‘You are all aware that there has been an investigation by the small Richmond misper unit into Amy Fulford’s whereabouts, with no strong lines of investigation or suspects emerging. For me it has to be one of these three or a mixture: runaway, abducted or murdered. We find Amy, dead or alive, and we find out what happened and why. Enough time has been wasted already and somebody out there saw or knows something and we are going to find that person.’
Reid remained sitting at the back of the incident room, listening as Jackson spoke with authority and confidence that he would solve the case. He proposed to check out any attempted abductions of tento eighteen-year-old females, London-wide to start with, over the last two years. He said to look at solved and unsolved rapes, and indecent assaults, and check on anyone with a record of sexual crimes living on or close to the Fulham Road, Mayfair or near the house in Richmond. It was difficult for Reid, as he knew his inexperienced team had done the best they could, but with the murder squad there was a totally different attitude. They were a much bigger unit and appeared tougher, and first and foremost they were focusing on the possibility of abduction. Reid was upset that Jackson hadn’t once praised his officers for their hard work, but what depressed him most was the ever-growing possibility they would never find Amy Fulford, dead or alive.
Jackson called Reid into his office, his small beady eyes boring into him as he came too close for comfort. ‘You got a feel for this father as maybe screwing his own daughter?’
‘I can’t be certain. I think there is considerable dysfunction, but we have been unable to break his alibi for the time Amy went missing.’
Jackson prodded him with a stubby finger. ‘Listen, Vic, you haven’t even viewed all the Stamford Bridge security CCTV or all the Mayfair ones.’
‘I only had a small team and there’s hours of the stuff-’
Jackson prodded him again. ‘If he slipped out during the game he’d stick out like a sore thumb, same if he got there late. If ’s he’s in a seat on CCTV and never seen leaving then so what, he may have popped home before going to the girlfriend Justine’s place. He could have found Amy getting her stuff together to run away, and, pop, he gave her a beating that killed her. He could have left her there dead, gone to Justine’s to create the alibi and disposed of Amy on the Sunday or early Monday morning.’
Reid nodded. Jackson was right and he was quick-thinking around the possible case scenarios; it was his arrogant attitude that galled Reid. He had even offered to be present when Jackson interviewed Marcus and Lena Fulford, but the DCI declined to have him along as he stressed he needed to make his own impression of the family.
Reid had been home for an hour and it was after ten when his phone rang. It was Marjory Jordan and she apologized for the lateness of her call, but she had taken her time reading Amy’s journal. She said it was very dark and contained some disturbing emotions, but she didn’t really feel she could assist him. A perplexed Reid asked why not and she explained that she was not qualified to give evidence about the contents in a court of law. Reid asked if she would give him an ‘off the record’ opinion, but she still declined, stating that she didn’t want to upset Lena Fulford, breach her trust or break any rules of confidentiality. Reid could see her issues were valid, though he suspected she was making excuses because she just didn’t want to get involved in the whole sordid mess. He asked if there was anyone she could recommend to give a professional opinion on the journal. She thought for a moment and then recalled a forensic psychiatrist she had heard speak at a conference earlier in the year – his name was Professor Elliott Cornwall. He seemed to know his stuff and had been giving psychiatric assessment evidence in court for years. Before she rang off she had managed to find Professor Cornwall’s practice address and phone number in Harley Street.
Wednesday, day eleven, and DCI Jackson set off with his DS, a younger man called David Styles. Nothing had quite prepared Jackson for the obvious wealth and luxury of the Fulfords’ home, and he had not anticipated that Lena herself would be so glamorous. He had seen her on the TV programme, but in the flesh she was stunning, and her skin glowed and her perfume was one he had never come across before. It was like fresh roses, and when she shook his hand it felt feather-light; she had an air of fragility, yet a strong sexuality. As they went to the sitting room she gestured to him to be seated and he chose to sit in the centre of the sofa that faced her. She was wearing a soft cashmere dress in ice blue, a set of pearls and her legs were very shapely. As she crossed them he could see the six-inch high heels in a dark navy.
‘Mrs Fulford, there is no easy way for me to explain my presence. I am now heading up a murder team that has been brought in to lead the investigation into your daughter’s disappearance.’
She licked her lips and glanced towards his DS, gesturing for him to also take a seat. He hesitated and then sat in a hard-back chair by a window.
‘My job is to go over every possible scenario and re-question and check every detail in case there has been anything overlooked by DI Reid and his team. That is not to say I am in any way demeaning his officers, but I will be approaching the investigation in a slightly different manner. Firstly I’d like to ask you about your impending divorce.’
Lena nodded, folded her hands in her lap and said she had no reason to think that her daughter was in anyway upset by the forthcoming divorce and that it was a very amicable arrangement.
‘That’s not true, is it, Mrs Fulford? It appears to be a very fraught separation, your daughter caught between her father and yourself. She may have seemed to be physically coping with the situation, but the reality is very different. Your daughter has been caught on CCTV camera by the vice squad attempting to sell her body, and her bedroom in the Mayfair flat was a hovel of dirty underwear, some of which belonged to prostitutes. There is a peephole giving access into the bedroom used by her father and pornographic videos and magazines hidden beneath her bed.’
He had expected some reaction – denial, even tears, but she remained impassive, staring at him.
‘So, Mrs Fulford, I am asking you, and now is the time to tell me the truth, I believe your daughter is a very disturbed young woman who is sexually permissive and-’
Lena stood up, interrupting him. ‘I have told you the truth; you are describing someone else, not Amy. Please don’t treat me as some brainless idiot. You have not for one moment considered what it means to me to be told a murder team are now running the investigation. You think she has been murdered, is that right? THAT IS RIGHT, ISN’T IT?’
‘In my job, Mrs Fulford, we deal in facts,’ Jackson said confidently. ‘It is not what I think, but the facts are your daughter has been missing for almost two weeks. We have had no sighting of her that gives us a clue as to where she could be, so I have to consider that she might have been abducted. If you have any doubts about any person who you think might have been involved then I need names. All I’m asking is that you give it up to me.’
She stood in front of him and her mouth formed into a thin tight line. ‘Give it up to you?’
She folded her arms. Jackson in all his years in the force had never come across a woman like her. The fragility had gone; she was like steel and her beautiful face looked ugly and vicious. It was the way her mouth turned down, as if she was gritting her teeth.
‘I have given DI Reid everything I possibly can, and I find your attitude unsympathetic and painfully brutal. If your intention is to force me to falsely implicate someone close to me in Amy’s disappearance then you are sorely mistaken in me. This really is most distressing.’