He asked her to give him the breakfast plate and glass through the slot in the chain link and, in return, passed her the paper and pencil. As she wrote he washed the breakfast things.
‘Have you finished?’
She offered the paper through the slot.
‘Don’t forget the pencil.’
She passed him the pencil.
‘I’m leaving now to do this shopping. It’ll take a few hours. Here’s a bottle of water and some biscuits.’
Lucy was beginning to feel more reassured and the waves of cold fear and panic were becoming less and less frequent. It was still an effort to be rational and pragmatic but that was the aim on which she must focus. Her screams and pleading had upset him. He was in control so she had little option but to do as he said. She needed him for food and drink. She must look for a weakness. What did he want? What did he plan to do? Trying to read him, to answer these questions, to search for a way out, would prevent the horror of her situation taking over her mind.
‘What about my parents?’
‘What about your parents?’ His tone lacked concern, as if her question was of no importance.
‘They’ll be worried.’
‘That’s unavoidable.’
Those were his last words before he turned and disappeared from the building leaving her chained and alone.
Rapidly, the ability to distract herself, to think of other things, slipped away. ‘When I’m ready, I’ll let you go.’ What was that all about? Just words, words spoken to reassure her, to keep her calm until … until he was ready; but ready for what? Lucy could not see beyond or around that unknown fate. It filled her head and robbed her of all thought and control. Girls who are taken are usually found dead. The thought which she’d struggled to push away hadn’t come as words but as an amorphous knowing whose meaning was only too clear: there was a very real chance he would kill her; she was going to die.
Lucy’s mouth felt dry, her skin damp, and her limbs began to tremble.
Desperately, she planted her feet, grasped the chain with both hands and pulled as hard as she could; nothing. She wrapped it once round her waist and threw her body backwards, crying out with pain as the links dug into her flesh. The chain held fast to the wall. She was totally helpless; unable to fight, unable to escape, and there was nowhere to hide. Overcome with dread, Lucy sank to the floor, drew her knees to her chest and encircled them with her arms in a vain attempt to stop the shaking. Please, if she was going to die, let it be quick, let it be painless.
‘How do you want to play this, Ma’am?’
The CID cars were parked near the triangle of grass. DI Saunders had sent Potts and Borrowdale to organize the door-to-door teams while he spoke with SOCO. Left alone, Jenny was leading Ed along Hollowmede past the primary school to Lucy’s home.
‘Let’s start by dropping the Ma’am. I’m happier with Ed if that’s fine with you.’
‘Of course.’
‘You saw them last night. Introduce us and then I’ll lead the questioning.’
Jenny rang the bell and almost immediately the door was opened by a distressed man in his late thirties. He looked as if he hadn’t slept.
‘Have you found … Is there any … news?’
Jenny didn’t respond immediately so Ed stepped in. ‘Perhaps we could come inside?’
‘Sorry. Of course.’
A short woman of about the same age appeared at the man’s shoulder. Her clothes were crumpled and there were streaks of mascara beneath tired eyes, which looked questioningly at the two policewomen.
‘Mrs Naylor, Mr Naylor, I’m Detective Constable Eastham. You may remember I was here last night. This is Detective Sergeant Ogborne. Perhaps we could go somewhere to talk?’
Mr Naylor turned to his wife. ‘I’ll take the officers into the front. Perhaps you could bring the tea through.’
They had barely sat down before Mrs Naylor reappeared with a tray. The detectives both declined the proffered tea and biscuits. Lucy’s parents looked expectantly at Jenny. Ed coughed and spoke.
‘As Jenny said, I’m Detective Sergeant Ed Ogborne. I wasn’t here last night. Let me begin by offering our sympathy for what you must be feeling at this time. There’s nothing we can say to take away the pain and anxiety but we’ll be doing everything we can to find your daughter as quickly as possible and to bring her safely home.’
Mrs Naylor, who had been sitting rigidly in the corner of the sofa with her hands clenched in her lap, could contain herself no longer. Her shoulders sagged. ‘There’s no news then? You haven’t found her? You’ve no clues as to where she is? You don’t know who’s taken our Lucy?’
‘Mrs Naylor, I know it’s difficult but it is early days. We have teams of officers going house to house questioning everybody in the area in case they saw something that might help. We’re here to speak with you and then we’ll talk to the Shaxteds.’
Mr Naylor reached for his wife’s hand and turned towards Ed. ‘What more do you want? We spoke to your colleague last night. We’d rather you were out looking for Lucy.’
‘I know how you must feel but it’s vital that we get a true and accurate picture of the situation. The regular officers are on the streets with a description of Lucy and her photograph. I’d like to go over everything from the beginning. This morning you may recall something you didn’t mention last night.’
Simon Naylor pressed his lips together, almost shrugging, and settled for the easy option. ‘You’re the expert. Whatever you think will help.’
‘We just want our daughter back,’ said his wife in a voice too tired to argue.
‘Thank you.’
Ed glanced at Jenny to check she was ready with her notebook.
‘Yesterday was Friday. Could you describe a typical Friday evening for yourselves and your daughter?’
‘I get back from work about six. Rachel, my wife, has supper ready. Usually, the … the three of us eat together. Rach and me generally have a quiet night in and Lucy goes round to Debbie’s.’
At this point Mrs Naylor began to weep softly into a screwed-up handkerchief. Mr Naylor put his arm round her shoulder and continued.
‘Fridays, they usually go to see a film but they didn’t fancy what was on this week.’
‘What time did Lucy leave?’
‘Just before seven.’ He looked at his wife for confirmation and she nodded.
‘So she would have arrived at Debbie’s about seven o’clock or just after. What time did you expect her back?’
‘She’s just finished her A levels. We didn’t insist she be home early. Even so, she said she’d be back just after ten.’
‘She wanted an early night. We’d given her 50 quid. A reward for working hard on her exams. She was going to London today. Shopping with Debbie. I don’t suppose they’ll be doing that now.’
Mrs Naylor stifled her distress by pressing the handkerchief to her mouth and turning to bury her face in her husband’s shoulder.
Ed’s stomach hollowed with a flashback to the anguish of being separated from her own child. Ten years ago, with no one to support her, Ed had made a voluntary decision to give her son up for adoption. Mrs Naylor had her husband’s support but she’d