‘Hang on!’ he shouted, running back down the stairs.
This was her chance. She yanked the towel rail and watched as a chink of plaster came away. Nearly there. When she yanked again, one side of the rail dropped. She pulled the whole thing away from the wall and grabbed the loose chain. Downstairs, she could hear him arguing with his mother while trying to round up the dog. The dog barked and yelped. She grabbed the towel and wrapped it around her shivering body. He’d be back any moment. She needed to take him by surprise and get out. She needed something to attack him with. She slid around on the floor until she managed to dry her feet on a small mat.
Running to the kitchenette, she grabbed the old metal kettle. With trembling hands, she opened a couple of drawers. Maybe there was a knife or fork. The drawers were empty.
She heard the door slam shut. He was coming back. The dog and the old lady had gone. It was just him and her. She waited at the top of the steps, her back to the wall. As he neared she held the kettle high. He stopped halfway up, not making a sound. She held her breath. The kettle quivered in her weak arms. She shuffled away from the wall, scared she would tap it. He took another step and stopped. The water falling from her hair threatened to expose her whereabouts. Drip, drip, drip.
‘Come out, Debbie,’ he called.
Her heart hammered as the sobs burst out from her chest. The chain rattled as she ran from behind the door straight into him on the stairs. She whacked him with the kettle. They both tumbled in a heap down the steps, landing on the oily floor below. She pushed up on her hands and grabbed at the towel around her chest. As he went to stand, she kicked him in the stomach and pushed him hard. She screamed as she scurried past him and darted towards the door. ‘Help!’ she called, knowing that the old woman couldn’t be too far away. She’d surprised him with her attack. All she had were moments in which to get away. ‘Help!’ she cried again, as she reached for the main door.
Thirty-Three
Gina stepped out of the car, closely followed by Jacob. As the cold air hit his throat, he began to cough. She passed him a pack of lozenges. ‘Thanks,’ he said, as they reached the door and Gina pressed the buzzer. The grey industrial unit stood at the top end of the estate. It was surrounded by leafless trees that were crowned by the heavy grey winter sky.
A crow squawked as it landed on a branch. ‘They’re taking their time to answer,’ Gina said as she checked her watch and rubbed her cold arms. As she pressed the buzzer again a woman opened the door. ‘DI Harte,’ Gina said, holding up her identification. ‘We called earlier.’
‘Please come in. I’m Lynne Hastings, we spoke on the phone.’
Gina had originally interviewed Lynne when Debbie had disappeared. The woman was now hobbling along and looking frailer than expected, considering she was only in her mid-forties.
‘You’ll have to excuse me; osteoporosis is a destructive condition. Some days good, some days not so good. Today, not so good – but less about my problems. You’ve come about Debbie, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’ The two detectives followed the woman past the workshop, up some metal stairs and along a mezzanine. The main office of Avant Conservatories was in front of them. Lynne opened the door to the left and led them into a small boardroom. The tired furniture filled the middle of the room. A picture of one of the conservatories they made had been left at a wonky angle. Gina felt her fingers twitching as her desire to realign the picture built up. Jacob pulled a tissue out of his pocket and blew his nose.
‘I’m glad. Debbie’s disappearance has haunted us all. We talk about her often.’ The woman grabbed a walking stick that was leaning against the wall and used it as she headed to the door. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
Jacob shook his head. ‘Coffee, please,’ Gina replied.
‘How do you want to do this? Shall I gather up the staff you previously interviewed and bring them all in or do you want them in turn?’ Lynne asked.
Gina opened her file. ‘I’d like to speak to a couple of them separately. Are they all still here?’
Lynne pulled open the door to the main office and the corridor and boardroom were momentarily filled with the hum of ringing phones and people talking. ‘Ah, Gabby, can you please get DI Harte a coffee?’ Gina remembered speaking to Gabby before. Deborah had worked with her in the office, handling the administration.
‘Will do,’ the woman replied as she walked away.
Lynne hobbled back towards them and sat at the head of the conference table. Gina and Jacob took out their notebooks and pens.
‘We are currently going over statements made in relation to the disappearance of Deborah Jenkins on the twentieth of December 2013. The last people to see her were her work colleagues.’ Gina glanced at her notes. ‘She’d been working late, making up time as she’d watched her children’s school play earlier that day—’
‘We told her she didn’t need to make the time up,’ Lynne said. Gina remained silent, listening for what was to come next. ‘I’ve lived with this for a long time. If only I’d been more insistent that she went home, but Debbie was headstrong. She always paid her dues, as she described it. She wasn’t one for having something for nothing, which is why she insisted on making up the time. We left her on her own. Not one of us wanted to stay that night. If I could change things, I’d stay, maybe even drive her home. I can’t believe—’
‘Mrs Hastings, it’s not your fault. Can you remember anything else about that day, any small thing?’ Gina asked.
Lynne stared at the table before shaking her head. ‘From what I remember, it was just a typical day. Production was going at its regular pace for the time of year. There were no absences. I think we told you all that at the time. No one looked out of place or troubled. I’ve wracked my brain since, trying to make sense of it. Keeping an eye on things in case anything or anyone seems out of place, but nothing stands out at all.’ Lynne began rubbing her wrist as she looked up.
‘Thank you, Mrs Hastings. Can we just ask about your current staff? Has anyone left since?’
The woman glanced aside and looked back as she recalled the information. ‘Oliver Stain in production sadly passed away six months after Debbie’s disappearance. Leukaemia.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Gina said.
‘It was a sad time for all of us here. What with Debbie too. In production, we still have Callum Nelson and Lukas Bosko. As you can appreciate, many have come and gone, but I think the rest were eliminated from your enquiries at the time.’
Gina glanced at her notes. The rest of the production team had alibis for the evening in question. One had stopped at a petrol station, a group of four had gone to the pub together straight after work and the others had arrived home on time, long before Deborah had left. The time of her leaving had been confirmed by the setting of the company security alarm and the CCTV that showed her walking away, across the car park and down the path. Lukas had been picked up by his girlfriend and she’d provided his alibi. He’d been home by five thirty and had been Skyping his mother in Poland at the time Deborah left work. She’d placed a question mark next to Callum’s name. ‘Can we speak to Callum Nelson first?’
‘Of course.’ Lynne lifted the receiver on the phone and pressed a single number. She requested that they send Callum up. ‘He’s on his way.’
‘Could we ask you to leave while we speak to Mr Nelson?’ Jacob asked.
‘Is he in trouble?’ Lynne asked as she stood.