He’d chosen the girl, the place and the time. On Friday, 8 March 2002, the sun was due to set at 5.40 p.m. Teresa should arrive just before six. He would be waiting.
The last of the daylight was disappearing in the west as he coasted the van to a stop between two street lamps. Spring was still 12 days away and the nights were cold. In order to move more freely, he’d left his heavy winter coat on the passenger seat. Shivering in the evening chill, he leant against the warmth of the engine, waiting until he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. A glance at his watch and he was sure they were Teresa’s. One more bend in the road and she’d see the lamps at the entrance to her home. As he soaked the pad and returned the bottle to his pocket, an image of his mother entered his head and he felt sick, hit by a wave of revulsion, which subsided to a lingering apprehension. He steeled himself. It had to be done. Focus. Teresa was a schoolgirl. It would be a young body against his own.
He grabbed her from behind. One arm encircled her waist while the other clamped the pad over her nose and mouth. Teresa was off guard and off balance. There was no time for her to register individual events before she was overwhelmed and he felt her legs buckle beneath her. Supporting the weight of her unconscious body, he walked her to the side door of the van and placed her gently on the floor inside.
It was done. He’d held his nerve.
The van swayed and bumped on the rough track through the woods. At the building, he parked under cover in the adjacent shed. Six minutes later, Teresa was behind the wire partition, handcuffed and chained to the wall. He sat in the armchair waiting for the effects of the ether to wear off. He could relax. He was in control. No element of chance stood between him and success.
Sunday morning. The first tolling of the bell for Holy Communion was followed by brief cawing and a flurry of wings as four black crows rose from their overnight perch and circled the tower of St Mary’s. Mrs Siddenham, the last of the small congregation to arrive, paused in the church porch to adjust her hat, a much-prized copy of the one the Queen had worn several weeks ago at the funeral of her sister, Princess Margaret. Satisfied all was well, Mrs Siddenham pushed open the heavy oak door and joined her fellow communicants in the musty pews.
The small congregation began the Prayer of Preparation. ‘Almighty God, unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid …’ Later, having dispensed the body and blood, the vicar drew the service to a close by completing the Prayer of Dismissal: ‘… and the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be among you and remain with you always.’
‘Amen.’
‘Go in the peace of Christ.’
‘Thanks be to God.’
As the final words of the ceremony were exchanged, Mrs Siddenham reached for her handbag and, excusing herself to her neighbour, hurried away down the nave. There was the sound of her lifting the latch, a moment of silence and then her scream, cut short by the oak door slamming shut behind her.
The vicar was the first to respond. He ran down a side aisle and wrenched open the heavy door. Outside, Mrs Siddenham, hat askew, was staring at the sun-bleached wooden bench on the far side of the porch. Propped in the corner was the body of a teenage girl, head slumped forward with dark hair obscuring her face. The vicar knelt, moved the girl’s hair aside, and placed two fingers to her neck.
‘It’s the missing girl, Teresa Mulholland. She still has a pulse. Call 999!’
When paramedics had lifted Teresa into an ambulance and driven away, the older of two detectives questioned the vicar.
‘You identified the girl?’
‘Yes, Teresa Mulholland, the schoolgirl who disappeared. She didn’t seem hurt but she’s been missing for 30 days, yet her school uniform was clean and neatly pressed. How could that—’
The detective raised a hand, cutting the vicar short.
‘Where are the Mulhollands, her parents?’
‘Oh … at home, I should think. They attend our morning—’
‘We’ll drive out to see them. If we need to speak again, someone will contact you.’
Later, the vicar was approached by a local reporter who was particularly interested in what the girl looked like and the state of her clothes. However, the next edition of The Canterbury Chronicle carried only a brief report buried on page two. There was no mention of the surprising state of her clothes.
Weeks went by with no contact from the police and no further articles in the press. It was as if the incident had never happened.
For ten years the silence was absolute.
The Duty Sergeant looked up as she entered the building. There was no smile of welcome. Did he think she’d be apprehensive? No chance. Holding his gaze, her deep brown eyes shining confidently from beneath short dark hair, she approached the desk.
‘DI Ed Ogborne. I’ve an appointment with Chief Superintendent Addler at 16.00.’
‘Sergeant Barry Williams, Ma’am,’ the Sergeant introduced himself. ‘You’d best wait in Interview Room 2.’ He nodded his head to her left. ‘On the right down the corridor. I’ll ring you when the Super’s ready.’
Walking in the direction Williams had indicated, she imagined he was already on the phone to a colleague. ‘That Edina Ogborne’s just arrived. She looks a damn sight fitter than in the photograph we downloaded.’ Too true. While waiting for her transfer, she’d doubled the time spent working out. Twenty-seven and five-six in her trainers, she was now a toned nine stone.
The windowless Interview Room was newer and cleaner but its essentials were a carbon copy of those she was used to in London. Ed resisted checking her appearance in the one-way mirror. Expecting a short wait, she pulled out a chair and sat facing the wall-mounted telephone by the door. A transfer to the provinces hadn’t been her idea but she was ambitious and her boss, Chief Superintendent Shawcross, had made it crystal: there would be no early prospect of promotion at the Met.
Twenty minutes earlier, she’d been en route from London with the roof down, the wind in her cropped black hair flashing natural blue glints for no one to see. At the turning for Canterbury the trip meter showed she was 50 miles from her home in Brixton. As she approached the outskirts of the city, Ed caught her first sight of the cathedral with its twin west towers dazzling in the summer sunshine and the meter clicked to 60, adding another ten miles to her sense of separation.
With an eye for maps and a good memory she had no difficulty finding the Police Station. The dash display read ten to four. Good timing was another of her strengths. Patience was not. Waiting in Interview Room 2, Ed glanced at her watch. It was 35 minutes since she’d entered the building. She resisted a growing urge to confront the Desk Sergeant. After what had happened in London she could have done with a friendly welcome but, given the manner of her transfer, a hostile reception was always on the cards. Knowing her arrival was bound to ruffle feathers she’d vowed to play it by the book. A further ten minutes passed before the telephone rang.
‘DS Ogborne? The Super sends her apologies. Her previous meeting overran. Now she’s been unexpectedly called away. She’ll see you tomorrow at 08.00.’
Provincial ineptitude or was she being given the run-around? Biting back her fury, Ed managed to say, ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ before adding, ‘by the way, it’s DI Ogborne.’
‘As you say, Ma’am.’
Determined to remain cool, Ed called, ‘G’bye Sergeant,’ as she passed the desk on her way out of the building. If Williams responded before the door closed behind