Chapter 3

Detective Inspector Adam Auden stared through the gritty glass hypnotised by the rhythm of the rain as it pounded on the flat roof below. Horton police station was a huge monolith of a building, a monument to sixties architectural arrogance – all pebble dashed concrete, brushed steel and glass. It crouched menacingly behind the late Victorian town hall, just visible from the high street. It sent a shiver down his spine every time he entered it, so Christ knew what it must do to those poor souls driven through it’s dark gaping mouth and into the subterranean car park below – down to where the door to the charge room lay. The lads called entering the station this way ‘going through traitor’s gate’, it made him smile every time he heard it, because he knew one day it would be him in the back of the car craning his neck for a last glimpse of freedom before descending into the darkness.

Adam continued to stare out of the window and wondered when they had last been cleaned. He’d been here nearly twenty years, and he couldn’t remember them ever being cleaned. His mind returned to the rain that was now coming down heavier than ever. Each outwardly crystal clear drop contained at its heart a dirty seed that slowly over the years had stained the glass, robbing the world outside of colour and stealing so much light that the fluorescent tubes now burned bright twenty-four hours a day.

“He’ll see you now.”

“Pardon?” He was embarrassed by his obvious mental absence, after all this was an important meeting. A personal invitation to ‘touch base’ with the Chief Superintendent didn’t happen every day.

“I said he’ll see you now!”

He turned to reply, but the voice was already returning to her desk, so he followed.

“Tea or coffee?” She tossed the question at him over her shoulder.

“Pardon?” He fumbled. That’s twice you’ve said pardon, she thinks you’re stupid!

“Tea – or- coffee?” She emphasised the words to make sure he had fully grasped the complexities of the question.

“Sorry, yes please, coffee, white, two sugars.”

Why was he apologising?

“Take a seat, he’ll be with you momentarily,” and with that she was gone again into what Adam thought had originally been intended as a cupboard, but now served as the Chief Super’s own personal kitchen.

He sat down on the blue sofa, obviously bought from some office supplies company. It was small, meanly upholstered and uncomfortable. It sat awkwardly in the small wood panelled antechamber, boxed in by filing cabinets, a photocopier and a nasty looking black ash coffee table covered with neatly arranged copies of today’s broadsheets, some back issues of The Police Gazette and the obligatory County Life magazines. Opposite was the secretaries desk, an oasis of order and efficiency, behind that was a half glazed wall, and behind that lay the Chief Superintendents office.

He picked up the County Life magazine and idly thumbed its slick pages trying to find the feature on Houghton that was flagged on the cover. It was supposed to be on page 32, but since pages 1 to 32 where interspersed with an equal amount of unnumbered pages containing glossy adverts for things he’d never be able to afford he couldn’t find it.

“What’s the fucking point of only numbering the editorial pages,” he muttered to himself.

“I know that really annoys me too!”

Adam jumped, startled to find the PA suddenly standing in front of him. She smiled and offered him a cup.

He took it, and smiled back embarrassed and offered, “It’s life’s little challenges that I find most infuriating,” by way of an explanation.

She returned to her desk, and they smiled awkwardly at each other.

“I also hate how the crinkled edge they put on newspapers seals the pages together making it impossible to separate them…”

He picked up one of the newspapers off the desk and despite the voice in his head crying out, please God, don’t show her the edge, he held it up running his finger along the serrated edge to reenforce his point. Dickhead!

Thankfully there was a grating of chairs from behind the PA that indicated that the previous meeting was over and two voices grew louder as they moved towards the door.

“Thanks for that, Andy, and if you could let me have the feedback ASAP that would really speed things up.”

Adam was on his feet before the door was fully open and Andy, a civilian analyst, had entered the room. “No problem, leave it with me”

The Chief Superintendent’s head appeared around the door. “Ah, Adam, excellent, please come in.”

Adam followed him in and took a seat in front of the Super’s desk, balancing his cup and saucer awkwardly on his knee and waited for the Super to settle himself. Once settled he lent forward, tenting his fingers under his chin, “So Adam, how’s it going?”

Adam searched for an answer and came up with the standard response he’d given to all authority figures since he was in Mr Grey’s class at Clayton Street Primary School 40 years ago, “Fine, Sir.”

“Good, Good…” The Super paused as if allowing Adam time to elaborate. Adam said nothing. They both knew what this meeting was really about, and Adam had nothing to say on the subject, so that left the ball firmly in the Chief’s court.

The Chief Superintendent was not a people person, not a coppers copper so to speak and since he’d only taken over at Houghton 18 months ago felt no real personal connection with the tragic events that had started to unfold three years ago, three years to the day in fact. What the Super was however, was a great politician. So when his PA had mentioned in passing, a few days earlier that today would mark the third anniversary of the disappearance of Adam’s daughter he knew that it presented him with one of those rare career enhancing opportunities that was almost too good to be true.

He stood up and walked to the window, turning his back on Adam. Wanker!

“Obviously I’m aware that today marks the third anniversary of your daughter’s disappearance”

Adam stayed silent. What was there to say – really is it? I wondered why I’d put a circle round today’s date. I wasn’t sure if it was to remind me to get the car serviced, but now you’ve reminded me I won’t forget to pick up a shit load of painkillers and a bottle of vodka on my way home and mark the occasion by combining the two and seeing if I wake up in the morning!

“I’d like to reopen the case. I know technically it isn’t closed, but I feel we’ve neglected it.” He turned now to face Adam placing his hands on the back of his leather chair. “We need to take a fresh look at it, get the media involved again, public appeals, posters, you know the drill. Crimewatch will give use a major feature, virtually a whole show to ourselves, new re-enactment, the works. I think your daughter deserves no less, you’re one of our own and I think we’ve let you down!”

Adam felt suddenly sick. He’d expected the Super to sit him down and give him the, ‘if there is anything we can do for you’ speech, offer him time off if he needed it, which he didn’t – but not this!

“No, Sir, I think that would complicate matters. The National Crime Squad is handling the case. They have the resources and specialist expertise needed for this kind of case”

“And by ‘this kind of case’ you mean what exactly” He’d ruffled the Super’s professional feathers; he knew it would, but it needed saying.

“I mean Sir,” Adam spoke softly, choosing his words carefully, “You and I both know that Claire is dead. We both know she was abducted, raped and murdered.”

Despite his calm calculated tone Adam could feel the rage in his throat and by the look on the Super’s face he could see it in his eyes. “I prey to God every day, and I mean every day Sir that this stopped being a local missing persons case and changed into a murder case within hours of her abduction; because Sir from the moment he took her, she was dead, and all I have left is the hope that the suffering she endured was measured in hours rather than days!”

The Super had sat down again, his initial professional indignation trumped by Adam’s frighteningly clinical assessment of the facts. He stared across the desk at him, and he didn’t like what he saw. It wasn’t the battered leather jacket or the faded corduroy trousers, or even the un-ironed shirt held together with a loosely knotted tie that upset him. It wasn’t even the face which was unshaven or the greying hair that could do with a damn good brush – he could forgive these failings after all, he supposed, it was the anniversary of his daughter’s disappearance – no, what really upset him was the eyes. They where dark, almost black in fact and they didn’t care. To look into his eyes was to look into the eyes of a man with no respect for himself and more importantly, from the Chief’s point of view, no respect for anyone else. They were the eyes of a man who was difficult to control because he felt he had nothing to loose. If it weren’t for the fact that, despite everything, he was a very good detective and the Chief Constable seemed to have a soft spot for him he’d have pensioned him off on health grounds as soon as he’d taken command of the station.

He changed tack <em>“I’m not naïve Adam, and I understand how painful this must be for you. Of course, we would coordinate our investigation with the NCS but I think you are doing your colleagues a grave disservice by your inference that this case is too big for us!” He hoped that by playing the ‘station loyalty’ card he could bring Adam around to his way of thinking. He hadn’t.

Adam stayed silent. He needed to think. He was working out the odds, assessing the probabilities of the Super’s publicity stunt making any real difference. What could it achieve that they hadn’t tried three years ago? Apart from the exquisite pain of seeing her face once again on his TV, his home movies again seen out of context, no longer keepsakes of their last holiday together – precious memories – again used as the backdrop for earnest newsreaders to read platitudes from an autocue. He didn’t want his daughter’s memory prostituted in this way again – used as a parable to scare parents into taking a keener interest in their children’s whereabouts.

“Sir,” again he chose his words carefully, “If I thought that reopening the case would bring my daughter’s killer to justice do you honestly think I’d leave any stone unturned, but,” he lowered his head, trying to hide his shame, “I don’t and the pain this will cause my family…” Adam left the sentence unfinished, what was the point. This had fuck all to do with Claire; this was about changing the crown and pip on the Super’s shoulders into crossed tipstaffs. Houghton wasn’t exactly a high profile command and the whole nick knew the Chief Superintendent had no intention of hanging around in this provincial backwater for any longer than was necessary.

“I’m disappointed in you, Adam.”

The Chief Superintendent was a tall man, not wiry, just thin, and this was reflected in his face which was all awkward angles covered in a painfully taut layer of blue white skin. It was the type of face that struggled to show any emotion other than arrogant disdain. He was trying to mould it into what he hoped was pained understanding with a hint of compassion, but he lost the battle and it came out looking like arrogant disdain with an insincere smile.

“Do you truly believe we will never catch your daughter’s…” he struggled for a word.

“Killer,” Adam finished the sentence to save him the trouble. “Yes – well probably,” he added, “all I know is you plastering my daughter all over the media again isn’t going to bring her back and you’re going to open up some wounds that are just starting to heal. It’s not just me and Jo, there’s Jack and Izzie, my parents, Jo’s mother, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles. They won’t admit it – in fact, we still don’t talk about Claire, can you imagine that, we can’t talk about her, it’s as though she never existed – but a lot of them still hold out some hope that she’s still alive somewhere. This would rip the…”

“What do you mean, ‘I’m going to open up wounds’.” The Super’s voice grew more dangerous. “Firstly this isn’t personal; I take no pleasure in having to put you and your family through this ordeal again. Secondly if, as you say, your daughter has been murdered, then there is a very dangerous killer out there somewhere who could strike again. It is my duty to do everything I can to catch this monster. Could you live with yourself if he killed again?”

Adam lost it! He leapt to his feet, his cup and saucer catapulted to God knows where and faced the Super across the desk. “Don’t you fucking talk to me about living with myself, not today? Trust me that motherfucker isn’t going to strike again. This isn’t about duty to me, and it’s got fuck all to do with justice. Will justice bring her back eh, can retribution bring her back, can fucking retribution bring her back?” He was shouting now, spitting the words across the desk.

Adam’s explosion took the Super by surprise. He found face-to-face confrontations difficult, preferring, where possible, to handle them at a distance. He didn’t need Adam’s approval, and he would put this outburst and lack of respect on the back burner for now. Nobody talked to him like that; it was a matter of respect, a matter of status, a matter of rank. He didn’t care what Adam was going through – empathy was not high on his list of character traits – there could be no excusing his lack of respect and when the time was appropriate he would be dealt with.
Adam stood in no mans land. Furious at the Super, yet knowing he’d gone to far. To sit down felt like an apology, to storm out, a resignation. So he stood there, refusing to break eye contact for what felt like an eternity but was probably no more than a couple of seconds.

The Chief Superintendent leaned back in his chair – the leather creaked, “I don’t pretend to understand your attitude DI Auden, – full Sunday name, he’d really fucked up – and I’m somewhat puzzled by your certainty that this monster is beyond our reach,”

Adam sat down heavily, “It’s been three years Sir, and nothing, not locally or nationally that would indicate he’s still active” he felt exhausted and his head was throbbing “That’s all I meant Sir, it’s been too long, predatory paedophiles are repeat offenders, they need their fix. This guys gone; Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, warmer climes, easier pickings, that’s all I meant.”

The Chief studied him down his long nose, sighed and tried again to force his mouth into an understanding smile and again he failed, “This is difficult for you, I know, but you have my word that the chief investigating officer will keep you fully informed of any developments. However as I’m sure you are aware public interest has to be put before individual sensitivities.”>

Pompous wanker! It’s a done deal, excuse yourself and get out.

“Well thank you Sir for talking to me first,” Adam stood up and was pleased to see the Chief, far from being offended, had obviously decided the meeting was over too.

The Chief saw him to the door without speaking; Adam stepped through and turned, “As a matter of interest, who is the chief investigating officer Sir?”

“DCI Banks”

“Thanks Sir.” Shit!

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