The Long Call (Two Rivers #1) - Ann Cleeves Page 0,67
night before, she’d have opened a bottle of wine, called up to Ella to see if she fancied a glass, so she wasn’t drinking alone, then finished most of it herself anyway. But Matthew had been there, asking for camomile tea, so the wine had been left unopened. He’d listened to her, trusted her instinct about Walden, and that was where they started this morning.
‘We know now that Walden had access to a substantial sum of money. I need you to track it down. Now. I can’t understand why that hasn’t already happened. So, let’s have one person dedicated to that. Go through our fraud experts; they have contacts in the banks. It’s hard these days to open an account in a bogus name so it shouldn’t be difficult to trace. I think it’s highly possible that Walden was living in a flat or house of his own before moving into Hope Street. If we find his bank account, that’ll give us an address for him.’ Matthew was standing at the front of the room, softly spoken but demanding their attention. Jen knew a little of his background and thought there was still something of the zealot about him. She’d known nuns with the same passion, the same presence. She’d have followed them to the end of the world, believed every word they said. Until she’d grown up.
‘This is even more important.’ Matthew was handing out copies of Christine Shapland’s photograph. ‘We talked about her yesterday. She’s now been missing for two nights. A woman with Down’s syndrome who left her day centre, part of the Woodyard complex, on Tuesday afternoon. I spoke to her uncle yesterday.’ Another photograph was handed out – Jen knew Matthew had been in early to source that, taken it from a piece in the North Devon Journal covering the man’s retirement. ‘Dennis Salter. He also happens to be on the board of trustees at the Woodyard, chosen because of his background in finance. He was supposed to have collected Christine from the Woodyard but claims to have missed her. Let’s dig around a bit and see what we can find. Was his car picked up on CCTV anywhere on Tuesday late afternoon or evening?’
Matthew paused for breath. There was silence in the room. ‘I think it’s possible that Christine might have evaded him deliberately and tried to make her own way home. I’ve checked with the transport company used by the centre and they didn’t deliver her back that afternoon. Home is a cottage on the edge of Braunton Marsh. Can we check the public service buses going out that way? Let’s get this out to the media now, see if anyone gave her a lift. There are always people walking the footpath along the creek on their way to the shore. Ross, you head out there and talk to the people in the area. If we get an inkling that she might have got that far, we’ll organize a search along the river. I’d even be prepared to get the public involved.’
Jen smiled at that. Matthew hated anything flash or showy. He didn’t like media attention and photos of well-meaning people in rows walking across the saltmarsh would certainly attract the press. Now, he turned to her.
‘Jen, you take the Woodyard. Catch the staff as they come in. It’s a strange warren of a place. The day centre is in its own building to the back of the yard attached by a glass corridor to the rest of the complex, but the users go through the main entrance hall to come in and out. That’s used by everyone: the cafe customers, school parties, people coming in for adult education classes. Someone might have seen a stranger approaching her, chatting to her. She’d be trusting. If they said her mother had asked them to give her a lift home, she’d probably go with them.’
Jen nodded, but felt a stab of resentment. She’d come up with the new theory about Simon Walden having his own place somewhere, but it felt as if she’d been side-lined, taken off the murder inquiry. Matthew was still talking and it was as if he’d read her mind. His words were directed at her.
‘I’m convinced that Christine’s disappearance and Walden’s murder are linked somehow. I have no idea how they can be. But the Woodyard is there at the heart of the inquiry.’
She nodded again, wondering for a moment if she was being soft-soaped, taken for a mug, before deciding