Darkness Falls (Kate Marshall, #3)(30)

“His name has come up in conjunction with another person who’s missing,” said Kate. “A journalist called Joanna Duncan. She disappeared in September 2002.”

Shelley sat back in her chair and frowned; they could see her thinking, like the name rang a bell.

“She was a journalist at the West Country News,” she said.

“Yes. She vanished on Saturday, September seventh, 2002,” said Kate.

“This is odd . . . Why was this journalist involved with David’s disappearance?”

“She’s not involved,” said Kate. “We think Joanna was potentially looking into David’s disappearance and the disappearance of another guy called Gabe Kemp. Does his name mean anything to you?”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Shelley. She frowned again, got up, and went to the window, looking out over the garden. It had started to rain, and in the quiet of her thinking, they could hear the droplets tapping against the glass. Tristan went to say something, but Kate shook her head. It was better to let her speak when she was ready. Shelley came back to the table and sat down.

“Okay, this is strange. Back in 2002, me and Kev went on holiday to the Seychelles. We always used to go later to avoid the school holidays. We came back in the second week of September, and there was a message on the answering machine from Joanna Duncan at the West Country News.”

Kate and Tristan exchanged a look.

“I’m sorry to ask this, but are you sure it was Joanna Duncan?” asked Kate.

“Absolutely.”

“Why did she leave a message?”

“It was a long time ago. She said that she was a journalist and wanted to talk to me informally. She said sorry she couldn’t be more specific, but if I could call her back, she would explain. She left me her number,” said Shelley.

“How do you remember this, after such a long time?” asked Tristan.

“The message on the answerphone was a week or so old when we got back from our holiday, and by then, it was all over the news that a journalist called Joanna Duncan had gone missing. I called back the number and left a message with someone at the newspaper, but they never got back to me.”

“Do you remember who you spoke to?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to the police?” asked Kate.

“No. I didn’t know why she was calling me. I thought, at the time, it was to do with the Marco Polo House office block. Some local businessmen bought it and tried to cover up the fact that there was a ton of asbestos in the walls. They started to renovate it, and it’s next to one of the biggest schools in the area. I’d been involved in a campaign to have it removed, and we’d got a lot of signatures. We’d written to lots of newspapers and the BBC Watchdog program. I assumed she was calling about that. Was she writing a story about David?”

“We’re not sure,” said Kate. “I found David’s name written down by Joanna as part of the case files, and I only found you from the donation you made in David’s name to the garden crowdfunder.”

Shelley took another sip of her tea. “Have you got a photo of Gabe Kemp, in case I might recognize him?”

Tristan pulled out his phone and scrolled through to the photo he’d saved from the UK missing persons website. Shelley looked at it for a moment and then sighed and shook her head.

“No. Sorry. I never knew him.”

“Could we show you another photo?” asked Tristan. He scrolled through and found a photo of George Tomassini. “He’s in fancy dress there. The guy on the left, dressed as Freddie Mercury.”

“I remember Monsterfat Cowbelly,” she said with a smile.

“You do?”

“She used to do the rounds of the pubs in Exeter. I don’t recognize the guy with her, though.”

“Are you sure?” asked Kate, wishing they had a regular photo of George.

Shelley looked again and then shook her head.

“We think George Tomassini disappeared around the middle of 2002. We haven’t got a concrete date, but he wasn’t officially reported as a missing person like David and Gabe,” said Kate. “What happened after you reported David missing in June 1999?”

“Nothing,” said Shelley. “I don’t think the police took it seriously. I chased it up a couple of times, but I never heard from them again.”

“He’s still listed on the UK missing persons database,” said Kate.

“I know. I gave them a copy of passport photos I had of David, not that he ever got a passport . . . He’d been troubled for a while before he went missing . . . I presume you know that he was arrested for manslaughter?”

“No, we didn’t,” said Kate, exchanging a glance with Tristan.

“David was badly into drugs and putting himself in dangerous situations. It was all very intoxicating to him, to suddenly be adored by these older guys on the gay scene. Some of them would buy him gifts, and he’d jump into relationships, move in with them, only for it to go pear shaped, and he was knocking on my door, or back at the commune. There was this older man called Sidney Newett.”

“How much older?” asked Kate.

“Must have been early fifties. David went back to his house one night, and they were partying. Sidney Newett’s wife was away on holiday with the Women’s Institute. David found Sidney dead in the back garden the next morning, panicked, and ran, but he left his wallet behind, and a neighbor saw him. The police eventually dropped the charges when they discovered Sidney died of a heart attack. It sent David off into a deeper depression. There were always parties at the commune, so it wasn’t the best place for him to be.”