The search team was headed by PC Gilbert Young, a thirty-something-year-old officer who had moved from Stoke a year or two ago. He was an earnest, honest guy with a shaven head to join his male pattern baldness, an embryonic beard and a crooked grin which made him appear permanently embarrassed, as though he wasn’t sure how the grin would be received. He greeted them, shaking his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘No sign of him.’ He scratched his head, looking around. ‘He can’t have gone far but he isn’t here, Inspector. I mean there’s not much in the way of grounds. There’s nowhere for him to hide.’
Joanna moved in closer. ‘Any sign of blood? Trauma? Injury? Broken branches? Footprints?’ She tried and failed to make a joke of it. ‘Or rather slipper prints?’
PC Young’s returning smile was almost sympathetic. ‘No.’
She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Keep looking.’ He nodded and turned around.
And they left.
When they were back in the car, manoeuvring out on to the road, Bridget spoke. ‘That was all a bit unsatisfactory, wasn’t it?’
‘On all scores,’ Joanna agreed.
Bridget was still looking concerned. ‘We should have found him in the grounds, trying to find his way back in. But he’s not there.’
‘Mmm.’
The PC turned towards her. ‘So what’s your plan, Jo?’
‘The usual. Spiral outwards.’ She kept her eye on the road and confided in Bridget. ‘My concern is that at some point we’ll find a body. Somewhere neglected, out of sight. If he’s died of exposure we’ll be held responsible. Not the home. But an old man like that? A trip, a fall, together with the cold. It wouldn’t take much. We’ll probably find him or his body somewhere nearby. So rather than spread to the wider area, we’ll concentrate around here, use that as the centre of the search area.’
‘And if he doesn’t turn up?’
‘He will.’ Joanna turned to look at her. ‘He’s somewhere, Bridget. Bu-ut if he doesn’t show, we’ll give it another twenty-four hours then spread the search area. I hope we do find him, alive.’ She smiled. ‘He sounds quite a character. And we’ll send someone round to Leonard Street just in case he’s taking a trip down memory lane.’
PC Jason ‘Bright’ Spark was detailed to check out the address in Leonard Street and was already on his way to number seventeen.
It was a terraced house on a narrow street, in amongst a tangle of such places on the southern aspect of Leek. An ex-mill-worker’s cottage, with a front door that opened straight out on to the pavement. It was currently inhabited by a Mrs Janet Baldwin.
Jason pulled up outside the front door. Even from here it was easy to see Mrs Baldwin cared for her home. Neat curtains draped back behind spanking new white UPVC windows, polished glass gleaming in the afternoon sunshine. The doorstep was swept and polished brick red, the door freshly painted in Racing Green gloss with a brass knocker in the shape of a horse’s head. Jason knocked, stood back respectfully, knocked again. No one’s ever in, he was thinking, just before the door was opened and a woman of around sixty smiled up at the tall cop. But as the uniform registered her smile faded and she looked concerned.
Jason held up his hand. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘No bad news.’ He risked a joke. ‘You’re not about to be arrested.’
The woman laughed at that. Clapped her hand to her heart, ‘Thank goodness for that,’ she said in mock relief. ‘I must have a guilty conscience, mustn’t I?’
His response was stolid. ‘Haven’t we all?’
She prompted him then. ‘Sooo if I’m not in trouble, why are you here?’
‘Sorry. Sorry. An old gentleman has …’ he rejected the word ‘absconded’, substituting the phrase, ‘… gone missing from an old people’s home.’ He had his lines ready. ‘He’s a bit confused – lives in the past, you know. He used to live at this address until a year and a half ago. We just wondered if he might have headed back here, somewhere familiar, you know?’
The woman nodded. ‘I heard it. It was on the news on Radio Stoke,’ she said. ‘Ninety something? And he’s missing? The old man who used to live here?’
‘Ninety-six,’ PC Spark confirmed. ‘And yes – apparently.’
Then it dawned on her. ‘Oh, Mr Foster. I hadn’t made the connection.’
Jason grinned.
‘Ninety-six,’ she mused. ‘I hadn’t realized he was as old as that.’
‘Yes. A good age.’ But not for running away from safety towards the unknown, the cold, possible danger.
Spark pursued his quest. ‘So have you seen him?’
Janet Baldwin shook her head. ‘No.’
‘You’ve not seen anyone answering to the description?’
‘Not a sign.’ Said a little more emphatically. ‘I have not seen an old man hanging around here.’ She was looking offended now. ‘If I had I would have rung the police.’
PC Spark felt he had to rescue the situation somehow. ‘Well,’ he said genially. ‘As you probably know, old people tend to live in the past so I just thought I’d check it out.’
It seemed to work. The smile was back and he finished jovially. ‘If you should see him you ring this number,’ and he handed her a card.
‘I will.’
She was about to shut the door on him.
‘Thank you,’ he managed, just before Mrs Baldwin did just that.
Joanna spent most of the day extending the search, assigning more officers to the task, a few sent into the town to home in on CCTV footage. Any moment now, she thought, their man would turn up. Or his body.
And she arranged to interview the staff who had worked Sunday night.
But as the day progressed and the weather worsened, realism kicked in. Any sighting of the missing man was increasingly likely to be of his body.
Sandie Golding rang at three, itemizing Zachary Foster’s missing clothing and confirmed that it consisted of:
One pair of striped pyjamas,
One pair of slippers (brown),
One navy overcoat wool mixture Marks & Spencer.
And that was it. He should be easy to spot in that outfit. No one could mistake him for a shopper. He was an obvious escapee from somewhere.
Then she rang Matthew and told him she wouldn’t be home until after eight.
He wasn’t too happy. ‘New case?’
‘I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.’
‘I hope you’re not doing too much, Jo.’
‘No. I have a lovely soft case which involves an elderly gentleman who’s absconded from a residential home. We’ll track him down soon and I’ll be home. In the meantime, I’m just interviewing the staff who were on duty last night.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Well, it sounds safe enough.’
She chuckled, picturing him in their new house, probably looking at colour schemes for the nursery. Don’t paint it blue.
Since they’d moved in they had spent almost every single evening looking at colour schemes and paint charts, shade cards and swatches of material. Luckily they had found themselves a lovely painter and decorator who was racing through the rooms and was married to a seamstress called Trixie who could knock up a pair of curtains in as much time as it took Vincent Scofield, her husband, to transform a room. Structurally Briarswood was sound, so no major refurbishment had been necessary apart from the four bathrooms. It was a large Victorian semi sprawled over three floors. Four if you counted the cellar. The ceilings were high and the rooms spacious – too spacious in Joanna’s opinion. It lacked the cosy intimacy of Waterfall Cottage and didn’t yet feel like home. The furniture they’d moved from Waterfall seemed to have shrunk – the rooms looking empty and under-furnished. As Matthew had spoken she could hear an echo, his voice bouncing off the walls.
She tried to reassure him. ‘I’ve spent at least half the day sitting at my computer. I don’t think I’m exactly working too hard.’
He slipped into being uxorious, something which had increased since she had been pregnant. As though she was extra vulnerable and needed protection. ‘Don’t make it too late, Jo. You need your rest, you know.’
She wasn’t sure whether to appreciate his concern or to be riled by it. Perhaps a little of both. She swallowed any resentment. ‘Duty calls, my darling.’
‘Hmm.’ He couldn’t resist tacking on his current mantra. ‘I wish you’d finished work.’
She laughed. ‘And do what, Matthew? Nothing? Come on. You know as well as I do. If I was home I’d be scuttling around the antiques shops searching for stuff. Compared to that, being at work is a doddle. And a safe one.’
‘I was hoping we could maybe have dinner out?’
‘Not tonight, Matt. Another night maybe?’
‘OK,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I’ll do myself some pasta then or something.’
‘Yeah. Great.’
Mollified now, Matthew chuckled, happy at the turn his life was taking: a family home, a child, even his parents near.
As she put the phone down she felt a wash of deceit, knowing she’d omitted to mention that having used her bike that morning – prior to having been handed this less than major case – she had planned to cycle home. If Matthew had known he would have insisted he come to fetch her. But as far as possible, she denied any restriction resulting from her pregnancy. Cycling being the chief one of these. It was a constant issue with her husband.
Back at the station there was plenty of CCTV footage for the PCs to work through but so far no sighting of an elderly gentleman, at least not their elderly gentleman.
The three night staff trooped in a little before seven: a night sister, Joan Arkwright, and the two health-care assistants. All three looked tired and worried. At a guess they had not had much sleep but had spent the day tossing, turning and considering their future and maybe concocting a story. It was possible they had already collaborated and worked out what they were going to say, checking that their stories matched. They were in uniform ready for their next shift. One in dark blue, at a guess the trained nurse, the other two in white overalls. Presumably they would be heading straight for work from here.
Joanna began by thanking them for coming and explaining that this (in spite of the surroundings) was an informal interview. ‘No crime has been committed so no one,’ she said, looking at each of them in turn, ‘is pointing a finger. This is simply a fact-finding exercise. You understand?’
They nodded.
‘So begin by introducing yourselves.’
The thin woman who looked as pale as a vampire spoke up. ‘I’m Joan Arkwright,’ she said. ‘I’m the night sister, in charge of Ryland’s through the night.’ She licked her lips. ‘I’ve worked there for the past eight years.’ Her voice rose. ‘This is the first time …’ Joanna held up her hand to silence her. She didn’t need the nurse’s résumé or protestation of innocence.
The two health-care assistants looked every bit as nervous as their senior. Susie Trent was a forty-something, plump, motherly sort, whose waist was lost in folds of central fat and whose bosoms looked heavy and very substantial. Amelia Boden, in contrast, was a skinny little thing who looked too young to be on night duty but presumably wasn’t.
Joanna’s effort at putting them at their ease had done little good. They all three continued to look uncomfortable, shooting anxious glances at one another; to her trained eye, they looked as guilty a set of collaborators as was possible, as though they had abducted Zachary Foster themselves.
She tried again. ‘I’m not here to pick holes or point the finger. That’s not up to me. I just want to find Mr Foster as soon as possible. And for that I need to ascertain facts. First of all, excluding the fire exits, take me through your locking-up procedure for the night. The night Mr Foster went missing, who was in charge of locking up?’
The vampire night sister spoke up. ‘I do that,’ she said, suddenly fearless.
‘So the front and back doors were both locked?’
‘Deadlocked.’
‘The keys?’
‘I keep a set on me all the time. The spare set is in a locked drawer in the office which is also locked. Mr Foster could not possibly have left through either of those doors.’
She seemed anxious to help, her tired eyes opened wide.
‘I’ve checked the fire doors,’ Joanna said. ‘I don’t think they’d been opened for a while. I don’t think he left through there.’ The night sister’s eyes were flickering. Joanna could read her mind. ‘And so,’ she said, ‘we come to the French windows that lead from the day room to the terrace and a path which goes round to the front drive.’
She looked at all three of them. ‘Whose job was it to lock and bolt that door last night?’
Joan Arkwright spoke up. ‘It’s my responsibility.’
‘So … last night? Take me through your actions, timings.’
‘We come on duty at eight thirty in the evening. There’s an overlap of about half an hour so we can have a handover.’ She looked at Joanna and enlarged. ‘The evening staff let us know if there are any issues regarding the patients.’
I’ll come back to that, Joanna thought, and let the night sister continue.
‘The evening staff leave at just before nine. I lock up behind them. Anyone wanting to re-enter Ryland’s after then would have to ring the front doorbell.’ She shook her head. ‘No one did last night.’
Joanna turned her gaze to the other two. ‘So did any of you exit through the French windows – for any reason?’ She placed the transparent evidence bag containing the cigarette butt on the table between them.
The silence hung in the air. No one seemed to breathe.
She rephrased the question. ‘Did any of you go outside during the night, maybe …’ she dropped her gaze to the evidence bag, ‘… for a cigarette?’
Silence accompanied by shifty eyes and a quick retort from Ms Trent. ‘We’re not supposed to.’
Joanna waited for the silence to flush someone out. And finally.
‘I might have done,’ Susie Trent admitted.
‘What time?’
‘Round about two o’clock.’
‘Were the French windows both locked and bolted?’
Her eyes flickered for a nanosecond towards the night sister then away. ‘Yes,’ she said finally.
People lie for all sorts of reasons; the same, motley collection as the motives for murder. Love, hatred, fear, greed, jealousy. And this lie? Formed out of loyalty. Susie Trent was not going to drop her colleague in it. But her colleague had picked up. She glanced at the HCA and looked away again but couldn’t resist adding, ‘I know I locked and bolted the day-room doors. I hung the key back on the hook, shot the bolts across and pushed the chair back against the wall.’
Susie Trent flicked another glance towards her and, wisely, moved on quickly to her version. ‘I did go out – for a cigarette – after the two o’clock round. I locked and bolted the doors again after me.’
‘When you came to the door,’ Joanna repeated, ‘was it locked and bolted?’
The nurse nodded.
‘And the chair? Where was that?’
But her two colleagues were looking at her accusingly, the younger one, Amelia, unconsciously angling her body away from her colleague.
And the HCA defended herself further, her face reddening. ‘The chair was against the wall.’
‘And when you came back in?’
‘I know I locked up properly. I’m really careful about that.’ She seemed close to tears. Then she looked up. ‘I know I locked the door,’ she said. ‘I followed the correct procedure.’
Joanna turned to the others. ‘Did either of you two go outside before two a.m.?’
Both shook their heads. Joan Arkwright was looking defiant, her eyes angry.
Joanna was silent for a moment, letting the statements all sink in. She glanced at Bridget, whose face was impassive and unemotional.
Joanna looked at each of the three nurses in turn. ‘You see my problem here, don’t you?’
All three of them nodded miserably, now avoiding each other’s gazes, focusing on her.
Joanna let the silence extend before moving on.
‘Who was on duty the evening of Sunday the twenty-first before you arrived?’
The answer came promptly, as if they had been waiting for an opportunity to shift the blame elsewhere. ‘Jubilee Watkins, Ned Sheringham and Shawna Wilson.’
‘Did you see them all leave?’
Joan Arkwright summoned up some dignity – and fight. ‘We don’t actually watch them go, Inspector.’
Joanna gave Bridget a swift glance. Touchy on that subject, wasn’t she? Or maybe she still felt she had to defend herself in front of her two colleagues.
Joanna turned her attention back to the hapless Susie Trent, who was beginning to look like a deflated balloon. ‘You smoke on the terrace?’
She nodded.
Joanna offered her an escape route. ‘Ms Trent. Is it possible you “forgot” to bolt the French windows after you, just thought you had?’
That drew a tight-lipped, firm response. ‘No. I remember climbing the chair to shoot the bolt. I remember,’ she insisted. ‘No. Besides …’ There was unmistakable hostility growing between the three members of staff. ‘The doors were properly locked and bolted and the chair pushed back this morning.’ She sat back and folded her arms.
Joanna kept her voice gentle for her next question directed at Susie Trent. ‘So how do you think Mr Foster managed to leave the home?’
‘I don’t know.’ She spread her hands, appealing to be believed. Reddened, work-roughened, hardworking hands. Honest hands?
She continued questioning Susie Trent. ‘You insist that when you let yourself out at around two o’clock to go for a smoke you had to shoot back both bolts, take the key from the hook and unlock it?’
Susie’s shoulders drooped. ‘Yes.’ Her eyes studied the floor.
Joanna pursued. ‘Where was the chair?’
‘Against the wall.’
Again Joanna offered her a way out. ‘And you insist you shot both bolts across and locked the door when you came back in after having your cigarette?’
Susie Trent gave a jerky nod.
Joanna nodded. ‘Susie,’ she said, ‘when you were outside, smoking, did you see anyone else there?’
She shook her head.
‘Where did you stand?’
‘Just outside the French doors.’ Which bore out the cigarette butt in the flowerpot.
Joanna gave her another chance. ‘Susie, I want you to think carefully. We are all capable of convincing ourselves that we committed an action we have made many, many times before. One action on one day blurs into the same action on another day. Or not. Sometimes we transplant our actions into what we are supposed to have done, or what we wished we had done, freeing ourselves from being forgetful.’
Her response was a tearful shake of the head.
‘Was anyone in the day room when you let yourself out?’
She shook her head.
‘Or when you came back in?’
Another shake of the head.
‘How long were you outside for?’
‘Three minutes. Something like that.’ She showed a touch of bravado accompanied by a watery smile. ‘I didn’t time myself.’
‘OK.’
Joanna moved on. ‘This morning, who opened the door?’
Joan Arkwright held her hand up to shoulder level. ‘I did.’
‘And the door was locked and bolted. And the chair?’
They looked at each other blankly and this time it was Amelia, the HCA who looked about fourteen, who answered, prompting them. ‘Against the wall, wasn’t it? Where it always is.’
‘Right.’
Inwardly Joanna sighed. The obvious and easiest assumption was that returning after her cigarette, Susie Trent might have locked the door, possibly even removing the key, but she had not shot the top bolt across. Thus leaving an exit point for Mr Foster on a quest.
But if the night sister was telling the truth and Mr Foster had made his escape earlier in the night, someone must have locked and bolted the door after he’d exited. Which meant, in turn, that he could have tried to re-enter Ryland’s via the same door that he had walked through, but had been locked out. By her side Bridget waited, watchful, eyes scanning the three women in turn.