She’d only seen the outside, but Sarah doubted Linda Walker would ever live in the place again. Fixing blackened brickwork and blistering paint was one thing, but the images inside a head were difficult to shift. That Walker would pull through now looked more likely. The smoke inhalation turned out not as severe as first thought; she’d been taken off the ventilator; burns had never been an issue. Only Sarah’s pants had been on fire. Like Mark Twain, reports of Walker’s death had been greatly exaggerated. Especially the ones in the press.
‘You here for the guided tour?’ Ben Cooper headed her way jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I’ve just been admiring the artwork round back.’
‘Picasso?’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Good to see you, Ben.’
‘More like Pollock.’ He returned her smile. ‘Or would’ve been if the handiwork hadn’t been interrupted. Follow me.’
Chatting, they fell in step towards the poor man’s Tate. Sarah got on well with Cooper. The FSI boss was good at the job and easy on the eye. They’d tried giving a relationship a whirl, but it hadn’t worked out. Professionally though she had lots of time for him, knew the feeling was mutual.
‘Wish I’d placed a bet now.’ Sarah nodded at a foot-high jagged red mark to the side of the boarded-up window. ‘In my book, that was definitely going to be a K.’
‘I won’t argue with you.’ Ben tapped the plywood. ‘Bedroom’s through there by the way.’
She shuddered. An unwanted image in her mind. ‘Anything?’
‘Half a house brick. Shards of glass. Nothing to write home about. The aerosol cans were clean, by the way.’
No prints. No DNA. No surprise there. He told her they’d tagged and bagged a load of stuff lying round outside, drinks cans, butt ends, bottles, matches, bits of wood. ‘But you can see for yourself. There’s no fence and it’s all a bit of a dumping ground.’
‘I won’t hold my breath then.’ She pulled her coat tighter as they headed back.
‘Do you want to take a look inside, Sarah? We’re just about done now.’
She shook her head. ‘Thanks, no.’ No need. She’d dropped by the estate to show her face to the troops, boost morale, pick up any whispers, decided to have a nose at the bungalow’s external damage while she was here. Pointing to the land at the side of the property she asked about the tyre marks on the grass.
‘The guy who raised the alarm? I think he must fancy himself as the next Jensen Button.’
She frowned. ‘Have you spoken to him?’ It was more than she had.
‘No.’ He grabbed a bottle of water from the Transit’s passenger seat. ‘The house over the road there? I got a blow-by-blow account from the owner.’
Mr Insomnia? ‘Thanks, Ben.’ She tapped her temple. ‘Later.’
Ray Castle could rabbit for Europe. By the time he’d talked her through it, Sarah felt she’d been there. For once, a person’s verbal diarrhoea didn’t bother her. Nor the fact the earlier door-to-door sweep had missed Walker’s elderly neighbour. He’d been out back, he said, wouldn’t have heard the knock. A touch deaf he might be, but there was nothing wrong with his eyesight. In more ways than one he’d had the vision to scribble down the number plate. While Castle banged on, Sarah had called it in to Dave who’d run it through the PNC.
For Jensen Button read Jake Portman. The name had rung an immediate bell. And a faint alarm. There could be an innocent explanation but what the hell was the caretaker at Caitlin Reynolds’ school doing driving past Linda Walker’s house at two o’clock in the morning?
The late brief – 18:00. A team of DCs and half a dozen uniforms were still on the estate, knocking on doors, stopping drivers, canvassing people in the street. Two youths had been brought in for questioning on the strength of Caroline King’s descriptions. Dozens more statements had been taken. Sarah had read every word and still had no answers. The Portman question had been going round in her head for hours; she’d just put it to the squad; it was their turn now.
‘He didn’t just drive past, boss,’ Harries said. ‘If the neighbour got the right end of the stick, Portman went out of his way to foil the attack.’
‘Drove straight at the buggers, didn’t he?’ Hunt propped up his patch of wall, pen tucked behind an ear. Twig for once sat at a computer.
Sarah nodded. She stood at the front, hand in jacket pocket. ‘So why didn’t Action Man stop? Or at least supply a name and address?’
Twig turned his mouth down. ‘Could’ve been pissed. You’d need bottle to do what he did.’
‘Skin full, presumably,’ Hunt said deadpan.
Twig rolled his eyes. ‘You know what I mean. It could explain why he didn’t hang around. If he’d had a drop, he’d not want the law on his neck.’
‘Christ, Twig, have you been to the pun shop?’ Hunt again.
‘Enough,’ Sarah said. ‘Besides, he’d be sober as the proverbial by now.’ So where was he? Portman hadn’t turned up for work. He wasn’t answering calls. There had been no sign of life at his Balsall Heath flat. Sarah had pushed a note and numbers through his door.
‘The background seemed to stack up, boss.’ Dave ran a pen down his notes. ‘Father dead. Small inheritance. Started at the school in January.’
‘Could be coincidence, ma’am,’ Hunt said.
‘Could be complete fabrication,’ she countered. The abductor would have had years to work on a story; a meticulous almost foolproof plan.
Dave sniffed. ‘Reckoned he was Jack-of-all-trades, didn’t he?’
Sarah narrowed her eyes. Jake-of-all-trades was what he’d actually said. For Jake Portman read Jack Bolton? Portman was about the right age and they’d still had no joy tracing him. Could he be hiding in full view, as it were? ‘What if Portman’s been keeping an eye on the place?’
Dave voiced what half a dozen looks said. ‘How does that work?’
‘Not sure.’ She was still working on it herself. ‘Let’s get a pic of Portman. Flash it round the estate. Start with Ray Castle.’ If Portman had been hanging round recently …
‘If Mr Neighbourhood Bigwig had the number plate, ma’am, how come he didn’t call it in?’ Twig asked.
‘He reckoned he only took it on the off-chance,’ Sarah said. ‘He caught the witness appeal on the news just as I turned up.’
‘Much bloody good that’s done us so far,’ Twig chuntered. He was one of the few who knew the release was a tissue of lies.
She thought about picking him up on it but ceded that – as far as the bigger picture went – he had a point. The abductor had yet to make a call, let alone a move. Logic dictated he’d make contact with Nicola Reynolds sooner or later. Beth and Holmes hadn’t let the woman out of their sight. Reynolds was at home sitting on the phone, tearing her hair out according to Beth. Sarah intended heading out there straight after the brief. It had to be the place to be and she certainly wouldn’t be knocking off any time soon.
‘I’ve been thinking, boss,’ Harries said.
‘Bad for the health that, lad.’ Twig winked at Hunt.
‘About the deadline.’
‘Even more fatal.’
‘Zip it, Twig,’ She heard him mutter something about Baker. Sooner the chief’s back, something like that. The older guys, Twig particularly, didn’t like having strips torn off them by a woman. The fact that Baker would have their bollocks off was neither here nor there. The chief would be a hard act to follow and right now only Sarah knew he’d likely be making an early exit. It was another pressure she could live without. ‘Go on, Dave.’
‘The abductor set twelve hours. Said he wanted an end to it. I kind of assumed that meant for Walker to die. Then he’d let Caitlin go. Surely, he has to know the woman’s dead by now? What if he’s changed the goal posts? Has a different end in mind?’
‘For Caitlin?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think he’s changed a blind thing, Dave.’
Sarah had never regarded the girl’s release as an option.