Blood on the Rocks

ONE

Monday 22 October, 8.20 a.m.

‘Still get in through the door, can you?’

Joanna shot him a baleful glare. ‘Bugger off, Korpanski.’

He simply grinned, knowing he had another jibe up his sleeve. Joanna dropped into her chair and Korpanski took in her outfit with some surprise. ‘You still cycling in, Jo?’

‘It’s the only thing that still makes me feel half human and less a dumper truck.’

He looked dubious. ‘I don’t think I’d have been very keen on Fran cycling through a pregnancy.’

‘I’m not Fran, am I?’

Korpanski opened his mouth to respond but quickly shut it again without asking what Matthew thought about her cycling at this time.

She’d picked up on something. ‘You got something up your sleeve, Korpanski?’

‘Yeah, I have.’

‘Well, spit it out.’

But DS Mike Korpanski was taking his time. He was going to get maximum satisfaction out of this one. ‘Something right in your line.’

‘Go on.’

‘Old man gone AWOL from a residential home.’

Her head whipped round. ‘And you think I should be investigating this, do you?’

He’d picked up on her dangerous tone all right but DS Korpanski enjoyed sailing close to the wind. He nodded, not even trying to suppress a smile.

Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy glared at her detective sergeant. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

Korpanski didn’t respond to the furious demand as she continued her rant. ‘You really want me to investigate an old man who’s wandered away from a residential home? Mike,’ she appealed, ‘I know I’m pregnant and have the belly of a blue whale and the brain of a flea but, bloody hell, I haven’t sunk that low. Haven’t you got uniforms looking out for him? He can’t have gone far.’

‘The uniforms haven’t come up with anything, Jo.’

‘Well, get them to look harder then. It’s hardly something for us.’

He was grinning at her as he leaned back in his seat, tempted to spin it around, peer into his computer screen and avoid seeing the fire that was burning in her eyes. ‘As he hasn’t turned up so far, Chief Superintendent Gabriel Rush, your favourite CS ever, says we should be asking questions and getting involved.’

‘And you think it’s one for me.’

‘The sooner he’s found, Jo, the sooner we can all get on with some real work.’

He followed that up with, ‘Besides, a nice easy task like this. I thought it’d be right up your street.’

She almost ground her teeth before realizing that was exactly the response he’d been counting on, so modified it to, ‘You,’ she said, finger pointing, ‘are trying your bloody luck, Mike. I don’t even give birth for a couple of months. I can’t do crap like this until then. I’m an inspector, for goodness’ sake. Matthew already wants to wrap me up in cotton wool, ban me from riding my bike. He wants us to spend our time off together looking at prams and cribs and …’ And then it was all too much for her and she dropped her face into her hands, almost sinking her head on to the desk. ‘Mike,’ she appealed again, ‘how on earth am I going to cope with all that? Matthew’s parents simply can’t wait to become acting grandparents though …’ Mercurial as ever, she smothered a grin herself now. ‘I can’t say my mum is quite so keen. In fact, she’s keeping her distance, as is my sister and her pair of brats.’

Korpanski bit back the retort, don’t blame them, contenting himself with a long sigh which could have meant anything and smirked into his computer screen as she continued with her rant.

‘This whole role – it’s not me. I’m not some earth mother.’

He turned around then, studied her face and read only apprehension. And he felt an unexpected wash of sympathy for her misgivings, realizing they were all centred on her doubts about the approaching ‘happy event’. ‘Jo,’ he said, wanting to reassure her, ‘you’ll love it. Take to it like a duck to water. It’s a piece of cake. Nothing to it being a mum. It’ll all come naturally, I promise you.’

She was unconvinced, her doubt failing to melt away but staying, a block of ice inside her heart. ‘I’m not so sure,’ she confessed. ‘Unlike Matthew who just can’t wait to cuddle it. He’s so convinced it’s a boy, Mike, he’s even chosen a name.’

Korpanski chuckled. ‘So what is it?’

Shoulders up in exasperation. ‘He won’t tell me.’

Korpanski smiled. He and his wife had had a pact. He could choose his daughter’s name, Jocelyn, while his wife had chosen their son’s: Richard, who was never ever called anything but Ricky.

‘And just think of his disappointment if it’s another girl.’ She gulped. ‘Another Eloise.’

‘He’ll get used to it.’ And as she still looked unconvinced he added, ‘Well, at least he’s not Henry VIII and won’t be chopping your head off for a child of the wrong sex.’

They both laughed at this and the atmosphere melted while the surrounding officers looked up from their desks and thanked their lucky stars for the way DS Korpanski could deflect their inspector’s growing irritability which was only matched by her increasing girth.

When they’d stopped laughing Mike couldn’t resist tacking on, ‘You can find out the sex of the child before it’s born, you know. You don’t have to wait, Jo. Maybe it’ll take some of the stress out of it?’

‘No, thanks.’ She held up her hand. ‘Heaven forbid. I wouldn’t exactly be enamoured at the thought of another Eloise growing like a tumour inside me.’

Korpanski looked over, dark eyes concerned. ‘I’d keep that particular thought to yourself.’

And even she realized she’d crossed a line. ‘Yeah. You’re right. I guess so. I’ll cross that bridge when I meet it.’

Korpanski rested his large, meaty paw on her shoulder. ‘It’ll all be worth it, Jo, I promise.’

And she nodded, thinking, maybe, maybe not. Too late now.

If Matthew had the son he so fiercely desired, it would be worth it all – the sickness, the nausea, the tiredness, the huge waistline, the horrible clothes and big knickers. It would all be worth it just to see that wondrous look on his face again – the very same look that had lit his face when she had first told him she was pregnant. A look she hadn’t seen since they’d first become lovers – a sort of amazed disbelief at his good fortune. The realization of a dream which was coming true, the fulfilment of his ambition.

Mike brought her back to the present. ‘I tell you, Jo. When you have your baby, be it son or daughter, you will love it more than life itself. They become everything to you. More important than career or ambition or anything else. They become your life. Your future.’

She looked at her sergeant, at his dark eyes and tall, burly form and felt a wave of affection matched only by her interest in these foreign emotions he was describing. ‘You really feel that strongly about Ricky and Jossie?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I do. I’d give my life for them, Jo.’ But even as he spoke the words he sensed the vulnerability this confession exposed, which for a moment knocked him silent and made him thoughtful, dark eyes clouded even at the thought.

‘And you really think I’ll feel like that …’ she rested her hands on her bump, ‘when this child is born?’

He nodded.

‘Matthew already does.’

Korpanski simply nodded again and she held out her hand for the notes she’d spied on his desk. ‘OK, then,’ she said. ‘I give in. Tell me about the case?’

Sensing the storm was now abating, Korpanski tossed the few papers across the desk. ‘Here it is, Inspector Piercy,’ he said, smothering his grin. ‘Old guy with dementia missing from a residential home. We’ve already alerted the local lads but he hasn’t turned up so far. And that’s about it.’

She took the notes from him. Read the top line.

Zachary Foster, age ninety-six, missing some time during the night from Ryland’s Residential Home. Absence noted seven a.m. Suffers from dementia. Stroke two years ago. Speech impaired. She looked up.

‘Hardly a major case,’ she said wryly. ‘How are the mighty fallen.’

And to that even Korpanski couldn’t produce an answer.

TWO

Monday 22 October, 9.30 a.m.

They wouldn’t exactly be using the blue light to drive to Ryland’s. There was no hurry. The longer they left it, the likelier it was that the old boy would turn up of his own accord. Joanna had googled the home and read only glowing reviews.

‘Cared for my dad like one of their own.’

‘A pleasant, welcoming atmosphere.’

‘Wonderful, kind staff.’

‘They even made Mum a birthday cake.’

And so on. By the time they got there, she guessed, the old guy would have wandered back. They’d be met at the door by an apologetic matron and sent on their way, back to the station and Korpanski’s jibes.

She’d elected to bring PC Bridget Anderton with her. Besides the fact that she would do well interviewing confused elderly people, Joanna had an ulterior motive.

Bridget had three children. That meant three pregnancies and, presumably, three labours. If anyone knew about childbirth it was Bridget Anderton. As the time approached, Joanna was becoming increasingly anxious about this inevitability. Considering her husband had done three months’ obstetrics in his medical student days, Matthew had not been very helpful on this subject. He’d ummed and aahed and said, ‘They just get on with it.’ She’d wanted more details. A personal view from someone who had actually experienced labour and giving birth. At the back of her mind she was curious and increasingly concerned. The baby was growing and somehow, in the not too distant future, it was going to have to make an appearance, which meant being pushed out of her nether regions by her – unless, of course, she opted for or needed a caesarean section. She wanted Bridget’s story straight from the horse’s … she smirked. Not exactly the mouth.

She glanced at her watch. It was now ten a.m. Mr Zachary Foster had been missing for anything up to eight hours. Even so the chances were that he was still not too far away, probably cowering in a shop doorway or trying to buy a coffee in the Red Cross charity shop on the Butter Market. But no one had rung in so far.

She and Bridget made their way to the car, walking through chilly sunshine, anticipating the simple case ahead.

When, later on, she returned to that moment, she found herself again in that comfortable place where this disappearance was nothing more than a confused old man who had wandered out of a residential home which probably had next-to-no security measures. Later on she might wish herself back there.

Somehow Bridget, with her sensitive and intuitive nature, had already sussed out the reason for her being chosen to accompany her and was doing her best to respond to the DI’s questions. ‘It’s not that bad, Jo.’

Joanna kept her eyes on the road. What did that mean: It’s not that bad?

PC Bridget Anderton tried again. ‘It’s like period pains.’

‘Ugh.’

Bridget tried again, a bit harder. ‘Just a bit more fierce.’

‘And what about …?’

‘When you push – oh my goodness. That’s an urge like you’ve never felt before. It is all consuming.’

Joanna frowned. ‘Not sure I like the sound of that.’

Bridget sat back in her seat, a smile lighting her plain face. ‘You haven’t got much choice, Joanna.’

That drew a scowl.

Bridget tried for a third time. ‘But then they put the baby in your arms and, oh, Jo,’ she turned to look at her inspector. ‘It’s heaven. You feel this warm glaze of honey all over you. It’s magic and you feel powerful.’ She echoed Korpanski’s words. ‘You feel you would die for this tiny, vulnerable being that you’ve just produced.’

Joanna wrinkled up her nose and turned to look at the PC. ‘I’m really not sure about this.’

At which point Bridget burst out laughing. ‘That baby’s got to come out and that’s the way it’ll be. Head first – usually.’

‘Was Steve there with you?’

‘For Katie and Sollie but not for Troy. He came too quick.’ She turned to look at her. ‘But Matthew’s a doctor, Joanna. He’ll want to be there to see his child’s birth and make certain everything’s done right.’

‘Oh, he’ll want to be there all right. Make sure everything’s done properly.’ Was it a consolation that he would be there, witnessing the moment she gave birth to his son – or daughter – or would it inhibit her? Was being together at such a personal moment a good or a bad thing? She didn’t know … yet. Something else she would learn.

A sign, black with gold lettering, swinging in a light breeze, told them they were there and put paid to their conversation. Joanna turned the car into the drive.

Ryland’s was one of the last houses before the town gave way to empty moorland. It was a large Victorian house, set back from the A53, a road that climbed and climbed up to Ramshaw Rocks and the Winking Man, crossing miles of bleak moorland, empty apart from scattered smallholdings, finally dropping into the spa town of Buxton. Before they petered out, giving way to the deserted moors, the houses along this road were huge. Plenty big enough for a good-sized residential home. The sign moving in a cool autumn breeze read: Ryland’s Residential Home for elderly folk.

It sounded friendly. Safe. Reassuring. Inviting. As they travelled up the drive, Joanna’s thoughts were that this was the civilized way to care for the frail, the vulnerable, the elderly. Already she was piecing together a narrative. The guy had wandered out, too confused to find his way back. He would soon be found. The fact that he hadn’t yet been spotted could be an indication that he was somewhere near, perhaps paranoiac, hiding from what he would perceive as a hostile, alien environment and people who might harm him.

She inched the car along the drive, eyes alert to any sign of movement. Two squad cars told her a search was already underfoot. So why drag me in? she wondered, still irritated. Any time now there would be a shout and she could return to the station.

The grounds were neatly lawned with a few mature trees lining the driveway, already sprinkled with freshly fallen leaves which made it look like a brightly patterned carpet against the brilliant green of the grass. A sign pointed to a large car park at the rear but Joanna pulled up in front and parked at the side of the police cars, taking in tall bay windows either side of a panelled front door, shiny with black gloss paint, which was now firmly closed. Shutting the stable door? All looked neat, quiet, well-ordered and civilized, the squad cars the only sign of drama. She and Bridget climbed out of the car and locked it behind them.

Now Joanna had reached the scene her narrative was finding colour and movement. An old man creeping out of that door, standing on the step, looking around him, already tense, nervous and completely lost. He would step down, getting even more lost and confused as he reached the grounds. So had he headed down the drive, out into the long, unfamiliar street where he would either turn right, towards the town, a slight decline, or left, climbing up to Blackshaw Moor, stepping into the dangerous void that was the moorlands, where he might suffer exposure, an accident, and where there was less chance of him being found by a passer-by. And already she was working through something else. This end of the road wasn’t actually in the town but a good half-mile outside, and at night was lit only by lampposts. To his left the road would have been black and bare, the lampposts finishing in a hundred yards or so. To the right the road sloped gently down towards the town and civilization. But, depending on what time he had made his escape, Leek is hardly a town of late-night bustle, bright lights and noisy bars. It is a rural market town, the native folk, in general, more likely to keep to their homes on a cold night in late October.

So … she stood for a moment trying to put herself in his place. A confused old man. What would he be most likely to do? Surely he would have headed down the hill towards the lights? But there was always the possibility that he had turned left out of the gates and been swallowed up in the dark. It seemed unlikely but would their man have had the power of reason? Did he think he was heading somewhere? Had he a plan? A trigger for leaving – perhaps staff cruelty? Confusion? A misapprehension? The trouble was, unlike a person suffering from depression or a rebellious teenager, she had absolutely no idea how a person suffering from dementia would reason; whether they were capable of rational thought, a structured plan. She recalled the description of the missing man’s medical condition. They had described his mental state with the word dementia. A stroke two years ago. Surely that must have affected his mobility? And speech impaired, so if anyone did find him he might be unable to describe where he had come from. This didn’t look good. But surely he was nearby? He must be, hampered by that collection of medical stumbling blocks. She frowned.

Had he headed into the darkness, they would have a logistical problem – the need to sweep the moors to search. It would be very difficult to achieve this on foot or by car which meant the police helicopter. There were tracts of land that roads couldn’t penetrate. The ground was soft and peaty but she couldn’t see Chief Superintendent Gabriel Rush authorizing a search with the police helicopter. Not in today’s straitened economic climate.

But if their missing man was in the town, she would have thought the locals would have found him already. And if he was in the grounds, likewise the uniforms would have stumbled across him. It was only if he had, for some unfathomable reason, headed out towards the moorland that he might have escaped attention.

Still, in her mind, this was a case which should soon solve itself.

All she had to do was to play the game for a few hours, speak her lines and wait for the inevitable to happen, i.e., for Mr Zachary Foster, aged ninety-six, to turn up.

Alive. Someone would find him. But for now she needed to act the professional, ask the right questions, home in on the detail. Privately she gave the case one day at most.

PC Bridget Anderton was standing on the doorstep at her side, waiting for her to knock or ring the bell. Bridget wasn’t one of the world’s beauties – her face was pale and plain, the skin slightly doughy. The transformation happened when she smiled. It was as though all the love and joy in the world was contained in that smile. It actually seemed to radiate happiness. Added to that she was genuine and loyal and Joanna trusted her. She was one of the world’s good people who, unusually for a policewoman, rarely saw harm in anyone.

Before knocking, Joanna eyed the solid-looking door. Unless this had been left open or unlocked, her missing man would have had no chance of getting through it. But then, surely in a well-run establishment which catered for elderly gentlefolk, all doors should have been secured so residents could not wander off. So what had gone wrong last night? Her first thought was how had he left without anyone noticing? There were surely watchful night staff? Had one door been left open and that had been enough for Mr Foster to abscond? Had he watched and waited for his chance? Plotted and planned? So her first questions to them had to be when exactly had he gone and when had his absence been noticed?

Again her questions turned full circle back to Mr Foster’s state of mind and his ability to form a plan. She tried the front door. Locked. As it should be.

She pressed the button and heard a satisfying ring reverberate inside.

After a minute or two the door was pulled open by a pleasant-looking woman of about fifty wearing black trousers and a pale blue sweater. A pair of glasses sat on the top of her head. She looked questioningly at them, blinking shrewd grey eyes.

‘Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy.’ Joanna flashed her ID and Bridget did the same.

The woman bent forward slightly to read them. ‘Have you found him?’

‘I’m sorry. No. Not yet. And I take it he’s not turned up here either?’

Yeah, that was a little too hopeful.

The woman shook her head and put her hands to her cheeks, sighing, ‘Oh, I do hope he’s all right. He’s a nice old man. I wouldn’t want any harm to come …’ Her voice trailed away as she realized how inadequate her words were. She gathered herself, stood upright.

‘Come in. Come in.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Sandie Golding.’

‘You’re the owner of Ryland’s?’

‘No, no. I’m just the manager. The owner is Sadiq Haldar. He’s based in the Potteries. He owns quite a few …’ an ingratiating smile, ‘… establishments. I just see to the day-to-day running. That is—’

Joanna interrupted her. ‘Can we go into your office and speak privately, please?’

‘Yes. Of course.’ Embarrassment surfaced. ‘Umm, I’ll have to get you to sign in, I’m afraid.’ And the usual explanation. ‘Health and safety.’

Which hadn’t worked for the missing man. But to release that comment wouldn’t exactly move the case forward.

They obliged, Joanna in a flourishing signature, Bridget’s childish and square lettered. Then they followed Ms Golding along a cream-painted corridor lined with sepia prints of ancient Leek, passing a room of residents sitting in high-backed chairs.

Joanna peeped in. The television was on in the corner but most weren’t watching it. Though many of the residents, mainly women, were simply sitting, staring, doing nothing, she noticed one woman fiercely knitting and was immediately transported back to the pink-washed cottage in Shropshire and her grandmother’s knitting needles similarly flying and clacking, the air of total absorption identical. The woman looked up from her knitting, met her eyes and smiled.

The manager led them into a small, snug office, pale green walls lined with rows of certificates. From a quick glance it looked as though all the staff had passed the appropriate training which must, in turn, have inspired potential clients to park their elderly relatives here with confidence. For the first time Joanna saw this disappearance of one of their residents from another angle. It would result in bad publicity for the home. Next time a potential user Googled it the reviews would not be all so good.

Sandie Golding sat behind a desk and Joanna and Bridget took their seats. Joanna’s instinct was to ascertain the hard facts as soon as possible, a description, the when and where of the last sighting. ‘So …’ She pulled out a notebook. ‘First of all, let’s start with a description.’

‘About five foot ten. Brown eyes, sparse …’ The first glimmer of humour. ‘Very sparse white hair.’

‘His eyesight?’

‘He wore glasses. Like most elderly people he had limited sight.’

Bridget Anderton interrupted. ‘Registered blind?’

‘Oh, no. Nothing like that. Not that bad.’

Joanna took over. ‘And his hearing?’

‘He wore a deaf aid.’

‘Is that in his room or is he wearing it?’

For the first time Ms Golding faltered. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. I should have checked.’

‘No worries. We’ll search for it when we look around his room.’

That provoked a smile.

‘So …’ Joanna moved on to less tangible matters. ‘Tell me about Mr Foster. What was he like?’

On safer ground here, Sandie Golding smiled. ‘He was a sweet old man with dementia.’

‘And what form did that take?’

‘He lived in the past.’ She smiled again. ‘He’d lived in Leek all his life. Worked for the Staffordshire Moorlands District Council – as a clerk, I think. He’d lived with his mother but when she