Carmichael pulled slowly to the kerb outside a large grey warehouse guarded by a chain-link fence. Beside the gate was a large sign: KIDNEY RESEARCH – Please Give Generously.
As the crow flies, it was less than a mile and a half from the incident room in a rundown area on the south side of the Tyne. Carmichael didn’t think it would be long before the land, once a thriving industrial estate, was snapped up for redevelopment as much of Gateshead Quayside had already been. The adjacent building, demolished long ago, had only the footprint remaining; the ground it once stood on was over-run with weeds, with long tufts of brown grass poking through where the concrete had cracked. The only reminder of its existence was an old bench that lay abandoned on its side: wood rotting, planks missing, but a tiny brass plate still attached.
She got out of her car, craning her neck to read the inscription: DONATED BY ALUN ARMSTRONG.
‘A former worker,’ a voice behind her said.
Carmichael turned to see a stout man in his late fifties with wavy grey hair, gentle eyes and a ready smile.
‘Ken Carruthers . . .’ He held out his hand. ‘I hate to admit it, but I’ve been here longer than the bench. I’ve worked for the charity for twenty years, been warehouse supervisor for ten.’
‘DC Carmichael. Thanks for seeing me. Sorry to drag you out.’
‘No problem. Tell you the truth, I hate Christmas. Just don’t let on to the wife.’ Carruthers smiled. He made a meal of looking over his shoulder, where a woman was waiting in the car. ‘I have to warn you, mind, it’s a tall order. The words needle and haystack spring to mind.’
Carmichael forced a smile. It was not what she wanted to hear. A month had gone by since Monica Stephens had donated her coat to the charity. In all honesty, she didn’t hold out much hope of ever finding it.
‘You’re lucky in one way: we’re closed for two weeks over the Christmas period.’ Carruthers nodded towards the building. ‘You’d better come inside.’
They crossed a yard lined with recycling containers. As they walked, Carruthers explained how heavily the charity relied upon the local community to supply them with items for resale. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much people chuck away,’ he said, taking a remote-control device from his pocket and pushing a green button.
In front of them, a galvanized steel curtain began to move slowly upwards. As it passed eye level, a mountain of plastic bags came into view.
Carmichael’s face dropped. ‘Jesus!’
‘See what I mean?’
‘And there’s no way of knowing where each bag came from?’
The curtain came to a halt with a heavy thud.
‘Or how long they’ve been here, I’m afraid,’ Carruthers said. ‘You’ll have to search each and every one.’