Vanished

Chapter 23

Before Jack returned to the station, he took a detour to Portobello Road and the art gallery listed in Avril Jenkins’ red notebook next to the name of Jason Marks. There was a sign on the door saying VIEW BY APPOINTMENT ONLY but, after turning up at Hutchinson’s office unannounced and learning something integral to the case, Jack was in the mood to try the same tactic again. In his experience, surprising people often proved more fruitful than giving them notice of your arrival.

The small shopfront was not particularly impressive, and Jack noticed a business card wedged into the wooden frame of the door. JASON MARKS — ART VALUATION EXPERT. There was also a phone number which differed from the one crossed out in the red notebook. Above the gallery was a row of three windows which — because of the flowers on each of the sills — looked as if they belonged to a flat. The shutters were closed and, when Jack knocked on the shop door, there was no answer. It looked as if a second impromptu visit was not going to be as productive as his first.

At the station, Laura and Anik were liaising via Zoom about the Boogaard name. Anik had found a birth certificate dated 1987. The father of this newborn baby boy was identified as Andre Erik Boogaard and the mother as Avril Summers. At the time the certificate was issued, the baby had not been given a Christian name and so that section was blank. Anik had also found a death certificate for Andre, dated 1998. As yet, they had not been able to trace a marriage certificate between Andre and Avril.

Currently, Laura and Anik were exchanging notes on passports issued under the name of Boogaard, in the hope of fully identifying the baby boy. So far, they’d worked their way back to the 1990s, but with little success. Whilst searching for a passport being used by any male named Boogaard since 1987, Laura and Anik had repeatedly come across the name of Ingrid Boogaard. They’d tracked her birth certificate and found the father to be Andre Erik Boogaard. So, there was a sister, or half-sister in the mix too. Laura called the Royal Netherland Registry Department to find out as much as she could about Ingrid Boogaard. Within seconds, she was placed on hold listening to muzak.

When Jack walked into the squad room, he was confused to hear Anik shouting his name from somewhere. Then he saw the laptop screen sitting at the end of Laura’s desk.

‘Hey, Jack! What’s the deal with that painting? Do you know yet?’ Jack relayed his conversation with Hutchinson from that morning and explained there was a doubt about its authenticity. Anik reiterated Henrick Chi’s certainty that it was genuine. ‘And...’ Anik’s tone was cocky, almost mocking, ‘when it comes to authenticating paintings, I’ll take the word of a professional artist over a solicitor any day.’ Anik giggled at his own retort and glanced sideways at Laura in an invitation for her to join in. She didn’t.

Jack leant towards the screen, placing his hands on Laura’s desk, close to either side of the keyboard and spoke so that only Anik and Laura could hear him.

‘You know what, Anik, you’re right, I don’t know what I was thinking listening to Hutchinson’s opinion. You’re right, of course you are. Well done. In recent months, you’ve proved yourself to be a real...’ Jack tapped the touchpad and cut Anik off. As he headed back to his desk, he finished his sentence: ‘. . . tosser.’

The person on the other end of Laura’s phone finally returned and her conversation began again. ‘No, no, as I told the first two people I was put through to, I’m calling from the Metropolitan Police, London. I need to contact Miss Ingrid Boogaard.’ Laura covered the mouthpiece, and in a heavy whisper, she let off a little steam in Jack’s direction. ‘They’re annoying me now. And it sounds like the same woman just putting me on hold, then coming back again. She’s taking the piss... ah hello, yes. Oh brilliant. Thank you.’ Laura quickly snatched up a pen and paper. ‘And this is Ingrid Boogaard’s current address? Perfect. Yes, go ahead.’ Laura wrote down the address, which was a lengthy process as she had to ask for most of it to be spelled out. ‘And do you have a phone number for her as well?’ As Laura listened to the reply, the enthusiasm vanished from her face, and she screwed up the piece of paper she’d just written on. Her nostrils flared and she kept her lips pursed shut to keep her frustration in. She tried to sound as calm as possible: ‘Just a suggestion, but perhaps that should have been the first thing you told me?’ She then slammed the phone down. ‘She’s dead. Cancer. Last year.’ At that moment, Anik’s name popped up on her screen as he attempted to FaceTime again. Laura clicked accept.

‘We got cut off.’ Anik always got flustered by temperamental technology. He was very tech-savvy until something went wrong, and then he was useless. ‘Is Jack still there? I missed what he said.’ Jack stood just out of view, shaking his head. ‘He said I’ve proved myself to be a real... something. That’s where we got cut off.’

‘Asset.’ Laura spoke with a completely straight face. ‘He said you’re a right asset.’ Anik looked as if he didn’t quite believe her. ‘Listen, Anik, Ingrid Boogaard is a dead end. Literally. When are the Chis arriving with us?’

‘They were on the 2 p.m. flight, so they should be with you soon. I don’t need to stay out here any longer, do I?’ Laura said that she’d confirm with Ridley whether or not Anik could head home. ‘Cool. Thanks, Laura... oh, and tell Jack I think he’s a right “asset” too!’ Anik cut Laura off so that he had the joy of having the last word.

For the next hour, Jack and Laura discussed possible next courses of action. They now had the lists from Hutchinson, showing insurance companies involved with the Jenkinses through the years, an inventory of items insured, and the more recent inventory given to Hutchinson by Terence Jenkins. They also had the Leeds connection — although the boy in the school uniform from the photo had turned out to be Avril’s brother David and not Adam Border as they had originally suspected. However, that didn’t mean that Adam never went to school in Leeds. Laura said she’d approach the school again and ask if they had ever had any children called Boogaard.

As it got to lunchtime — Jack was more than ready to take a break from sitting at a desk staring at paperwork — a uniformed PC entered and announced that Mr and Mrs Chi had just walked into reception. Jack asked that they be taken into the soft interview room. ‘They’ve not long landed from Amsterdam. Please make sure they’re looked after — tea, sandwiches, whatever they want. On us, of course.’ Jack then turned his attention to Laura. ‘Foxy knows they’re coming today, right? Anik did tell him?’

Laura grabbed her coffee and headed out with Jack. She said that she’d stretch her legs by running over to the mortuary to tell Foxy that he was about to have visitors, and Jack should keep the Chis occupied until she texted him to say that Jessica was ready to be viewed. She’d then meet them there in case Mrs Chi needed a shoulder to cry on.

In the soft interview room, Henrick and Matilda Chi sat huddled together on one sofa. Her arm was linked through his and she held a cup of black coffee tightly in both hands. Henrick’s hands lay flat on his knees in an attempt to seem calm. He wasn’t. Neither of them had really accepted that their daughter was dead. They’d heard the words from Anik, and again in more recent days from Garritt, but their brains were simply not ready to process the information and accept it as being true. For now, they were on autopilot. Neither of them moved or said a word when Jack entered and introduced himself. In the time it took Jack to walk across the room and sit down on the sofa opposite, he’d noticed that, between them, they’d brought one artist’s folio case and one lady’s handbag. They looked at Jack like lost children waiting to be told what they were meant to be doing next.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Jack Warr. I’m one of the officers tasked to your daughter’s case. We have a short wait before we can go and see her, so...’

‘No questions.’ Henrick spoke quickly and then swallowed a short, sharp gulp of air. Jack thought he might be about to be sick. ‘We’re here to see our daughter. That’s it.’

Jack had seen this so many times before with bereaved family members. He knew that, as soon as they did see their daughter, the realisation that they’d been keeping at arm’s length for days would suddenly hit them and, from that moment on, they’d be gibbering wrecks and of little use to him at all. He had to question them before they saw their daughter.

‘I’m afraid we have a short wait regardless, Mr Chi. I won’t ask you anything if you don’t want me to. You can ask me any questions you like. Or not. You’re in charge of what we do today.’ Jack smiled in heartfelt solidarity. He took his mobile from his pocket and placed it face up on the seat next to him. Then he sat back and laced his fingers. ‘They’ll text me when it’s time.’

Jack knew that it would take Laura at least ten minutes to even get to Foxy. If he knew about the viewing, then Jack had about twenty minutes with the Chis; and if Foxy didn’t know, then Jack had anything up to an hour. Either way, he was banking on the silence eventually becoming too awkward for the Chis to bear.

Matilda appeared very calm although it could have simply been the shock of thinking she was so close to her dead daughter. She clung to Henrick as though her life depended on it and never took her eyes off the coffee. Jack thought she was unlikely to be the one to break the silence. Henrick, on the other hand, looked angry. ‘Are you treating her as a criminal?’ he asked.

‘Definitely not, sir.’ Jack spoke simply, using as few words as possible. ‘Your daughter is a victim. This case is about catching her killer. So that she has justice, and you have answers.’ In a few short sentences, Jack had aligned himself with the Chis and set himself up as the person who was going to give them the answers they yearned for. Jack now felt he could ask his own question. ‘Could you describe Adam Border to me please, Mr Chi?’

‘Do you think Adam was involved?’ Henrick said with a surprised expression.

‘My job is to trace the movements of each and every person who came into contact with Jessica in the last few months. This is how I rule people out as well as in. For now, I’m asking about Adam purely because we haven’t yet discovered his whereabouts.’

Henrick nodded. ‘Six feet tall. Slender. Shoulder-length blond hair, usually swept back into a ponytail. Striking blue eyes; they almost look like they’re painted. Adam’s polite and charming. He wears fashionable clothing and he always carries a small briefcase, which would look odd on someone less... cool. He’s a quiet man, at least he seemed quiet at the side of Jessica.’ Henrick couldn’t stop the small smile from creeping across his face. ‘She’s so vibrant. Enthusiastic.’

Jack ignored the fact that Henrick was talking about his dead daughter in the present tense. He knew that probably wouldn’t change until they actually saw her body.

‘I don’t know how old Adam is. Thirties? He’s comfortably off. I know this because of his old Amsterdam apartment and because of his choice of wine in restaurants. I like him.’ Jack asked what Henrick knew of Adam’s life before he and Jessica met. ‘Nothing much. He had no parents. He speaks Dutch, German and English like a native. And he has a love for and great knowledge of art.’ Henrick glanced up at Jack, instinctively knowing what the next question was going to be.

‘The Rossetti was a shock to me. I knew it was authentic because of the frame.’ As he continued, Henrick got out his mobile and began searching for something he wanted to share. ‘It was very old and the canvas was tacked onto the back of the wood frame. On the back of the picture, there were two unique stamps. A little worn, but legible. One related to an art exhibition and the other to a gallery. They served to help age the piece, just as the wooden frame did. I couldn’t price the Rossetti that Jessica showed me, but another — Pandora — went for over £10 million.’ Henrick handed his mobile to Jack. ‘Scroll left. They’re all authentic Rossettis. The one called Lady Lilith. I’ve held that. I know what authentic feels like.’

Jack returned Henrick’s mobile to him. He certainly sounded convincingly well informed about the art world. So much so, that Jack almost felt bad for hanging up on Anik earlier.

Mr Chi continued: ‘Rossetti was an exceptional creative artist. His poetry was as beautiful as his painting. He even buried a book of poetry with his deceased wife.’

Henrick touched his wife’s hand to let her know that he was still there and that everything was going to be OK. She remained motionless, apart from a small tremor in her hands. Jack asked Henrick if he believed his daughter thought the painting to be a copy, or did she know it was authentic.

‘Jessica wouldn’t have known. But Adam would. He and I spoke about art many times. Detective Warr, do you think Adam was not the man he purported to be?’

‘When I find him, Mr Chi, I’ll ask him.’

Henrick nodded. ‘Please, call us by our first names. You must understand, Jessica is a good girl. I told her to take the painting back and she said she would. I wish... I wish I was a rich man so that I could have helped her. We live modestly, being dependent on income from exhibitions. Many artists are in the same precarious position, of course, now more than ever because of the global pandemic.’ Henrick lowered his head and took a moment to control the tears that Jack could see building inside him. ‘Jessica even helped us with the rent in recent months.’ His voice faded to a whisper. ‘I should have realised something was wrong.’

‘Henrick, I need to ask, to your knowledge, did Jessica ever use drugs?’

Henrick was open about the fact that Jessica used to smoke cannabis and also that, many years ago, she had a heroin habit. But he knew that she had gone through rehab four years ago and had been clean since.

The screen on Jack’s mobile phone lit up and stopped the conversation dead in its tracks.

Jack led the way down into the car park at the back of the station, where a patrol car was waiting to take them to the chapel. It was perfectly walkable, being only two minutes along the same road, but bereaved families were always taken by car. Matilda hung onto Henrick’s arm and walked with tiny, careful steps — as though she was on a tightrope and might fall if she lost focus for a split second. Henrick kept pace with her, giving her all the time in the world. Jack thought they looked like a strong, loving couple who were about to be shattered into a thousand unmendable pieces. He wasn’t relishing getting to their destination.

The chapel was a white room with no windows, clinical in appearance, with one bed right in the centre. On the bed, Jessica lay beneath a crisp white sheet. Laura held the door open and waited for Matilda and Henrick to enter and take up position at their daughter’s side. She then left Jack to do the identification.

Jack asked if they were ready, and they nodded. All three of them took a deep breath — Jack had not seen Jessica since the greenhouse, so the image in his mind was of a badly charred corpse. He slowly pulled the sheet down from Jessica’s face and rested it on her shoulders. Foxy had perfectly wrapped her scalp in a manner reminiscent of a nun’s wimple, so that only her pretty young face was on show, concealing her burnt hair and skull. Jessica’s face was also expertly made up. Foxy’s team had worked a miracle, Jack thought gratefully. Jessica even looked warm, as though blood still flowed beneath her skin adding a glow to her cheeks and a depth to her features. Jack knew it was all an illusion, but as far as the Chis were concerned, their daughter looked like a sleeping angel.

Matilda gasped and the tears came quickly. Henrick remained steadfast whilst he fulfilled his duty to Jack. ‘Yes, Detective Warr, this is our daughter Jessica.’ And then he too crumpled. Matilda sobbed as she took Jessica’s face in her hands and kissed every visible inch of cold skin, repeating certain words over and over, sometimes in English, sometimes in Dutch: ‘I’m sorry. ‘I love you. Goodbye my darling.’ In contrast, Henrick looked at the ground, statue-like, and allowed the tears to effortlessly fall from him. He couldn’t look at Jessica and he certainly couldn’t touch her. After a few minutes, the pain got too much for Matilda. She walked out of the chapel and collapsed into a chair in the corridor, sobbing into a hanky and numbly accepting Laura’s comforting arm around her shoulder.

Henrick finally looked at this daughter.

‘I’d like to sketch her,’ he whispered. ‘To paint later. To... to bring her back to life. Paintings are about immortalising those you love. May I? Please.’

Jack completely understood Henrick’s need to turn this horrific moment into something else. Something beautiful that would be easier to revisit. He suggested that Henrick sit with Matilda, whilst he collected Henrick’s art folio for him.

‘Two days ago, I was a father. Now, I’m not.’ Henrick looked Jack dead in the eyes. ‘Are you a father?’ Jack nodded his reply. ‘I need to feel sad and mourn... and instead I feel anger and hatred. But the truth is, if the man who took my daughter was standing in front of me now, I’m not sure what I could do. I’d like to think I would tear out his heart with my bare hands... but I’m not a bold man, Detective Warr. Not like you. This...’ Henrick laid his hand on Jessica’s arm, gently at first, before instinct took over and told him to grip tightly onto her and never let go. He closed his fingers around her wrist and sobbed. ‘This is wrong. Please make it right. Not as a policeman. But as a father.’

Henrick then walked into the corridor, where Matilda stood to meet him. He cradled her head against his chest and rocked her in his arms.

Jack stared at Jessica’s wrist — Henrick’s finger marks were still visible as indented white lines where her lifeless skin had not bounced back into shape when he’d finally dared to let go. How he’d let go at all was beyond Jack.

Jack covered Jessica’s hand with the sheet to stop thoughts of vengeance-by-proxy filling his mind. He could not think like a father, as Henrick had asked. He had to think like a policeman. Although he didn’t know if he’d still be so logical when he finally faced the person behind the brutal murders of Avril Jenkins and Jessica Chi.