Following her call after meeting with Doctor Cordell he had returned to the yearbooks and searched for any student named Lorraine, and he had found one. Her photo had been included in the spring intake of 1990 as a scholarship student and then nothing. No graduation photo, no record of achievement. It was as though she had disappeared somewhere among the pages. Thorpe had been a student around that time and Dawson wondered if he remembered her.
The principal’s secretary shook her head. ‘I have five calls on hold, another seventeen messages from concerned parents seeking reassurance, and three mothers and fathers making their way here right now to speak to him directly.’
He ignored the look in her eyes as she said the words ‘concerned parents’ as though it was his fault. He’d been waiting half an hour.
‘But if I could just squeeze a minute in between—’
‘And get me fired?’ she asked. ‘We each have our priorities in our work, officer. And mine is assisting Principal Thorpe in limiting the damage of recent events.’
He would have liked her priority to be in catching a murderer or making sure no one else got hurt, just like him, but he managed to keep that thought to himself.
He began to wonder if he was going about this the wrong way. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He loosened his tie for good measure.
‘Yeah, I’ve got a boss just like it,’ he admitted with a wry smile. ‘Maybe you can help me,’ he said. ‘In fact, you’re probably the best person I could speak to,’ he added.
She tipped her head and smiled. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘I wanted to ask him about Lorraine Peters,’ he said.
‘Lorraine who?’ she asked, licking her lower lip.
‘An ex-student here,’ he clarified. ‘I wondered if you could tell me a little more about her.’
She stared at him blankly.
He offered her his best smile. ‘Maybe if you could just look up her records?’
She regarded him coolly. ‘Well, officer, you’ve tried flattery, trickery and good old-fashioned charm in the space of three minutes, so I’m giving you ten out of ten for effort,’ she said putting through another call.
This time his smile was genuine.
‘Give me her name again,’ she said, tapping a few keys.
‘Lorraine Peters,’ he said, gratefully.
She typed in the name and shook her head. Nothing.
‘She enrolled early nineties on a swimming scholarship,’ he said, offering the total sum of his knowledge.
She tried again and shook her head once more.
‘No records,’ she said. ‘And long before my time, so I can’t help you.’
Dawson frowned.
‘There has to be something, please try again,’ he asked.
She didn’t hide her irritation at his insistence as her external phone line began to ring again.
‘Sorry, officer, there is no education or attendance record for a girl named Lorraine Peters.’
Dawson stepped away from the desk. It appeared that the girl really had just disappeared.
Seventy-Five
Kim knocked on the door of flat 47a, the home of Monty Johnson.
The name of the occupant and the abode did not sit well together.
Two chains slid back to reveal a dark-haired man in a red-patterned dressing gown over shorts and a tee shirt. A freshly lit cigarette dangled from his fingertips.
‘Mr Johnson?’ she asked, doubtfully.
He huffed and rolled his eyes dramatically.
‘Well you clearly have no news for me if you’re asking me that,’ he said, and flounced back along the hallway to the living room. The open door indicated he wanted them to follow.
Kim had been in these flats before and usually a dark, narrow hallway led to a spacious light lounge with big windows.
The man stood next to the window, ignoring a smoking ashtray. He was clearly lighting one after the other.
Bryant reached towards the ashtray, and Kim offered him a warning glance. His abstinence was more than three years old, but still. He ground the offending cigarette against the ceramic edge, extinguishing it.
‘Why all the interest in Monty’s car?’ he asked, without turning.
His response told them he was not the man they were looking for.
‘Is Mr Johnson here?’ Bryant asked.
‘Obviously not,’ he answered shortly. ‘Now why are all those police—’
‘And you are?’ Kim asked, directly.
He turned, lips pursed at her tone.
‘I’m Monty’s significant other,’ he said, using his fingers to form speech marks around the phrase.
‘Name?’ Kim asked.
‘Rupert Downing,’ he answered. ‘Or Miss Kitty if you come to Nexus three nights a week.’
‘Thanks for that,’ Kim said. ‘Now about Mr Johnson. Can you—’
‘What the hell are they doing now?’ he squealed.
Kim glanced out of the window to see a tow truck parked behind the car.
‘The car is being removed for further examination, Mr Downing; now if you could just sit down I’ll—’
‘Examined for what?’ he asked, with his arms folded.
‘If you sit down I’ll explain,’ Kim said, as her limited well of patience began to run dry.
He sat, like a berated schoolboy, his hands folded neatly in his lap.
Kim sat opposite.
‘Sir, do you have any idea where Mr Johnson is? We really do need to speak to him.’
The man shook his head. ‘Is he in trouble?’
‘Yes, I think he might be. When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Last night,’ he answered. ‘Monty dropped me off at the club and then came home.’ He frowned and glanced outside. ‘At least I think he came home but now that you mention it…’
‘What?’
‘No cereal bowl,’ he said, nodding towards the kitchen. ‘Every morning he leaves his used bowl in the sink with cold water in, as though it’s going to clean itself. A standing joke between us, but there wasn’t one there this morning.’
‘But the car is outside,’ Kim queried.
‘Which is why I thought he’d come home.’
‘You haven’t tried to call him?’
‘Not until those people started to mess around his car.’
‘Why not?’ Kim asked, suspiciously. ‘How did you get home?’
‘I always take a taxi home from the club at around 1 a.m.’
‘And you didn’t wonder why the car was here and he was not?’ Kim queried.
He reached for the pack of cigarettes. ‘We’d had a row,’ he admitted. ‘I told him to drop dead and got out of the car.’
‘About what?’ Bryant asked.
‘Cheating, officer. I’m pretty sure Monty was cheating on me. Constantly on his phone, texting and stuff.’
‘And did he answer when you called?’ Kim asked.
Rupert shook his head. ‘No, it went straight to voicemail. I thought it was just him playing the drama queen but there’s something wrong, isn’t there?’
‘Is there any chance he could have gone somewhere for a drink to calm down, maybe had one too many?’
Rupert shook his head. ‘Absolutely not. He was wearing trackie bottoms with a rip at the knee. Monty would never have been seen out in such a state.’ He shook his head. ‘I really don’t understand what this is all about.’
Kim could feel the panic rising within him.
‘Mr Downing, we have reason to believe that Monty was involved in a road traffic incident last night. A very serious incident, I’m afraid.’
‘No, that can’t be right,’ he said. ‘Monty is a very careful driver. Sometimes feels like Driving Miss Daisy, to be honest. I can’t believe…’
His words trailed away as he glanced towards the window. The car was being winched onto the back of the truck, and the front end damage was obvious.
‘Mr Downing, we believe he hit someone,’ she explained.
His hand shook as he brought the cigarette to his mouth.
‘How serious?’ he asked.
‘The woman died,’ Kim said, pushing away the image of Joanna lying on the ground.
Rupert stood and began to pace.
‘No, no, no,’ he repeated, shaking his head. ‘It’s not possible. He always drives so carefully. It can’t be true. He’s never even had a minor accident.’
Her gaze met Bryant’s and she nodded.
Bryant coughed. ‘Mr Downing, we don’t believe it was an accident.’
‘What are you saying?’ he asked, as his hand went to his throat in horror.
‘We think Monty hit the victim deliberately.’
‘You are out of your minds, officers,’ he said, looking from one to the other. ‘Monty wouldn’t hurt a soul.’
‘Does the name Joanna Wade mean anything to you?’
He shook his head, still reeling from their words.
‘I don’t know that name. Is that the lady that was… that…’
‘Yes,’ Kim confirmed. ‘That’s the woman that Monty hit. She died at the scene.’