Local Gone Missing(62)

“He was on his left side, knees drawn up and arms by his side. The open injury to his head was on the right side, two inches behind his ear. The ear and scalp were badly torn during the assault. We’re looking for some sort of heavy tool.”

“Did Charlie die here?” Elise looked into the shadows cast by the police lights.

“Not yet confirmed but we’re pretty sure this is where he was hit with the weapon—we’ve found bone fragments from his skull and a small amount of blood. He’d also been in another room. Come through.”

Caro led her back down the corridor to a tiled room lit with more arc lights. “It used to be the scullery. And there’s been an attempt to clean it—we’ve found bleach and scouring powder on some of the surfaces but it wasn’t a very thorough job. No blood has been found in here but the SOCOs detected traces of bodily fluids—possibly urine—in the grouting between the tiles in that corner. Money on it being Charlie’s.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Only his. Whoever was down here with him must have been wearing gloves.”

I can’t see Pauline Perry wielding the bleach and Marigolds, Elise thought, and had a sudden memory of Pauline throwing away the bowl of foul-smelling water. Had she been cleaning up?

“Pauline was in the house with a blue plastic washing-up bowl on Monday when I got here,” she said.

“Was it one of these?” Caro said as she consulted photographs on her phone.

Elise looked at the screen. There was a blue bowl lined up with several buckets outside the caravan.

“That could be it.”

While Caro went off to retrieve and bag it, Elise looked round the scullery. It made her heart sink to think of anyone spending their last moments in here with just a stinking hole in the floor.

“What was he doing down here,” she said as Caro reappeared, “if Charlie had been in the house since Friday? It’s freezing and damp, got no phone signal, and there’s no furniture. He can’t have slept in here. He had dozens of rooms to choose from—if I was hiding, this would be the last place I’d pick.”

“Yeah, it’s like a cell,” Caro said.

“It is.” Elise had been turning the idea over and over in her mind since walking into the room. “But Aoife says he wasn’t tied up.”

“And the door doesn’t have a lock. We searched the house on day one but didn’t find anything significant. DI Ward was convinced Charlie was hiding in here, ran into the cellar, had his heart attack, and was hit in frustration by the pursuer.”

Elise looked round the room again. “Maybe. Do you remember Pauline said she never went upstairs in the big house when she was being questioned—and then got all defensive. I think we should search the house again. Top to bottom.”

“Right.”

Elise could hear the edge in her sergeant’s voice as she organized the new search and wondered how she would cope with changing horses midway through a case.

“Boss, up here.” Caro’s voice echoed down through the floors above. Elise was panting by the time she reached the top of the house.

“Okay, we’ve found a door we missed first time,” Caro said, cutting her off at the landing. “It’s at the end of the attic. No handle—so that explains the screwdriver—the door’s wallpapered to match the walls and there was a bookcase in front of it. Not making excuses, just saying. I’ll have whoever cocked up.”

Two young officers stopped talking as soon as Elise walked in. The only window was broken and choked with vegetation invading from the roof but she could see a stained sun lounger, a sleeping bag, a bucket, and a table spread with letters and bills.

“Never mind bollocking people. That can wait. Let’s get going up here. This was where Charlie was hiding. But who from? And what made him leave? It doesn’t look like he was coming back, does it?”

“No. He had his laptop and passport in his bag.”

“He was going on the run. But he didn’t make it out of the house.”

“Look, there’s lots to get on with here, boss. I’m taking you home. We’ll have more in the morning.”

Elise suddenly didn’t have the energy to argue. She trudged back down, stepping over broken treads and clinging to the banisters as the many faces of Charlie Perry danced in her head: devoted father, local saint, frightened victim, fake. . . .





BEFORE





Forty-six


SATURDAY, AUGUST 24, 2019



Five days earlier





Charlie


The sun lounger creaked ominously as he turned over and tried to sit up the first time. His watch said two twenty-five. And it was definitely daylight. So Saturday afternoon. Charlie touched his head to check it was still there. He felt like death. His mouth tasted of death. He hadn’t drunk himself to a standstill like that for a while and his bladder felt like it was about to explode. He tried to swing his legs over the side of his makeshift bed and realized he was too late. It already had. He felt the sticky dampness of his trousers against his legs. Smelled it. God, has it really come to this? He needed to get himself together. Get ready. He found the brandy bottle and finished the last of it, slumped backward, and went back to sleep.

When he woke again, the sun was shining on his face and his watch said eight ten and it took him a moment to figure out it must be Sunday. Christ!