing.’

This was something Reid had not considered; in fact he’d never had the need to use a handwriting expert before. He felt somewhat embarrassed about his lack of forensic knowledge.

‘There’s some cards written by Amy in the envelope in the plastic evidence bag containing the journal.’

Reardon shook his head. ‘I can tell you now they’ll need a bit more than that.’

‘I’ve got some old diaries of hers back in my office so I’ll get them brought up.’

‘Leave the journal with me and I’ll take it down to the document expert. They need to do their magic first before we can do our light source examination and then some ninhydrin testing.’

‘What’s ninhydrin?’ Reid asked, wanting to improve his forensic knowledge.

‘A chemical used to reveal fingerprints on porous surfaces like books, magazines, banknotes and so on; it makes any fingerprints turn a high-contrast purple.’

‘Will the purple wear off?’ a concerned Reid asked.

‘No, though it may fade a bit, and the chemical is harmful, so once we’re finished with the treated document we recommend it’s destroyed.’

It wasn’t what Reid wanted to hear. ‘Maybe best leave the chemical stuff out. I don’t want to upset the family as technically the journal is their property.’

Reardon shrugged. ‘Well that’s up to you, but if you miss a fingerprint that could have helped to solve your case then don’t blame me.’

‘You’re right, finding Amy is the most important thing.’

‘Tell you what, let me do some non-destructive tests first and see what we come up with, then we can reassess the use of ninhydrin.’

En route to Cornwall’s, Reid decided that he would put off telling Lena Fulford about the Ninhydrin testing until after the damage was done, as it might not come to anything anyway. He contacted the murder squad office to speak to DCI Jackson about the journal but was told he’d gone to Lena Fulford’s house and didn’t want to be disturbed unless it was urgent. Reid said he was going to see a forensic psychiatrist in Harley Street and ended the call.

Professor Elliott Cornwall was waiting impatiently for Reid in the reception area and took Reid straight to his office, which was white and very clinical, with the inevitable couch, large pot plants and minimal furniture. Bookcases were filled with reference journals on psychiatry, psychology, profiling and similar topics; some of them looked very old.

Cornwall sat at his desk and gestured for Reid to take a seat opposite him. He was a short dapper man in his fifties with combed-back black and grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked immaculate in a blue three-piece pinstripe suit and carried himself with an air of authority. He was well spoken, polite and seemed genuinely interested in examining the journal and giving his professional medical opinion on the contents.

Reid handed the photocopies to Cornwall, who asked how quickly he needed a report. Without wishing to appear pushy, Reid said as soon as possible. Dr Cornwall flicked through the pages, quickly scanning them. He then turned the pages back and forth, back and forth, paying close attention to some; others he virtually ignored.

‘I agree with you, Inspector Reid, the handwriting in the journal is varied and remarkably different in some sections.’

‘So Amy let someone else write in her personal journal?’

Cornwall smiled. ‘You misunderstand me, officer. I believe Amy is suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder, or DID as we now call it in the profession. It used to be known as Multiple Personality Disorder, a severe condition in which two or more distinct identities are present in a person and they alternate in taking control of the mind and actions. We call the different identities “alters” and certain types of circumstances can cause a particular alter to emerge within the subject.’

‘So you’re saying the various handwriting styles in the journal are done by different “alters” inside Amy?’

‘Yes, and although I’ve obviously not as yet had an opportunity to study the journal thoroughly, I have identified at least three or four alters so far. When a different personality takes control of an individual’s behaviour and thoughts it’s called “switching” and this can take from seconds, to minutes, to days. The sudden change in handwriting midway through a page is indicative of the switching of Amy’s alters.’

‘Would an aggressive alter ever cause actual physical harm to someone?’

‘I have known it to happen, and given evidence in some extremely violent cases.’

‘So if Amy is alive she could be a danger to her family and friends?’

‘Most certainly, yes. If you find her, my advice would be to have her sectioned immediately under the Mental Health Act and have her assessed in a secure clinic,’ Cornwall said and looked at his watch.

Reid realized Cornwall was in a hurry as he had patients to see. There was so much more he wanted to ask, but he knew for now his questions would have to wait until Cornwall had time to do an in-depth study of the journal. He also knew he’d better get back to the station and so tucked his notebook and pen into his jacket.

‘I’m so glad I brought the journal to you, Professor Cornwall, and I can’t thank you enough for your help. It puts a whole new perspective on the investigation.’

‘You need to understand that often people with DID are depressed or even suicidal, and self-mutilation is common.’

‘What?’ Reid stopped in his tracks. ‘Someone else in Amy’s head will make her cut or attempt to kill herself?’

‘Yes, and Amy will not even be conscious of why or when it happened.’

‘This is really frightening stuff to take in, Professor, but what causes DID?’

‘Trauma and stress, but research has shown that predominantly it’s physical or sexual abuse in childhood and dissociation then becomes a form of defence mechanism. As time passes they begin to develop more and more different personalities.’

‘Do you think Amy may have run away and still be alive?’

‘If she has totally adopted the persona of an “alter” then most certainly yes,’ Cornwall said with assurance. ‘She, or rather one of her personalities, could have orchestrated the disappearance very carefully, even down to changing her appearance, dyeing her hair and living somewhere else as that person.’

‘I don’t think Amy’s had the journal very long and we’ve found nothing else, not even in her old diaries. These were kept when she was quite young and do not give any indication of what you described as “alters” or abusive writing.’

Cornwall looked at his watch again. ‘I’d like to see the original journal when your forensic people have finished with it. I’m really pressed for time, Inspector, but I will get back to you when I’ve made a more detailed study of what’s written in the journal.’

Reid stood up and thanked Cornwall for his time.

‘Tell me, Inspector Reid, why did you come to me?’

‘I met a psychologist called Marjory Jordan after discovering Amy’s mother is bipolar and she recommended you.’

‘She spoke to you about a patient?’

‘No, she was quite cagey actually. I don’t think she wants to get involved in giving expert opinion on the journal.’

‘If you’d like to leave me Ms Jordan’s phone number I will give her a call; it may well assist me.’

‘No problem, Professor, and thanks for all your help; it also gives me renewed faith that Amy may actually be alive and well.’

‘Physically, yes, Inspector,’ said Cornwall grimly, ‘but psychologically, I fear not.’

‘Once a thief always a thief,’ Jackson said to DS Styles as they left Lena Fulford’s house. ‘Dunn’s nervous and I don’t trust him. Get a search warrant for wherever he lives. Just look at his record – what on earth is she doing employing him?’

Styles reckoned that if Harry had stolen anything he’d be shrewd enough, as an ex-con, to get rid of it after almost two weeks of the police sniffing around. In fact DCI Jackson was seething, taking it out on Dunn because he was furious about this so-called journal that Reid had not mentioned to him either verbally or in any report.

Jackson rang the station to enquire if DI Reid was there, only to be told that he had phoned in earlier but had gone to an appointment with a forensic psychiatrist.

‘What the fuck’s that about, and who authorized it?’ he snapped.

‘Reid didn’t say and I assumed you authorized it, sir.’

Jackson cut off the call, saying that Reid would need a fucking ‘shrink’ after he was through with him. He then instructed Styles to drive to Green Street as he wanted to interview Marcus Fulford.

Marcus had started to pack two suitcases; he would return to get the rest of his belongings some time later. He had tried to call Simon but his phone was continually on answer phone. He was taken aback at how abruptly the lawyers had asked for him to quit the flat, and at first had presumed it was some mistake. However, when he spoke to them they made it clear that it was Mr Boatly’s decision and the flat would be cleared of furniture and put on the market. They also requested that he submit the rent arrears forthwith.

Halfway through packing, Marcus received a disturbing call from his solicitor Jacob Lyons’ secretary. She had asked for payment due and said that if he wished for Mr Lyons to continue to represent him then he should submit by cheque or electronic transfer the amount outstanding. She also said that Mr Lyons wished to know when they could put in the diary the next meeting to discuss the settlement, and that this would incur a separate payment.

Marcus had said that Mr Boatly was overseeing payment, but he was told that to the contrary they had now been instructed to request payment directly from him. Marcus was at a loss as to why Simon had changed his mind, as he had no funds whatsoever and it was impossible for him to cover the high costs requested by Lyons.

He had just finishing packing when the doorbell rang. Marcus walked out onto the landing to meet Jackson.

‘I am sorry, Detective, but this is really not a very convenient time.’

Jackson flipped open his ID with a flourish. ‘It’s convenient to me, sir,’ he announced bullishly. ‘I am with the murder squad and am now handling the investigation into your daughter’s disappearance.’

A shaken Marcus took a step back and asked if he was there because they had found her.

‘No news as yet,’ Jackson said and introduced DS Styles.

‘I was just packing, but come in.’

From the look on Jackson’s face he felt he had better quickly explain that he was going back to be with his wife. Jackson noticed Marcus appeared very agitated as he looked round the flat, pushing open Amy’s bedroom door, and then peering into Marcus’s bedroom with the packed cases on top of his bed.

‘Going permanently, are you?’

‘The owner of the flat wants to put it on the market.’

‘Really, and what would a place like this bring to Mr Boatly?’

Marcus shrugged and said probably in the region of three million plus, due to its location, and gestured for them to go into the sitting room. He then confronted Jackson.

‘My wife is very distressed and I feel she needs me to be with her. I presume you were the detectives that were at the house earlier, and upset Lena with some very disturbing allegations about my daughter. I think under the circumstances it would have been more diplomatic to speak me first, because you brought on her panic attack.’

Jackson sat on a wingback chair, his legs apart like a sumo wrestler. He explained his murder team were under pressure to get a result.

‘Mr Fulford, you have admitted to paying prostitutes and entertaining them here. Then there’s the discovery of a peephole and pornography in your daughter’s bedroom, as well as female underwear stained with your semen. We even have CCTV footage clearly showing your daughter attempting to pick up a man virtually on your doorstep. Let’s stop the bullshit and get to the truth, shall we?’

‘I have nothing to add to the many statements I have already given,’ Marcus said, hardly able to contain his anger.

‘I agree that you have given statements, but I don’t believe what you told DI Reid about your movements from the Saturday when your daughter disappeared to when she was reported missing.’

‘What in God’s name are you trying to accuse me of?’

‘I believe you did meet with your daughter, and that she was here in this flat to look for her watch. There was some kind of altercation between you – possibly she threatened to report you for sexually abusing her – and as a result you killed her. Let’s be honest, you had more than enough time to dispose of her body over the weekend.’

Marcus was across the room and dragging Jackson to his feet by the lapels of his raincoat. He was in such a fury his face was puce and his fist was clenched to punch Jackson, but Styles pulled him off before Marcus could swing at him.

‘You have quite a temper, Mr Fulford. Is that what happened – she made you angry enough to attack her and-?’

Marcus yet again attempted to get to Jackson and this time Jackson pushed him in the chest so hard he fell backwards, landing on his backside. He was panting with rage and gasping for breath.

‘That is a bloody disgusting lie, THAT IS A LIE!’

Jackson spread his arms in disbelief. ‘We only have your word for that. Now get up, sit down and behave yourself, or do you want me to get the cuffs out?’

Marcus deflated and sank into in an armchair, as defenceless as a child. It was wretched to see a man so distressed and shaking as the tears ran down his cheeks. Unable to control himself, he kept repeating that he would never harm his daughter.

Jackson’s mobile rang and he told Marcus to remain seated while he went into the corridor and closed the door so he could take the call. The search of Harry Dunn’s flat had brought a result. They had found Amy Fulford’s Cartier watch shoved into the back of a drawer. Dunn had claimed that he had found it when he was cleaning the Mini, and was going to hand it to the police but had forgotten to do so. Jackson said to arrest Harry and take him to the station for further questioning.

Once back in the sitting room, Jackson informed Marcus he was arresting him on suspicion of murder and cautioned him. He would be interviewed at the station. He then instructed Styles to handcuff Marcus.

‘You can’t do this, you can’t.’

A uniformed sergeant booked Marcus in at the station and read him his legal rights. He was very subdued and used his phone call not to call a solicitor but Lena. She was shaken but stayed calm as he said that they thought he had something to do with Amy’s disappearance, but deliberately didn’t mention he’d been arrested on suspicion of murder.

‘That bastard that came to the house to see you, he was at the flat and making false accusations; I lost my temper and he arrested me.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘No, I am in a terrible state. Please, Lena, hire someone to get me out of here. I’d packed suitcases to come to the house and my car is still at Green Street. I had a spare set of keys for the flat and car keys made for emergencies and gave them to Amy. She told me she put them in the back of the kitchen drawer at yours. Get Harry to go over there in a taxi and take the cases to the house in my car.’

Marcus’s time was up and he had to end the call. He had no idea if Lena was able to deal with the situation; he just hoped she wouldn’t get hysterical again.

Lena searched drawer after drawer in the kitchen, until she found the spare sets of keys to the Green Street flat and Marcus’s car. Agnes hovered, knowing exactly where they were, but Lena had snapped at her to mind her own business. It was in fact Agnes who had suggested they have a spare set in case of an emergency, and Marcus had agreed.

‘Is everything all right?’ Agnes asked as Lena, keys in hand, swept past her.

‘No it is not. Tell Harry I want him to drive me to Green Street.’

‘He’s not here, Mrs Fulford. He was with the detectives earlier and then he went home.’

‘Then bloody call him to get here straight away. I’ll be in my office.’

Lena decided to contact a lawyer she had used when she had a problem with a company that had refused payment for a massive delivery, claiming it was not satisfactory. He had been a tough operator and costly, but it had been worthwhile. She spoke briefly to him and explained that her husband had been arrested for being abusive to a detective and held at Fulham Broadway Station. He politely declined, as he was more a litigation lawyer, but suggested using one of his partners who was a criminal and legal solicitor with a very good reputation. She steeled herself to enquire how much he would charge for a retainer and asked him to go immediately to the station, as her husband was very anxious to have representation.

Lena had just finished when Agnes tapped on the office door and entered.

‘I just spoke to Harry’s wife and she told me he’s been arrested, something to do with stolen property, but the police didn’t say what it was.’

‘Stupid idiot. I thought he’d gone straight,’ Lena said, wondering if he was up to his old tricks. ‘I want you to order me a taxi as I have to go out.’

‘Yes, Mrs Fulford. Where do you need to go?’

‘That’s none of your business, Agnes.’

‘Sorry, Mrs Fulford. Would you like me to leave something out for your dinner? There’s some nice chicken in white-’

‘Not now please, Agnes, just go and call the cab.’

Tight-lipped, Agnes walked back to the kitchen. It was hard to believe that not long ago Lena had been comatose and exhausted after her panic attack. She was now all business-like and short-tempered.

Lena went into her bedroom, took out her camel coat, and went down to the kitchen to wait for the taxi. Once she was on her way she took out her mobile to call Harry Dunn’s wife. The woman tearfully insisted over and over that Harry had done nothing wrong, he had been on the straight and narrow for years and was not into any kind of criminal activity because he was so proud of his job driving for Lena.

‘Is it connected in any way to my daughter?’

‘All they said was he’d stolen something. I am so sorry for this as I know what you must be going through and Harry has been so worried.’

Lena ended the call abruptly – as if they really knew what she was going through, she thought to herself. She sat up straight, refusing to even think about why she had been so shocked by the repellent Detective Jackson’s wicked assertions about Amy. She clenched her hands, telling herself to not even think about what they had implied, forcing any emotion down inside her by tightening her stomach muscles. Marcus was in trouble, he’d asked her to sort it out, and becoming in control and being needed helped her deal with the constant pain of fear for Amy.