Bryant wound the car through the shiny residential estate that had caused controversy on the edge of the green belt that bordered West Hagley. Affordable housing had been the marketing strategy for the sprawling housing complex that had wiped out three fields and a small wooded area.
So far Bryant had navigated the two of them through the outer circle of detached, spacious homes with double garages and mock pillars. Properties valued in the mid three hundreds eventually gave way to single-garage dwellings with half the drive space, which in turn guided them to the affordable housing buried in the centre of the estate.
These houses made no attempt to stand out from each other. Not one facet identified them from their neighbour or the strip of properties over the road.
The house at which they stopped was a two-storey semi-detached property formed of brick that was an unnatural red.
‘Compact and bijou,’ Bryant observed as they got out of the car.
The narrow, one-car driveway held the Ford Focus that belonged to Catherine Evans.
Kim skirted around it and stepped onto the border between the two properties.
‘Start knocking and I’ll take a look around the back,’ she said, leaving Bryant at the front door.
The side of the house was not fenced, and she had free access to the rear of the house.
As she turned the corner she saw the reason. A CCTV camera was fixed to the corner of the property, covering the walkway to the side of the house.
Well, Catherine would certainly know they were there.
Another camera was fixed to the rear wall, peering down at the back door. It was a small box-like property but covered by two expensive CCTV cameras. Why?
Kim initially wondered if it was some kind of neighbour dispute, but the placement of the cameras said otherwise. The protection was on the approach and entrances.
Catherine was watching for people coming in.
The small garden was grassed without borders or plants. A five-foot fence separated it from the property next door and the property behind.
Kim’s path was unencumbered by garden furniture. At this time of year any garden forays were normally obstructed by barbecues, lawn chairs and parasols. But here there was nothing.
Against the fence was an outside storage box about five feet long by two feet high. Beside it was a Flymo lawnmower.
Kim could see straight into the house through the patio door.
Having learned from Bryant in the past, she fought her natural instinct to find something heavy to smash against the glass.
‘No answer yet, guv. But she must be here,’ Bryant said, appearing beside her.
‘Not necessarily. She could have parked the car and gone out.’
Even as the words left her mouth Kim felt it was unlikely.
She wasn’t sure exactly what she was hoping to find, but she had to establish why a call from the press had caused Catherine to run away like a scalded rabbit. Catherine had told no one she was leaving Westerley and was not answering her mobile phone.
What did she know about this case and what had frightened her away?
Kim touched the door handle, and the door slid away from the frame.
She frowned. Why would a woman who had every inch of outside space covered by a camera leave her back door unlocked?
‘Shit, guv,’ Bryant said, reaching the same conclusion. ‘You don’t think our guy has…?’
‘Dunno, Bryant but we now have a reason to enter,’ she said, stepping over the threshold.
The room was small and dark. Kim guessed the kitchen was at the front, basking in the daytime sun.
The mauve furnishings brought some light into the property, but there was a claustrophobic feeling about the space.
She stood still and listened. There was no sound echoing through the house. Only the noise of an occasional car driving past. There was no sound of a TV or radio or anything to cut through the silence. Somehow it made the small space even darker.
Kim headed to the kitchen, a room she always found gave the most accurate snapshot of the activities within the home.
All of the property’s light appeared to have been filtered to this one small room. The units and appliances were a shiny white, all reflecting the afternoon sun as it burst in through the window.
The space was neat and tidy. She felt a few crumbs underfoot and saw a single plate and upturned mug on the sink drainer.
Her investigating skills were not being tested in deducing there had been coffee and toast for breakfast before heading off to Westerley this morning.
So Catherine had had no time to make any more mess since she’d come home. Kim reached across and touched the kettle. It was stone cold.
Most people on entering home tended to switch on the kettle for a drink. Even if they then got distracted by unloading shopping or tidying things away, the kettle had normally been activated.
‘This is starting to look a bit suspect now,’ Kim said, heading out of the kitchen.
Bryant had remained in the lounge, as there was only room for one in the kitchen. He followed her as she took the stairs two at a time.
At the top of the staircase was a stubby hallway with three doors, all pulled shut.
The first left was a small but functional bathroom. The second was the spare room, which held no bed, just a couple of pieces of mismatched furniture, a few boxes and a wardrobe.
So the house had CCTV but Catherine still hadn’t properly unpacked.
Kim was getting an uneasy feeling in her stomach, which was not helped when she opened the door to the main bedroom.
An open suitcase lay on the bed. It was empty but the top drawer of a chest was open. Kim glanced inside. Underwear. Normally the first thing when packing in a rush, the mind already attuned to need rather than desire.
Women tended to pack from the inside out, essentials first. Men normally packed the opposite.
The rules differed when packing for a holiday. Then you might take time over the clothing first, but in a rush it was underwear first.
‘Where the hell is she, Bryant?’ she asked, surveying the room.
It was a small house and they had covered every square inch in a few moments. Catherine wasn’t here but she had been.
A woman so focussed on security had left her back door unlocked. For some reason she had bolted from her place of work and come home. She had paused for nothing before starting to pack. Her car was still here, she was not and yet there was no evidence of a struggle.
‘I think he’s got her,’ Bryant said, scratching his head.
No scenario made sense to Kim, but she was on the verge of agreeing when her phone shattered the silence.
‘Stace,’ she said.
Kim listened to Stacey’s excited and turbocharged voice. She didn’t interrupt her colleague once.
Because what she had to say changed everything.
Thirty-Three
Kim pressed the button that ended the call.
She closed her eyes for a second, absorbing everything she’d heard. The pieces began to fall into place.
She exhaled the breath she’d been holding. ‘Oh, Bryant,’ was all she could say.
‘What’s going on?’ her colleague asked.
Kim took a moment to retrace everything they’d seen since arriving at Catherine’s home. Now she knew where to look.
‘Follow me,’ Kim said, heading out of the room and down the stairs.
She strode out of the back door and stopped at the only place that made sense.
She lowered herself to the ground and sat cross-legged in front of the garden storage box.
‘Catherine, it’s Kim Stone, and I know you’re in there.’
Because the lawnmower was not.
There was no sound and Kim considered the possibility that she was sitting on the ground speaking to an empty plastic box. But she suspected not.
Kim scooted closer to the box and lowered her voice even further. She placed one hand on top of the lid as though offering the woman some kind of reassurance.
‘Catherine, I know who you are, and I know why you’re scared.’
There was the faintest of sobs.
Kim heard a sharp intake of breath from Bryant, who was standing behind her. She glanced around to find him shaking his head with bewilderment. She turned back to the container.
‘It’s okay, Catherine. I know you’re the orange-box kid.’