14
“At first, I thought it was the child who was missing. But she’s too old.” The woman’s voice came from behind him.
He didn’t reply, just took in the full horror of the scene that lay before him. A small section of the maize had been cleared—an area that measured no more than about ten feet square. In the middle of it was a girl’s body, or what remained of it, since the birds had found her. Naked, she’d been brutally murdered, her throat obviously cut, the remains of her blood dried into a darkened crust on her skin. The hand he’d seen had been severed, left on the ground a few feet from her body.
She wasn’t much more than a child. Or maybe a teenager. She was tall, with thick, red hair, where it wasn’t covered in blood. He felt a sense of relief that he didn’t recognize her.
The stench of rotting flesh reached his nostrils, making him gag. It had been a long time since he’d been on a scene like this one, of carnage, decay, the rotting flesh a breeding ground for thousands of flies.
They’d need forensics in here. And a painstaking search through what was left of the maize, though thanks to the harvesters, any evidence had most likely been ground up and lost for good. Quickly, he took a few photographs. Then he went back to find the woman. Her face was pale as she watched him come into view.
“Do you know her?”
He shook his head. “Let’s go back to the others.”
* * *
“I’ve got their details,” Underwood told Jack. “I’ll just make a note of yours.” He glanced at the woman.
“I’m Charlotte Harrison.” She was very self-possessed, Jack couldn’t help noticing. Especially considering she’d just stumbled across a dead body.
Then Underwood said, “Charlotte Harrison? The same Charlotte Harrison who recognized the photo of Evie Sherman?”
The woman looked irritated. “That’s me.”
“I took the call.” He looked at her oddly.
“Small world,” she said blithely. “But I suppose there aren’t that many of you round this neck of the woods, are there? Do you think this has anything to do with Jen . . . Evie? I’m not sure which name you’re giving her.”
Underwood turned to Jack. “Evie Sherman is the woman who was attacked and found in a maize field. It happened while you were away.”
The case Abbie had started telling him about. As Underwood took her details, Jack looked around. “Who does this land belong to?” He was addressing one of the drivers.
“Jim Bellows. He owns about as far as you can see.” He pointed in a westerly direction. “Lives at Lower Farm . . .”
Jack paused. “How long had you been working in this field?”
“We started yesterday, around lunchtime.”
“And did you see anything strange?”
They both shook their heads. “Don’t think we saw anyone, did we? Not until she ran across the field,” one of them said. They looked at Charlotte.
Jack turned back to the girl. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary before you found the body?”
“No.” Charlotte shook her head. “I was walking. It was only the birds that made me think something wasn’t right. . . .”
Jack frowned. “That’s quite a conclusion to draw from a flock of birds circling.”
She stared at him. “After what’s been going on . . . do you really think so?”
She seemed touchy. “It’s just as well you did.” He didn’t want to antagonize anyone.
She thawed slightly. “It’s just that after Jen—Evie—was found in a maize field, and with her daughter missing, my imagination went into overdrive. Anyway, like you said, it’s just as well.”
He glanced at Underwood. “Have we got everything?”
Underwood nodded.
“That’s all for now,” Jack told them. “We need you to leave your farm machinery where it is for now. We’ll be in touch when we’re ready for you to move it.”
The men looked less than pleased. Charlotte stood there.
“That’s it?” she asked.
“For now.” Jack nodded. “Someone will contact you at some point to take a more detailed statement from you. Unless there’s anything else you can tell us?”
She shrugged. “Not really.” She turned and started walking away, leaving Jack staring after her. He was thinking of the girl on the cliff edge last night. The one in the silver coat. Could it have been Charlotte Harrison? There was something in the way she carried herself, the way she’d turned and walked off just now. But he wasn’t sure.
Leaving Underwood to secure the crime scene and wait for more officers to show up, Jack started walking back across the field, unable to shake the image of the dead girl. She must have been there for some time, judging from the state of her flesh, what the birds had done to her—and now the flies. It was obvious from the way the maize had been cleared that the killing had been planned. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure the body was never found.
Had anyone missed her? The first thing he’d do when he got back was check their database of missing persons. That girl—Charlotte—was a strange one. Intelligent, he guessed. And incredibly self-confident. It took some chutzpah to go into the maize alone to check out what the birds had been circling above, but then, it was unheard of for such a violent crime to happen in these parts, let alone two of them. It seemed like too much to be coincidence.
He walked faster, wanting to get back to the office and read the file Abbie had given him earlier. All kinds of bells were ringing in his head. But it was more than that, he realized with astonishment. It had been a long time since he’d had a case to get his teeth into, one that would challenge even his years of experience. He was fired up in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.
* * *
Sara was still behind the desk when he got back. “Do you know who the girl was?”
Jack shook his head. “Would you know if anyone’s been reported missing?”
“I don’t think so. . . .” Sara looked blank. “I’ll check our records.”
But Jack wasn’t hanging around. He could access anything but the most recent records online—and the girl had been missing awhile. There was no doubt about that. Not that all missing persons got reported. It was incredible what some people turned a blind eye to, just because it was easier.
As he sat down, he glanced at Abbie’s file. It would have to wait for now. He switched on his laptop, logged in to the station Web site, and looked for the missing persons list.
It was a long list. Some of the names had been there for years, which he always found desperately sad. There was always a story—invariably a tragic one—behind someone who decided to abandon their life and their family to just disappear. It was bad enough losing someone when you knew what had happened. He didn’t know how you coped with that—not knowing where a loved one was.
The majority of the list was taken up by adults or older teenagers—many of them mature enough to make their own decisions. The police had to respect that not everyone wanted to be found. But missing children were rare. They made the national press and television news programs. A missing child was every parent’s worst nightmare—or so you’d think.
An entry caught his eye. A twelve-year-old girl with red hair. He frowned. The girl whose body they’d found looked too tall to be just twelve. He read on. Her name was Tamsyn Morgan, and she was reported missing a week ago, not by her parents but by one of her teachers.
He read the notes. Apparently, Tamsyn had disappeared before, several times—for as long as two or three weeks at a time, usually in the summer, when she’d lived rough or camped out in farmers’ barns, according to local sources. She was quite well known for such disappearances. The mother didn’t care enough to stop her; she just let her run wild. But since the term started, Tamsyn hadn’t been to school. Apparently, it wasn’t her usual pattern; hence, the teacher had reported it to the police.
He studied the photo, taking in her bright eyes and the pale skin that often went with red hair. It was the hair that was her most distinguishing feature, and as far as he could tell, it was similar in color to that of the dead girl he’d seen earlier. She was described as tall, independent, and spirited. After getting out his phone, he found the photos he’d taken in the field, compared them with the one on file, then sat back. There wasn’t any question it was she.
* * *
He took Sara with him to break the news to Tamsyn’s parents, ignoring her idle chatter as they drove toward Wadebridge, turned onto one of the typically twisty narrow lanes with steep, stone-walled sides, then headed down a bumpy farm track toward a pair of shabby cottages.
All the time, thoughts of Josh filled his head. He knew what he was about to tell Tamsyn’s parents was the beginning of the most brutal transition anyone could go through. Life as you knew it ended in that moment you were told your child was dead.
After parking in a turnout outside the cottages, they got out of the car.
“We want number two,” he told Sara, who was already walking toward a wooden gate hanging off its hinges.
“This says number one,” she called back to him.
Jack turned to the other cottage. There was a dim light in one of the windows and a curl of smoke coming from the chimney. Shutting off how this was making him feel, he started walking toward the front door.
The woman who opened it had a lined face and small, hard eyes.
“Jack Bentley, Truro police. This is Constable Sara Evans. May we come in?”
“What’s she done this time?” the woman said abruptly, stepping aside to let them in.
“Is anyone else home?” Sara asked, walking through into the small front room. It looked unused. It was cold in there; the curl of smoke Jack had seen clearly came from another room.
“Just me. What’s going on?”
“It’s about Tamsyn, Mrs Morgan.” Jack paused. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
“For God’s sake, that child’s always in trouble.”
“When did you last see her?” Jack hadn’t planned to ask the question, but this woman was anything but a caring mother.
“Tamsyn?” The woman laughed. “Must be a fortnight ago. Why?”
Even Sara looked shocked. “And you don’t know where she’s been in that time?”
“Haven’t a clue, love. I gave up years ago. Tamsyn does what she wants.”
“Isn’t she a little young to run wild like that? How old is she? Twelve?”
“You police are all the same. You don’t know what it’s like having a child like that,” the woman sneered. “A law unto her bloody self, that one. More trouble than she’s worth.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry any longer, Mrs. Morgan.” Jack couldn’t help himself. “We found your daughter earlier today.” He paused. It was that moment. “I’m afraid she’s dead.”
* * *
“That was a bit brutal,” Sara said as they drove away.
“Yeah. I know.” But Jack was angry. No one had to have a child these days. He hated how reluctant parents like Tamsyn’s mother could be so uncaring about their children, when there were so many couples who were desperate for a child to lavish love on. But there were too many people like Tamsyn’s mother. Life didn’t make sense. If it did, Josh would still be alive.