Darkness Falls (Kate Marshall, #3)(3)

DEVASTATED MOTHER OF LOCAL JOURNALIST JOANNA DUNCAN APPEALS FOR WITNESSES TO HER DAUGHTER’S DISAPPEARANCE NEAR EXETER TOWN CENTRE.

WHERE DID JO GO?

PHONE FOUND ABANDONED WITH CAR

IN DEANSGATE CAR PARK

Another from the Sun newspaper said:

WEST COUNTRY LOCAL JOURNALIST VANISHES

“I live with my partner, Bill,” said Bev. “We’ve been together for years, but I recently moved in with him. I used to live on the Moor Side council estate on the outskirts of Exeter . . . Quite different.”

Another headline, dated December 1, 2002, which acknowledged that Joanna had been missing for almost three months, caught Kate’s eye.

Nearly all the articles used the same photo of Joanna Duncan, on a beach against blue sky and perfect white sand. She had bright-blue eyes, high cheekbones, a strong nose, and slightly bucked front teeth. She was smiling in the photo. There was a large red carnation tucked behind her left ear, and she held a halved coconut containing a cocktail umbrella.

“You said that Joanna was a journalist?” asked Kate.

“Yes. For the West Country News. She was going places. She wanted to move to London and work on one of the tabloids. She loved her job. She’d just got married. Jo and her husband, Fred, wanted kids . . . She went missing on Saturday, the seventh of September. She’d been at work in Exeter and then left around five thirty. One of her colleagues saw her go. It was less than a quarter of a mile walk from the newspaper offices to the multistory car park, but somewhere along the way, something happened. She just vanished into thin air . . . We found her car in the multistory; her phone was underneath. The police had nothing. They had no suspects. They spent nearly thirteen years doing God knows what, and then I got a phone call from them last week, telling me that after twelve years, the case is now inactive. They’ve given up on finding Jo. I have to find out what happened to her. I know she’s probably dead; I want to find her and put her properly to rest. I saw an article about you in the National Geographic, how you found the body of that young woman who’d been missing for twenty years . . . Then I googled you and saw you’ve just started your own detective agency. Is that right?”

“Yes,” said Kate.

“I like that you’re a woman. I’ve spent so many years dealing with policemen who’ve patronized me,” said Bev, her voice rising in defiance. “Could we meet? I can come over to your offices.”

Kate glanced up at what was passing for their “offices.” The space they were using had been Myra’s living room. It still had the old 1970s patterned carpet, and their desk was an opened-out leafed dining table. Along one wall were bottles of urinal disinfectant and packs of paper towels for the caravan site. A large corkboard on the wall had a note that said ACTIVE CASES pinned at the top, but it was empty. Since the conclusion of their most recent job, a background check on a young man for his prospective employer, the agency had had no work. When Myra left her estate to Kate, it was on the condition that she quit her job and pursue her ambition to start a detective agency. They’d been up and running for nine months, but building the agency into something that could make a profit was proving to be tough.

“Why don’t I come and meet you with my colleague, Tristan?” said Kate.

Tristan Harper was Kate’s partner in the agency, and he was out at his other job today. Three days a week he worked at Ashdean University as a research assistant.

“Yes. I remember Tristan from the National Geographic article . . . Listen, I’m free tomorrow? But you’re probably all booked up.”

“Let me talk to Tristan, check our diary, and I’ll call you right back,” said Kate.

When she put the phone down at the end of the call, her heart was thumping with excitement.





2


At the same time Kate was finishing her call, Tristan Harper was sitting in his sister’s small glass-walled office in the Barclays Bank on Ashdean High Street.

“Okay. Let’s get this over with,” he said, sliding the plastic folder containing his mortgage application across the desk. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“What do you mean?”

“Your interrogation into my finances.”

“Would you wear that if I was a stranger interviewing you for a new mortgage application?” said Sarah, opening the folder and peering at him across her desk.

“This is what I wear for work,” said Tristan, looking down at his smart white V-neck T-shirt, jeans, and trainers.

“A bit informal for a bank interview, though,” she said, adjusting her gray jacket and blue blouse. Sarah was twenty-eight, three years older than Tristan, but sometimes she seemed twenty years older.

“When I arrived, I didn’t see many people lining up to cash their giros wearing three-piece suits. And these trainers are limited-edition Adidas.”

“And how much did they cost?”

“Enough. They’re an investment. Aren’t they gorgeous?” he said, grinning.

Sarah rolled her eyes and nodded. “They’re very cool.”

Tristan was tall with a lean, muscular frame. His forearms were covered in tattoos, and the head of the eagle tattoo across his chest poked up from the V-neck of his T-shirt. They looked alike, brother and sister, with the same soft brown eyes. Tristan’s chestnut-brown curly hair was now shoulder length and tousled. Whereas Sarah’s hair was tied back and neatly tamed with straighteners.