No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 4
“Sorry, no news,” I say. “Can you remember the name of the band Marty played with?”
“He was a session musician. He played keyboards for lots of bands.”
“I only need the name of one band to pin him down on Google.”
“I have a CD somewhere.” She puts down the phone and I can hear her rummaging around in the background. “Got it,” she says and spells out the name. “NDevvor. The CD’s called Morse Decoded.”
“Can you take a photo of the sleeve and email it to me?”
“It’s a copy on a blank CD. Gemma gave it to me.”
“No worries.”
Once I type the details into Google, most of the hits focus on the two main musicians in the band. I haven’t heard of either, but then I’m a Barclay James Harvest fan, and few people have discovered them during the fifty years they’ve been around.
It takes me a few minutes to realise I should have brought my notebook to record the information I’ve uncovered. Marty Dean, known as MarD, has links to a few bands, management companies and record labels, many of which no longer exist. From the occasional reports in the music press, it looks like Marty had his good times in the late 60s and early 70s. He’s spent most of his time since at the bottom end of the food chain, playing small, local gigs. He has convictions for possessing drugs, drunken driving and assault. They add to the image of someone who tried to live the rock n roll dream.
How did his itinerant lifestyle and drug use affect Gemma?
When I first met her, she was a confident, sexually experienced eighteen year old with an imagination to match. Was this a legacy of touring with her father, where plenty of fans would want to sleep with her? She never mentioned him, or her mother – not that I was interested at the time. Gemma was self-contained, confident and worldly. While animated in bed, she kept her thoughts and feelings to herself until that final morning in the shower.
I look down at my little mate. “We need to find someone who knew her in London.”
Columbo paws my leg, aware I’m packing up to move on. Eager to chase and sniff some more, he pulls me along the river towards the weir and lock gate. Once over the narrow concrete footbridge that runs parallel to the main road, it’s not too far to the house.
Back inside and settled with a mug of tea, I turn to the laptop to continue my search. It’s soul-destroying, chasing leads only to end up with dead links. I’m thinking about setting up as a private detective, spurred on by Frances, who believes I’ll be bored, mooching round the animal sanctuary full time. If PIs spend their time staring at Google search results, I’m not sure I can handle the excitement.
Then, when I’m about to give up, I spot a scanned copy of a newspaper report.
Musician’s daughter disappears.
Police are concerned about the safety of Gemma Dean, 18, daughter of local musician and hell-raiser, Marty Dean, aka MarD. She disappeared after his death, which followed a long battle with HIV. A routine check revealed an empty flat, apart from some blood-stained items of clothing in one of the refuse bins.
Anyone with information about Miss Dean’s whereabouts should contact the police.
Eight
Despite some intensive searching, I can’t find any follow up reports. The scanning is so poor I can’t make out the date of the original feature. The name of the newspaper isn’t part of the scanned image, leaving me with nothing to chase up.
What happened to Gemma? Where did she go? Did the bloodstained clothes belong to her?
Do the police know? Would they release the information?
With a sigh and a gentle ruffle of Columbo’s fur, I return to Google. Then I check her Facebook page. The hollow feeling in my stomach returns when I look at the photographs of her, laughing, excited and so in love.
Or so I thought.
I can’t believe she’s gone. I feel like I’m standing to one side, watching it happen to someone else. I want to shout out, to tell him to stop faffing around on the internet and imagining the worst. But he can’t hear me. He’s lost in a world where fear and recrimination take no prisoners. He’s doing his best, operating on auto pilot, but it’s not enough.
I glance out of the window, aware the light’s fading fast. It’s the end of the day and no news from Gemma. Once again, I check my phone and hers, hoping for a missed call or message.
Where are you?
Why did you leave?
Why couldn’t you tell me what was troubling you?
A car pulls up outside the front window. Columbo lifts his head and gives a half-hearted growl. He knows it’s the man next door, returning home from work. It reminds me I need to hire a car.
Thanks to online booking, a Vauxhall Corsa will be delivered before ten tomorrow morning. I’ve no idea what terms and conditions I’ve agreed to, but I’ll be mobile. Now, all I have to do is decide where to base myself. I’m tempted to return to Jevington, to be with people I know and care about.
But dare I leave Stratford when Gemma could be only a few miles away?
In the morning I’ll contact the police.
My lack of appetite matches the lack of food in the refrigerator. We should be enjoying our last night in Stratford, dining in the Dirty Duck, where Columbo’s allowed in the main bar. Gemma enjoys looking at the signed photographs of actors and stars that have appeared at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre over the decades. While many familiar faces and legends line the walls, some of their names elude us, prompting games of ‘which programme was she in?’ As someone who prefers to watch DVDs of Morse, Miss Marple and older crime series, I never score well.
Neither do I want to play alone.
Once Columbo’s eaten, we head out for an evening walk along the river. There’s no shortage of people on the streets and in the gardens. Some groups, who look like they’ve picnicked all afternoon, show no signs of stopping, chatting and laughing as they sprawl about on the grass with their beer and wine. One or two have portable barbecues, raised off the ground I’m pleased to see. As we draw level with the pub, the customers spill out into the theatre gardens with their drinks.
Everyone seems happy, celebrating the end of another working week.
I never thought I’d spend the last night of my honeymoon without Gemma.
“I hope you’re all right,” I say, sending positive thoughts into the ether.
Then my phone rings. I almost drop Columbo’s lead as I wrench my phone from my pocket. It’s my father. The disappointment makes me slow to respond.
“Any news?” he asks again.
“Nothing. I haven’t heard from her.”
“It’s early days, son.” He sounds upbeat, but I can hear the strain in his voice. “Gina’s been working miracles with the local police. As there’s no evidence that Gemma’s been abducted or in danger, they can’t do a great deal at the moment. You need to contact your local police and report her missing. Give them as much information as you can. They can check hospitals and run your car registration number through the automatic recognition system to get an idea where she may have gone.”
Columbo strains on the lead, determined to disappear under some bushes. I brace myself and haul him back, but he’s a determined little whatnot.
“Are you still there, Kent?”
“Sorry, Columbo’s trying to drag me through some bushes.”
“How are you feeling? Stupid question,” he says quickly. “I know how I’d feel if Gina went missing. I’ve got people looking into this Eddie character and Halliday-Jones, but nothing so far. We’ll keep on it though. If either of them have anything to do with the local area, we’ll find them. Have you come up with anything?”
I drag Columbo away and continue walking while I tell my father about the newspaper report. “I need help to find out where they lived, where Gemma went to school. It looks like she went on the road with her father, so she may have skipped school.”
“London’s a big place, Kent, but we’ll check the newspaper archives online. My head of security at the Westminster casino used to be a copper. He’ll have contacts. I’ll get him to sniff around the local music scene, see if they can turn up the other members of the band. Someone must remember NDevvor or MarD. Are you sure they’re not on social media?”
“I haven’t found anything.”
“What about you? Do you have somewhere to stay?”
“Richard Compton has offered me one of his holiday cottages.”
“Isn’t he the solicitor who Gemma dumped?”
“He lives in a village not far from here.”
“Why are you talking to him?”
“He was close to Gemma once. I thought he might know something helpful, but she didn’t really confide in him.”
“Would he tell you if she did?”
“I think so. I’ve spoken to Sarah, but she doesn’t know what her daughter got up to.”
“She was always more interested in animals than people.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“But fair,” he says. “Look, it strikes me that Gemma’s time in London is a black hole. I think something bad happened there – something she wants to keep to herself. But someone else has other ideas. What do you think?”
“Yeah, sounds plausible.”
“Show a bit more enthusiasm, Kent. We’re working our socks off here.”
I have the awful feeling everyone I talk to will have suggestions and theories. They’ll also want progress reports, leading to the same conversations time after time. The prospect of satisfying other people’s curiosity fills me with dread.
“Hang on. Gina wants to tell me something.”
I wait, watching Columbo push deeper and deeper into the undergrowth, seeking out the source of the scent he’s following. This is how I’m going to find Gemma. I need a scent, a whiff of something tangible to follow. Someone knows what she’s trying to hide. All I have to do is find the right person.
My father cuts into my thoughts, sounding excited. “Gemma’s in Sussex.” He pauses, expecting me to comment. When I don’t, he says, “Your car tripped number plate cameras on the M23 and A23 this afternoon, heading for Brighton. There have been no other sightings since the exit to Burgess Hill, so she can’t be far away.”
“You don’t know if she was in the car.”
“Why wouldn’t she be?” Frustration spills into his words. “Come on, son, this is positive news. You could be reunited by morning.”
I want to believe him, but it won’t be that simple – or painless.
Nine
While I could make it home by midnight, I should talk to the local police. They could uncover information that would help us find Gemma. Despite my father’s frustration, I remain firm. “I’ll talk to the police tomorrow and see if they can help in any way. Gemma may have visited someone in the area.”
“No offence, son, but aren’t you grasping at straws? The cameras say she’s in Sussex.”
“She wanted us to have our honeymoon here. Maybe she had another reason for coming to Stratford.”
His sigh tells me what he thinks of that suggestion. “Those texts suggest she didn’t have much choice.”
“Of course she had a choice. She could have talked to me!”
Several people turn at my outburst. I haul Columbo from the bushes and walk on.
“I’ll come up and join you,” he says, unable to mask the anxiety in his voice. “I can be there in three hours. We can work on this together.”
“I’ll be fine. We’ll talk in the morning.”
I end the call, wondering if he’ll drive up here, regardless.
At least I know what’s eating me. Not knowing is difficult, but why didn’t Gemma talk to me? Why didn’t she trust me?
I push the phone into my pocket and continue along the path with Columbo. As usual, when I become negative, I berate myself for whining. Decisions based on fear and speculation only pander to the little devil on my shoulder. He likes to think of himself as my conscience, the realist who spots all the pitfalls. He thinks I rushed into marrying Gemma. He wants me to keep my options open, reminding me how easily relationships go wrong.
Who needs pain when you can have fun?
Now she’s disappeared, he’s in his element. Did I really tell her the past had no bearing on our future together?
Talk about oversight of the year, Fisher.
I should have asked her what was troubling her. Instead, I thought I could make it disappear by brushing it aside.
What else have I missed in my headlong rush to marry her?
Had I stopped to catch my breath, I’d have answers instead of assumptions. What if her disappearance is linked to her father? After his death, she remained in London for another six years.
Or did she?
Wherever she was, she must have worked, made friends, socialised, had relationships, and gone on holiday. The police could find out with a request to the tax office. They could track her National Insurance number and pay cheques, follow her credit cards.
The little devil reminds me I can’t do any of this.
Of course I can.
I’ve solved some complex murders over the past few years, digging into the past, following trails that started as no more than breadcrumbs. I don’t know Stratford, and I avoid London like the plague, but there are ways to gather information.
I need to ask the right questions in the right places.
Private investigators track down missing people all the time. They have to start somewhere.
My car’s back in Sussex. Once found, it could lead me to Gemma.
Filled with renewed resolve, I head back to the house. While Columbo sleeps on the sofa beside me, I interrogate Google once more. Sometime around midnight I doze off. When I wake a little later, I head to the bedroom for a restless night, sleeping in snatches. Each time I turn, the empty space beside me reminds me Gemma’s somewhere else. I breathe in the faint aroma of her perfume and run my fingers over the indentation her head made on the pillow. She could be fine. She could be suffering. She could be lying somewhere, thinking about me at this moment, wondering what I’m doing to find her.
I’m awake by six in the morning. After a quick shower, shave and cup of tea, I take Columbo for an early morning walk. It’s chilly, but clear. The squirrels are foraging in earnest. We pass a couple of familiar dog walkers and comment about the weather as usual. Back at the house, I ring the police call centre.
I need to make Gemma’s disappearance official.
“I’d like to report a missing person,” I say, having rehearsed during the walk. “My wife Gemma Dean left the holiday home where we’re staying while I was out walking the dog. She took the car, but not her phone, so I’ve been unable to contact her. She hasn’t been in touch, which is why I’m concerned for her safety.
The officer has a warm, friendly voice. “I’m John and I’d like to start by collecting some information.”
He collects personal details about me, where I’m staying, when Gemma went missing and the circumstances, taking the registration number of my car. He’s calm, professional and puts me at ease while he gathers information about Gemma’s age, appearance, what she was wearing and whether she has any distinguishing features, piercings or tattoos. Does she have any mental health issues, suffer from depression? Has she done anything like this before?
“We’re on our honeymoon,” I say, almost embarrassed to admit it.
“Bear with me, Mr Fisher. We need to cover all possibilities. Does she have any friends or family in the area?”
I pause. Should I mention Richard? I doubt if she’d call him a friend.
“No one I’m aware of,” I say.
“Does she have a passport?”
I don’t have a passport so I never pay any attention to them. I’ve never seen her driving licence either. Had we talked about a holiday abroad, we would have talked about passports.
“You think she’s gone abroad?” I ask.
“Do you, Mr Fisher?”
The thought of it makes me anxious. “I don’t know.”
“Did she take anything with her?”
“She hasn’t taken a suitcase or clothes, if that’s what you mean. She took her handbag.”
“But not her phone, you said earlier. Can you give me the number?”
He gathers more personal information and advises me the details are on the system. “I’ve forwarded the information and officers should visit you later.”
“I have to vacate the holiday house by ten o’clock this morning. I’m not sure where I’ll be going. That’s my next job, finding somewhere to stay.”
“I’ll ask officers to respond before ten, if they can. We have your mobile number. When you arrange alternative accommodation, let us know. I’ll give you a reference number.”
I scribble down the number and sit back, ruffling Columbo’s fur. “Gemma’s officially a missing person. You miss her, don’t you?”
He barks and nudges my hand for more attention.
After a breakfast I pick at, I pack the two holdalls we brought. My clothes go first. When I gather Gemma’s clothes and lay them in the holdall, it feels like I’m giving up on her, moving on. From under the pillow I retrieve her teddy and hold it to my face, breathing in the scent of her. My mind fills with images of her sauntering into the bedroom on our wedding night, looking demure and sexy in the flimsy fabric, which left little to the imagination.
Now my imagination overflows with unwanted thoughts.
Columbo doesn’t become excited until we’re downstairs and I’m packing his bits and pieces. It’s like he’s not sure if he’s coming with us, even though we’ve taken him everywhere on our travels during the last two weeks. I slip him a treat before sliding the packet into his bag.
After a quick look around to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, I return to the bathroom. The toiletries and shampoos go into a waterproof bag, in case anything leaks. When I try to close the lid on Gemma’s shampoo, it won’t snap shut. Taking a closer look, I spot a small piece of folded card, wedged inside the lid. A quick look at the discarded toothpaste packaging in the bin confirms a piece has been torn off. When I open out the card, I recognise Gemma’s distinctive writing. It’s so tiny I almost need a magnifying glass.
