‘That’s quite insightful of you, Myrtle. Over-nurturing our children leads to co-dependency that becomes hard to break in later life. I sense, from your maturity and strength, that you come from a large family, in which everyone was encouraged to stand on their own feet from an early age. Am I right?’
‘Dead right, clever lady. Five of us at home, + mum and garry. never a moments piece.’
Anita began laying her trap. Every few days, she’d post a photograph of a piece of Disney memorabilia, supposedly that she’d bought years earlier for her grandchildren. She started to hint that it was all languishing in the loft, gathering dust and taking up space. Some of the pieces she showed were quite rare, selling for over ￡100 on eBay. Myrtle’s covetous nature was awoken.
At the same time, Anita’s interest in her, her willingness to talk and ask her opinion, spoke to the self-esteem of a young woman who had little in her life.
Of all the victims, Myrtle was probably the easiest prey.
On 19 October, Anita sent Myrtle a message.
‘Dearest Myrtle, I feel we have become friends and, even if what I am about to say is unacceptable to you, I hope and pray that you won’t take offence, my clever, funny young friend. I have decided, after much soul-searching, to leave my house and move into somewhere smaller.
‘The reason for writing is to ask if you would like my Disney collection? My grandchildren have no use for it any more. Of course, I know I could sell it and probably get quite a lot of money for it, but I have no need of money. I’m not boasting, I know you know that, I’m just telling the truth because I want you to understand my wish that the collection goes to someone who will treasure it.’
It hardly seems necessary to record Myrtle’s reply. Of course she wanted the Disney collection. Anita kept her waiting for a few more weeks, but eventually, on 4 November, they agreed to meet. Anita offered to collect Myrtle at a bus stop on the outskirts of town.
And another young woman steps off our pages.
A few days after Myrtle’s disappearance, the police had their first piece of luck in the case. The cashier at an Esso-owned petrol station on the Bridgwater Road (A38), a few miles north of Cheddar, had spotted something unusual in the forecourt. The owner of a black BMW had stopped to check his tyre pressure and the cashier happened to notice him opening the boot. The cashier describes what happened next as a ‘sort of scuffle’.
We may never know what might have been if he’d checked the footage immediately and called the police. He didn’t. The station was busy, he wasn’t entirely sure of what he’d seen, and he didn’t at that stage know about Myrtle’s disappearance.
Three days later, he saw a piece on the news and was alarmed enough to mention it to a police officer he knew – DC Pete Weston again.
What Weston and the cashier saw when they watched the footage was a figure dressed in dark clothes open the boot of the car carefully, then dart forward and close it again. The interior of the boot is too dark to be seen, but as the car was driven away, something that looked like fabric could be seen dangling from the boot.
A search of the grounds around the petrol station unearthed a discarded ‘pop-sock’. It was later to be linked, via DNA and skin particles, to Myrtle.
DC Weston immediately traced the black BMW to a Mr Hamish Wolfe, consultant surgeon. Wolfe was arrested.
His computer was seized. Had detectives been hoping to find a familiar IP address, they were disappointed. Wolfe had, though, made one big mistake. He’d posted, just once, on Jessie Tout’s Facebook page using the Harry Wilson account. It was the other crucial piece of evidence that was to seal his fate.
Chapter 15
ACCORDING TO ITS website, Minehead Caravan Park is one of Somerset’s most popular holiday destinations. Photographs on the website show the ‘homes’ painted the white of fresh milk, with picket fences and neat gardens. They show families making their way along reed-lined paths to the ‘miles of sandy beaches’ just a seashell’s throw from the closest caravans.
None of these photographs were taken in early December, at 6.30 in the evening, when the world is dark and the wind aspires to be gale force.
Maggie waits, her car engine ticking over, at the park entrance. The barrier shudders and lifts and, for a second, the ghostly movement unnerves her. Then she sees the security camera on top of the hut. Someone knows she’s here and that should be reassuring but somehow isn’t. She drives forward and the barrier closes behind her.
The road through the holiday village follows the line of the sea before curving inland towards the administration facility and social hall. In the near distance she can see the Ferris wheel and the helter-skelter of the fairground.