Fiona Barton - The Widow

The landlord knew little about him. Chambers paid his rent on time, made no noise, and put out his rubbish. Perfect tenant. But the other drivers had stories to tell. One of them told the detectives about the magazines Lee Chambers sold and swapped from the boot of his car.

“He used to set up a stall at motorway service areas for lorry drivers and other blokes who like that sort of thing. You know, photos of violent sex, rape, and kidnap. That kind of stuff. He said he made quite a bit of money.”

He was a horrible man, everyone agreed, but that didn’t make him a child abductor, Sparkes said miserably to his sergeant.

During their second interview with Chambers later that afternoon, he claimed he’d kept the cuttings in the folder because he fancied Dawn Elliott.

“I cut pictures of women I’m attracted to out of the papers all the time. Cheaper than the skin mags,” he offered. “I’ve got a high sex drive.”

“Where did you go when you finished the job in Portsmouth, Mr. Chambers?”

“Home,” he said emphatically.

“Anyone see you there?”

“No. Everyone was out working, and I’m on my own. I watch telly when I’m off-duty and wait for the next call out.”

“Someone says they saw a man with long hair walking down the road where Bella Elliott was playing.”

“Not me. I was at home,” Chambers said, touching his ponytail nervously.

Sparkes felt dirty when he came out of the interview room for a short break.

“He deserves locking up just for breathing,” Matthews said, joining his boss in the corridor.

“We’ve spoken to the fare, and they say he helped them in with their suitcase and they offered him a cold drink but he left straightaway. No witnesses to his whereabouts after that.”

As they talked, Chambers sauntered past them with an officer. “Where are you going?” Sparkes snapped.

“To the john. When are you letting me go?”

“Shut up and get back in the interview room.” The two men stood for a moment in the corridor before going back in.

“Let’s see if we can spot him on the cameras. We also need to find his contacts for the car boot sales at the services. They’re all perverts traveling the motorways around here. Who are they, Matthews? They may have seen him on October the second. Get on to traffic and see if they’ve got any likely names.”

Back in the interview room, Chambers squinted at them across the table and said: “They don’t give me their names, do they? It’s all very discreet.”

Sparkes waited for him to claim he was doing a public service, keeping perverts off the street, and Chambers didn’t disappoint.

“Would you recognize your customers again?” he asked.

“Don’t think so. Staring isn’t good for business.”

The detectives began to lose heart, and in the next break, Sparkes called time.

“We’ll have to watch and see, but make sure we do him for the indecent exposure. And, Matthews, tell the local press to look out for him in court. He deserves a bit of publicity.”

Chambers smirked when they broke the news that the interview was over. But it was a brief moment of triumph before he was led away to be processed by the custody sergeant.

“God, one flasher. That’s all we’ve got to show for the investigation so far,” Sparkes said.

“Early days, boss,” Matthews murmured.

ELEVEN

The Detective

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 2006

Matthews had Stan Spencer’s notebook in his hand and looked unhappy.

“I’ve been looking at this again, boss, and reading back through Mr. Spencer’s observations. Very thorough. Weather conditions, number and ownership of vehicles parked in the road, who went in and out of the houses. Including Dawn.”

Sparkes perked up.

“Clocked her in and out of the house most days.”

“Watching her in particular?”

“Not really. All the neighbors are mentioned. But there’s something we need to ask him about his notes. They end halfway through a sentence on the Sunday, the day before, and then switch to Monday, October the second, and the stuff about the long-haired man. Looks like there may be a page missing. And he wrote the full date at the top of the page. He doesn’t do that normally.”

Sparkes took the notebook and scrutinized it, his stomach sinking.

“Christ, do you think he made it up?”

Matthews grimaced. “Not necessarily. He may have been interrupted doing the Sunday log and not gone back to it. But . . .”

“What?”

“The notebook says it has thirty-two pages on the cover. There are only thirty now.”

Sparkes ran both hands through his hair.

“Why would he do it? Is it him, then? Is he our man? Has our Mr. Spencer been hiding in plain sight?”

Stan Spencer was dressed for gardening when he answered his door, in old trousers, a woolly hat, and gloves.

“Good morning, Inspector. Good morning, Sergeant Matthews. Good to see you. Any news?”

He ushered them through the house to the conservatory, where Susan was reading a paper.

“Look who’s here,” he chirped. “Get the officers a drink, dear.”

“Mr. Spencer.” Sparkes tried to bring an official note to what was turning into a coffee morning. “We want to talk to you about your notes.”

“Of course. Go ahead, please.”

“There appears to be a page missing.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he answered, reddening.

Matthews spread the relevant pages on the table in front of him. “Sunday finishes here, in the middle of your remarks about litter outside Dawn’s house, Mr. Spencer. The next page is Monday and your notes about the man you say you saw.”

“I did see him,” Spencer blustered. “I tore out the page because I made a mistake, that’s all.”

There was silence around the table.

“Where is the missing page, Mr. Spencer? Did you keep it?” Sparkes asked gently.

Spencer’s face crumpled.

His wife emerged with a tray of tasteful mugs and a plate of homemade biscuits. “Help yourselves,” she was saying gaily when she noticed the heavy silence around the table. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“We’d like to talk to your husband for a moment, Mrs. Spencer.”

She paused, taking in Stan’s face, and turned, tray still in hand.

Sparkes asked his question again.

“I shoved it in my desk drawer, I think,” Spencer said, and went into the house to look. He reappeared with a folded sheet of lined paper. The rest of Sunday’s log was there, and halfway down the page, Monday’s original log started.

“Weather, clement for the season,” Sparkes read out loud. “Legal vehicles in road during day—morning: number 44’s Astra, midwife’s car at number 68; afternoon: Peter’s van. Illegal vehicles in road—morning: usual seven commuter cars; afternoon: ditto. Leaflets on nuisance parking stuck under wipers. All quiet.”

“Did you see the long-haired man on the day Bella was taken, Mr. Spencer?”

“I . . . I’m not sure.”

“Not sure?”

“I did see him, but it might have been on another day, Inspector. I may have got confused.”

“And your contemporaneous notes, Mr. Spencer?”

He had the grace to blush. “I made a mistake,” he said quietly. “There was so much going on that day. I just wanted to help. To be of assistance to Bella.”

Sparkes wanted to wring his neck, but he maintained the crisp, professional tone of the interview.

“Did you think you were helping Bella by sending us off in the wrong direction, Mr. Spencer?”

The older man slumped in his chair. “I just wanted to help,” he repeated.

“The thing is that people who lie often have something to hide, Mr. Spencer.”

“I haven’t got anything to hide. I swear to you. I’m a decent man. I spend my time protecting the neighborhood from crime. I’ve stopped the thefts from vehicles along this road. Single-handedly. Ask Peter Tredwell. He’ll tell you.”