Carl Sant Murder Mysteries Collection

Chapter 2

‘You understand why you’re here?’

The man shrugged and spoke in a deep drawl. ‘No skin off my back, though it’s starting to feel like Groundhog Day. Same routine, different day.’

Groundhog DayDetective Inspector Carl Sant spat out his mangled toothpick and rubbed the tip of his rugged nose. ‘A bit young to remember that film, aren’t you?’

‘I watched it on the plane to Thailand last year. Nearly pissed myself laughing.’

‘Did you go with Chloe to Thailand?’

‘No, that was before Chloe.’ Jake Downing, nineteen-year-old package of toned muscle, gazed up at the unpainted ceiling of the interview room. ‘Might’ve been Emma. Or was it Emily?’

‘No shortage of girlfriends.’

Jake sat up. His eyes took on a mischievous gleam as they moved to Sant. ‘Eight. Ten if you count the ones I never, you know, got inside. Girls are like taxis.’ He grinned. ‘You ride one, move onto the next.’

‘I’m sure your mother would approve, Mr Downing.’

‘Each to his own, don’t you think? Some lads find the right girl on day one and stick with her through thin and thin. Not me. I’m too young for nonsense like that.’

‘So you and Chloe were never serious?’ asked the inspector, clamping a fresh toothpick between his incisors.

Jake replied by pushing up one shoulder, lazy.

‘Tell us about your… relationship,’ Sant said.

He glanced at the man sitting next to him. Detective Constable Brad Capstick watched Jake without blinking. A studious type, Capstick was forever adjusting his thick-rimmed NHS-style specs, though neither the frames nor lenses were subsidised by the National Health Service. He was fifteen years Sant’s junior and a damn sight better qualified, but a love of textbooks and grand ideas hadn’t exactly equipped him for CID work.

Jake’s expression became wry. ‘How can I put it? We weren’t shy with each other. Let’s just say I got to know Chloe well. Very well.’ He beamed pathetically. ‘She appreciated a man of experience.’

Very‘But you’re a little younger than Chloe,’ Capstick said, as if the boy needed another invitation to gloat.

‘In the biological sense, yes, but not the carnal.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’ asked Sant, eager to move on.

Jake tapped the tips of his fingers on the table. ‘How many times have I been asked that question?’

Sant leant forward, arching his neck and widening his stare a fraction. ‘Are you going to make life easy for us, or do we make life difficult for you?’

‘Why you got beef, man?’

Capstick felt the steam coming off his colleague and stepped in. ‘You must understand, Jake, that whilst we’ve no wish to start a shouting match, we’re handling a missing person case of the utmost urgency.’ He breathed out. ‘Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.’

No-one had seen Chloe Lee for over seven weeks. To make matters worse, establishing when the university student had disappeared was proving tough. Usually a time, and sometimes a place, provided a vital marker in establishing a missing person’s whereabouts. But in Chloe’s case, detectives had neither. Students living in shared apartment blocks seldom clocked in like the rest of the human race, so when asked why they’d taken so long to contact the police, Chloe’s flatmates had offered blank expressions and weak excuses.

Chloe’s mother was also missing, though several sources – passport checks included – drew the same conclusion: Vanessa Lee was three months into a six-month round-the-world tour. Vanessa’s f*******: profile had been scarcely touched since her departure, although one recent post hinted at an interest in teaching English as a foreign language. A few photos of tropical forests and temples completed the picture. Perhaps six months was an underestimate.

Chloe’s father was missing in another way. He’d left Vanessa when Chloe was twelve, then moved to York with his second family. He’d been interviewed by detectives already but not by Sant personally, which explained why a prearranged trip to York was pencilled in for the following evening.

‘I’ll make it easy for you,’ said Jake, enunciating each word. ‘The last time I saw Chloe was in July. The twenty-fourth to be precise. She came to a birthday party I was hosting at my digs. I saw her briefly. She left early. Simple. That’s all there is to it.’

Capstick consulted the pocket-sized tablet he carried around with him. ‘These digs you mention. Are you referring to the Moorland Avenue, Hyde Park address?’

‘Correct. I don’t live in Hyde Park now. Moved to Headingley. One notch up the social ladder.’

The constable wrote something on a page filled with his tiny scrawl. ‘And was Chloe in good spirits at the party?’

Jake stared into space. ‘As far as I recall. She was her usual, sober self. But as I said, I hardly saw her that night. We were… losing interest in each other.’

‘So you split up after the party?’

‘I’m not sure if we ever did split up. We’d had the odd argument or two, and needed to get away for a while. The summer break came at a good time.’

‘So technically speaking, you and Chloe are still together?’ probed Capstick.

The young man’s eyes widened. ‘How can we be together when she’s not around?’

‘But if Chloe came through this door now, you’d still assume you and her were a pair?’

‘Suppose. Probably. Depends on Chloe…’

‘And?’

‘Well, you can’t expect me to wait forever, gents. I’ve moved on–’

Sant stifled an urge to laugh. ‘Enter girlfriend number eleven, Mr Downing.’

Jake didn’t try hard to repress the smirk rising over his solid jawline.

Capstick glanced down at his tablet. ‘Did you argue with Chloe the last time you saw her. At the party?’

No sooner had it appeared than the smirk was gone. The boy was ruffled. ‘Can’t remember… maybe, maybe not.’

Sant wasn’t convinced. ‘A simple yes or no if you don’t mind.’

The teenager shuffled restlessly in his chair, his newfound nervousness not helped by the snoring of the duty solicitor by his side. He peered upwards in search of an answer and then said, ‘Probably. We argued quite a lot, like all couples.’

Sant sensed the unease and jumped on it. He thrust his thick neck aloft, closing in on his target. The stark light from the swaying bulb overhead made the inspector’s suit glow threateningly, though Jake was too busy admiring himself in the reflective glass to notice.

‘What did you argue about? It must’ve been a proper bust-up, Mr Downing, because you haven’t seen your girlfriend since.’

Jake stood up sharply, stirring the lawyer from his slumber. ‘I don’t have to take any more of this harassment. And what’s more, it’s about time I got myself proper legal representation instead of Mr Dozy here.’

The inspector rose to his feet in turn, the two of them squaring up like mismatched boxers. ‘You don’t have an iota of decency for the situation we’re facing, do you Mr Downing? A young lass is missing. Feared dead. And all you care about is what you come out of this smelling like.’

‘I’m not standing for this,’ the youngster snapped. His initial coolness had long evaporated. ‘I was invited to this cop shop for a conversation, not an interrogation. If you think I killed Chloe, arrest me; prosecute me. Go on! You haven’t a shred of evidence.’

Capstick found himself refereeing, his arms opening like scissors to force the fighters apart. ‘Let’s just quieten down and sit down.’ He turned to Jake, who was heading straight for the door. ‘For the sake of Chloe, we need as much information as possible, so please – just a few more minutes.’

‘Only if you keep him on a leash,’ he said, jabbing his finger at Sant.

Capstick made a show of rebuking his partner. Then more questions were asked, principally by Capstick, but the interview came to an abrupt halt. Not because Jake Downing wanted out, but because Assistant Chief Constable Bill Gilligan wanted in. The chief officer signalled at Sant and Capstick through the thick-glazed window of the interview room, pointing a fat thumb in the direction of his office.

Urgency and despair haunted his tubby face.

* * *

‘It’s Dryden. Bad news. Awful news.’

Gilligan was clearly flustered. Rarely did the Old Man – what others called him on account of his dated dress sense – drum up a conversation without a put-down remark for starters. His bushy eyebrows merged to form a thick underlining above his flushed cheeks. As the beer-bellied ACC perched on the end of his oversized desk, Sant noticed the bottle of Bell’s he kept hidden for a rainy day in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, a ‘small drop’ of which the Old Man took with his morning coffee. The bottle was almost empty – no coffee to be seen.

‘Holdsworth?’

Capstick replied: ‘She’s on call, sir.’

‘What’s wrong?’ said Sant, gnawing on another toothpick, his way of alleviating bouts of anxiety. Like the one about to surface. A humble device, for sure, but it had helped him to kick the habit, and kept him off those ghastly e-cigs for good measure.

Gilligan cleared his throat, half-closing his eyes and folding his arms. ‘I’ve never had to say this to colleagues before, Inspector, Constable, though I suppose there’s a first time for everything. To be injured in the call of duty is one thing – but to lose one’s own life on the beat is tragic.’

Capstick spoke first, gaping mouth in unison with sinking shoulders. ‘You mean… Liam is dead?’

Gilligan gave a short nod and turned away, his eyes wetting at the corners.

‘But he’s off duty, sir.’

‘So I believe.’

Splinter snapping between his front teeth, Sant uttered the first thought that came to him. ‘An accident? Or otherwise?’

Gilligan unfolded his arms. ‘That much we don’t know yet, but the circumstances appear fishy to say the least. The official line, for now, is that Dryden has been involved in some sort of road incident whilst on board a bus. But going on what I’ve heard, this is no ordinary crash. Not by any stretch of the imagination. We should be getting along to the crime scene, gentlemen, if you don’t mind?’

Sant nodded, trying desperately to digest what he’d just heard. Thoughts of missing people and cocky young men were rubbed away in an instant. An officer – a damned good one – was dead. All other tasks were withheld for now.

The inspector binned what was left of his toothpick and walked out of Gilligan’s office, out into the black horror of every policeman’s nightmare.