Seven Days(65)

He’d woken and his first thought had been of the heroin and he’d smiled. For a while, he lay in bed, watching the sun stream in through the gap in the curtains. It was a lovely summer day. He could go for a walk. Head up to the countryside. Maybe hike up Kinder Scout and look down on Manchester below. He imagined lying on the rocks, feeling their warmth against his back, the sound of a brook lulling him to sleep, a gentle breeze keeping him cool. Or maybe sit and read the paper in his garden with a cup of tea.

Maybe call Penny and say, Sorry about yesterday, do you still want a drink?

No. Why bother? That was too complicated. Too difficult. Too risky. Something might go wrong.

He knew what he wanted. He wanted that feeling again.

He’d be back in work Monday, but why not spend one weekend happy? It wasn’t like he’d get addicted. You couldn’t get addicted doing it twice.

He swung his legs out of bed. The house was quiet, but Carl wouldn’t mind being woken up.





Four Years Earlier: July 2014


DI Wynne



1


Wynne’s phone rang. A number she didn’t know, with an unfamiliar area code. Probably some telemarketing bullshit.

But maybe not.

‘This is Wynne.’

‘Detective Inspector Wynne? This is DS Liz Dales, from Alsbury.’

Wynne straightened in her chair. She reached for a pencil.

‘Yes. How can I help?’

‘We received a request related to a letter posted two days ago somewhere in the village. We were asked to review any CCTV footage that might show who posted it.’

‘That’s right. The request came from me.’

‘Well, we think we have it. We think we have the letter being posted.’

‘Who was it?’

‘A man in his late fifties, maybe early sixties. He lives here in the village.’

‘Thanks,’ Wynne said. ‘We’ll be there as soon as we can. Do nothing until we arrive.’





2


The letters had continued to come every year around the anniversary. There was no letter on the seventh year – like the third year – but other than that they came. Mocking, boastful, sick. They were posted in various locations around the north of England, dropped into a postbox by the man – she assumed it was a man – who had abducted Maggie Cooper.

Wynne had spent hours reading them, looking for some clue, but there was nothing. At least nothing in the letters themselves. She had wondered why he had missed the third and seventh anniversaries. There must have been a reason. It could have been as simple as illness, or laziness, but Wynne didn’t think so. She thought something had prevented him from sending them, something like prison, or a stint working abroad.

So she had checked the prison admissions in those years, looking for someone from the Warrington area who had been locked up in the third year, free in the fourth, and back inside in the seventh. There were one or two, but it had come to nothing. She checked the same with the Army; again, nothing.

And now she had the latest letter.

DEAR DETECTIVE INSPECTOR WYNNE:

EIGHT YEARS, DETECTIVE INSPECTOR. COMING UP ON A DECADE AND YOU’RE NO CLOSER TO FINDING ME OR MAGGIE. I SEE YOU IN THE NEWS FROM TIME TO TIME, COMMENTING ON YOUR INVESTIGATIONS. ARE THEY AS MUCH OF A FAILURE AS THIS ONE? YOU WOULDN’T SAY SO, WOULD YOU?

I’LL RAISE A GLASS AGAIN THIS YEAR! EIGHT LONG YEARS. AND THERE’LL BE ANOTHER EIGHT. OR MORE. YOU HAVE NO CHANCE, DETECTIVE INSPECTOR WYNNE, NONE AT ALL.

AND YOU KNOW IT, WHICH IS THE BEST THING OF ALL.

YOURS SINCERELY,

???

But this time, the sender had made a mistake.

And Wynne was not going to waste the opportunity.





3


The letter was postmarked Alsbury, a small village in North Yorkshire.

A tiny village. No more than a road, a pub, a few houses and a petrol station. How many postboxes could there be in a village that size?

Wynne had asked and there were two. One near the pub, and one opposite the petrol station. The petrol station had CCTV and the camera covered the postbox, and, according to the DS who had called, the CCTV had recorded a man in his fifties or sixties posting a letter.

It was him. Wynne knew it.

The drive took over two hours. On the way, DI Wynne explained as much of the case as she could to her partner, DS Chan. When they arrived at the police station it was closed, but as they pulled up the side door opened and a woman in her late forties stepped outside.

‘DI Wynne?’ she said.

Wynne nodded and shook her hand. ‘Thank you for waiting.’

‘DS Liz Dales.’

‘Nice to meet you. This is DS Paul Chan.’

‘Come in.’

They went into a small office at the back of the building. Dales sat at the desk in front of a computer.

‘I must say, it was a very intriguing request,’ she said. ‘Was there any footage of someone posting a single C4 envelope on Wednesday afternoon? I didn’t hold out much hope. I thought there would be a lot of people doing it.’

‘But there weren’t?’ DS Chan asked.

‘No. Quite a few people posting letters, but only one posting a large white envelope.’ Dales pressed a key and a window popped up. On it was a still image of the garage forecourt, the postbox to the left. She pressed another key and a man walked on screen. He was wearing loose-fitting chinos, a short-sleeved shirt, and a flat cap. He approached the postbox, took an envelope from his back pocket, and put it into the slot.