Chapter 12
‘My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,’ DC Trish Johnson heard the DCI announce loudly as he strode into the CID office followed by DI Peterson. ‘Anyone going out for a butty?’
There was a short silence before one of the uniformed PCs assigned to the case of the body in the wall, as they’d started to call it, put his hand up nervously. ‘I was just about to go on the sandwich run, sir. What would you like?’
After they’d given their order, the two men made for the DCI’s office and shut the door just as Trish’s phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and saw that it was her mother. Her mother didn’t usually ring her at work, so she answered, wondering if it was some family emergency.
‘Someone’s taken Bella.’ Her mother’s voice was raised and verging on hysteria.
Trish grasped the implication at once. The latest canine victim of the dognappers was the Waltons’ three-year-old cocker spaniel, whose impeccable lineage would be the envy of any royal family in Europe.
The dog’s official name was Queen Belinda the third of Tythrington, but she was better known to her devoted family as Bella.
The criminals usually targeted valuable pedigree animals, and this case was no exception.
‘Your dad’s just received a phone call demanding two thousand pounds for her safe return. They gave strict instructions that the police shouldn’t be contacted and Dad didn’t want to tell you, but I thought . . . I thought you’d know what to do.’
Trish breathed deeply, telling herself to keep calm. ‘When did you notice she was gone?’
‘Yesterday morning first thing when she went out to do her usual . . .’
‘And you’re only just telling me now?’ Trish was annoyed that her parents had kept it to themselves. On the other hand, she understood why. ‘Did you see anybody about?’
‘I think I heard an engine starting up in the lane outside but I thought nothing of it at the time. We looked everywhere for her, but there was no sign. Then we got the phone call. Honestly, since that warning we’ve been so careful. We’ve kept her on her lead during walks and—’
‘How did they get your number?’
‘It was on her collar, in case she ever got lost. They said no police or they’ll harm her. I’m sick with worry, Trish. I just want to pay the ransom and get Bella back. Dad agrees.’
Trish glanced towards the DCI’s office, where she could see Wesley in deep conversation with the boss. She knew she’d have to make a decision. Obey the dognappers’ demands or do things by the book.
‘Have you received instructions about delivering the money yet?’
‘No. We’ve been trying to get hold of the cash, but with banks closing all their branches these days it’s not that easy. Dad’s had to go to Neston.’
Trish hesitated before asking the next question. ‘Have you had any proof that Bella’s OK?’
‘Not yet.’ Her mother was on the verge of tears. ‘Whatever you do, please don’t tell Paul – or anyone at work. If whoever took her finds out the police are involved, I’m sure they won’t hesitate to do something terrible. We can’t take any risks – not with Bella.’
Trish heard her mother’s voice shaking. She was fond of the dog herself, and the thought of her in violent hands was unbearable.
‘Paul’s my husband. I should tell him.’
‘Please, no. We can’t risk Bella’s life. Promise you’ll keep this to yourself, at least until we’ve tried to get her back.’
‘Inspector Peterson would handle it discreetly, Mum.’
‘Absolutely not. We’ve got to do as they say.’
Trish knew this wasn’t the time to argue, so she agreed to say nothing – at least for the time being.
‘Let me know if you hear anything more,’ she said, feeling helpless as she ended the call. Her mother had sworn her to secrecy and she knew she had a point. If the dognappers found out that the police were involved, who knew how they’d react?
Wesley glanced out of Gerry’s office window and saw Trish sitting at her desk with her head in her hands.
‘What’s up with Trish? She looks worried.’
‘Maybe we should ask Paul if something’s wrong.’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you, Gerry,’ Wesley said quickly. ‘Probably best to keep out of other people’s marriages.’
‘You’re quite right, Wes. OK, let’s go over what we’ve got so far.’
Wesley settled into the chair on the visitor’s side of the desk, fearing it wouldn’t take long.
‘We’re trying to find out more about the bookseller, Ethelred Bingley,’ he began.
‘And the team have been contacting universities to try and discover where Donnal was carrying out his research, but no luck yet.
‘Mr Fontescue mentioned that Donnal was planning to go to France. Maybe we should try and find . . . the French Connection,’ Gerry said with a wide grin.
‘I agree. We should follow it up. So far Aleric Donnal is a bit of an enigma.’
‘Well, someone knew him and someone hated him enough to kill him and shove his body inside a wall. We need to find out exactly who had access to that house in May 2011 and whether any of them had building skills. Mind you, according to Chaz the builder, it wasn’t an expert job, so maybe it was an incompetent DIY enthusiast.’ Gerry let out a groan and rubbed his back.
‘Let’s call it a day. Get off home and have a think. ’
Wesley didn’t argue.
Sue Potter had just delivered the costumes for tomorrow’s festival as arranged.
Her tiny Fiat was far too small to fit them along with everything else she’d need to take in the morning, so she’d dropped them off at the home of one of her colleagues who owned a large SUV with more than enough room for the bulky garments. Another job ticked off.
She took her key out of her handbag and opened her front door.
It had been a busy day. Before making the delivery, she’d spent all afternoon in church changing the flowers, and now she was longing for a cup of tea.
While they’d been working, Mrs Hanley had talked non-stop about her precious grandchildren and Sue hadn’t been able to get a word in edgeways.
Being put on the rota with Mrs Hanley was something she dreaded, but she’d done her best to banish such uncharitable thoughts.
The woman’s family lived up north and she only saw them occasionally, so perhaps talking helped to make her feel closer to them.
That was what the Reverend Fitzgerald would say anyway.
Mark Fitzgerald was a nice man, a good man, and they were lucky to have him as their vicar, even though he was in charge of several other parishes in addition to Belsham.
Sue liked his wife, too. Maritia Fitzgerald’s parents were originally from the Caribbean and she was a doctor, a clever woman.
She had also been very kind to Sue when she’d lost Phil earlier that year.
Maritia and the vicar had a little boy, and according to the parish rumour machine she was expecting again.
If this was true, Sue was pleased for her.
She’d heard on the grapevine that Maritia’s brother was a detective inspector.
As a law-abiding citizen she’d never had any dealings with the police, but she had wondered whether to tell them about the note that had been pushed through her letter box, with its bizarre picture and strange words: The lanzani is a cruel beast who attacks any animal not of its own kind.
Not even the bold lion is safe from its implacable hatred.
Even though the letter had unnerved her, she knew the police had enough proper crime to deal with. Even rural areas were getting more like the Wild West by the minute.
She pushed the front door open and called out to her Siamese cat, Gertrude, who came running to greet her, rubbing against her legs in the hope of food.
Maybe she would mention the strange note to Maritia if she had the chance. What harm could it do?