Bring Them Home (Detective Karen Hart Book 1) Page 22

  Sophie had been quick to point out that it could have been anyone using the console in Phil’s flat. But if Phil was as good as he said he was, he wouldn’t have been able to get just anyone to cover for him. He’d have needed someone the same level as him to fill his shoes in the game. How many Xbox experts could there be in the area?

  First thing tomorrow morning they would get their hands on the CCTV from the back of the Tesco Express. The camera pointed directly at the stairwell so they’d have a clear view of anyone entering or leaving the flats. He swore he hadn’t left the flat for over twenty-four hours on the day the girls disappeared. Karen could tell from the smirk on Phil Carver’s face he was confident that his internet records would back him up. The same records that provided evidence against him would give him an alibi. With a sigh, Karen logged on to the system and pulled up a map of the school and the surrounding area.

  The girls had simply disappeared and Karen couldn’t understand how that was possible.

  If they’d walked straight through the small area of woodland, they’d have come out on Longwater Lane, which was full of houses and at that time of the day would have been busy with parents arriving to pick up their children as they left school.

  Two mothers had been helping with the costumes for the play, and both women had parked in Longwater Lane but neither had seen Sian or Emily. The girls had been seen at the end of the dress rehearsal, and according to young Danny Saunders, they had entered the woods shortly afterwards.

  If the girls had walked on to Longwater Lane, they would have been seen. But no one saw them. Karen frowned at the screen. She could rule out Longwater Lane, which only left one option. The girls must have left the narrow strip of woodland and crossed on to Palmer land.

  She picked up a blue file that DI Morgan had given her. It contained the details of all the outbuildings on the Palmer farm. Karen had lost count of how many times she’d looked at the list, each time hoping to stumble across something they’d missed. Her eyes skimmed the notes until they fell on the disused windmill. It was listed as a grain store and was located roughly midway between the farmhouse and the school. There was a handwritten note beside the listing. The door at the base of the old fire-damaged windmill had been padlocked, and the search team had to request the key. The Palmers had provided it promptly, though. There were four floors, each linked with a ladder rather than a set of stairs, so it wasn’t the easiest place to search and definitely not for someone afraid of heights. But each of the four floors had been searched.

  There were a number of historic windmills in Lincolnshire and most had fallen into disrepair like the one on the Palmer farm. She seemed to recall it had lost its sails a long time ago in a storm. There was no getting around it. The search team had done a good job and they’d found nothing on the Palmer farm.

  Karen pushed the file across her desk in frustration.

  She drummed her fingers on the desk. The outbuildings had been searched, but would the Palmers keep the girls in the farmhouse? Was it possible that the farmhouse had a secret cellar room or a hidden space in the loft? Perhaps somewhere they could keep the girls hidden? Karen shook her head. Tiredness was really getting to her.

  Karen pulled up the case file on her computer. She did a quick search of the reports. She skimmed the lists and then got up from her seat and walked over to DC Farzana Shah’s desk.

  ‘Hey, Farzana, how are things going?’

  Farzana looked up from the computer and sighed. ‘Slowly,’ she said. ‘But everything seems to go slowly on the night shift.’

  ‘You were one of the officers responsible for coordinating the search of the farmland around Moore Lane Primary School, weren’t you?’

  Farzana nodded. ‘Yes, we searched every inch of that place, and all we got for our troubles was a glove, and even that was found by Jasper Palmer.’

  ‘What about the farmhouse itself ?’ Karen asked.

  ‘Yes, that was searched too. Nigel Palmer was perfectly happy to accommodate our request, believe it or not.’

  Karen frowned. ‘Really? That doesn’t sound like him.’

  Farzana picked up the cup of coffee on her desk and took a sip. ‘I know. He’s not a pleasant man. I was there when DC Lyndon asked his permission to start searching the house. He smiled.’ She shivered. ‘It was a creepy, smug smile, like he knew we wouldn’t find anything and enjoyed watching us waste our time.’

  ‘And it was a comprehensive search?’

  ‘Yes, all the rooms, cupboards, even the loft. We looked all over the farmhouse.’

  Karen nodded thoughtfully. ‘What about a cellar? An old building like that might have a cellar?’

  ‘We looked for a door to a basement or cellar but didn’t find one. Nigel Palmer swore blind that the property didn’t have one.’

  ‘Right, thanks.’

  Farzana looked at her watch. ‘Isn’t it time for you to go home? You’ll be shattered tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, I’m going to leave soon. I just have to check something out then I’m off.’

  Back at her desk, Karen did a quick search using the land registry records. But the search came up blank for the farmhouse, which was not surprising really. The property had always been in the Palmer family. But there had to be plans somewhere. She did another online search, hoping the Palmers had applied for planning permission recently.

  This could take longer than five minutes, Karen thought, and reached for the empty mug on her desk. As she got up to recaffeinate, the screen filled with the search results.

  The Palmers hadn’t applied for planning permission for the farmhouse, but they had applied to restore the old windmill and to convert the barn into artist studios. Karen vaguely remembered a campaign launched a couple of years ago by a local historian who was interested in restoring the windmill to its former glory. As the campaign had begun to gather steam, Nigel Palmer had stubbornly resisted. She wasn’t sure anything had come of it.

  Was there a reason he was so resistant? He was an insular man, but he was also penny-pinching and miserly. One of the main ideas behind the campaign had been to use the windmill as a tourist attraction. That would have generated income, and Karen couldn’t see Nigel Palmer turning down the opportunity to make money. Unless there was a reason he didn’t want anyone poking around. Did he treasure his privacy to the extent he’d turn down converting the windmill into a revenue generator?

  Karen couldn’t remember anything else so decided to google the Palmer windmill. There was a fair amount of information detailing the campaign online, even though it since had fallen by the wayside. She found contact details for Terry Masters, the local historian who’d spearheaded the campaign, in an article from The Sheepwash Times. Karen made a note of his name on the pad beside her computer before beginning to read.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  After a little more digging, Karen found a website dedicated to the campaign, which had been set up by Terry Masters and provided plenty of information. The windmill dated back to the nineteenth century. There was a brief description of the construction materials that would have been used, and a picture of the type of sails it would most likely have been fitted with in those days. There was also a short section describing the fire that had devastated the windmill. At the bottom of the page, the historian’s email address and contact phone number were listed.

  Karen was tempted to call, but it was late, almost eleven p.m. She hesitated for a moment before reaching for the phone and dialling the historian’s number.

  When he answered, his voice sounded thick with sleep.

  ‘I’m sorry to call so late, Mr Masters,’ she said, and introduced herself before explaining the purpose of her call.

  ‘Not at all, DS Hart. You did me a favour. I’d dozed off in front of the fire.’

  She asked him about the windmill and his voice brightened immediately, becoming far more animated. He didn’t seem in the least bit perturbed at being questioned about the building so late at night, and Karen guess
ed it was one of his pet topics. He enthusiastically explained the layout and told her why it was such a remarkable historical specimen.

  ‘We actually believe there were eight sails at one point,’ the historian explained. ‘That’s highly unusual and of important historical interest.’

  ‘But Nigel Palmer wasn’t interested in the restoration project?’ Karen asked.

  ‘No, unfortunately not. He was a funny man. At first, he seemed very eager to renovate, but then he reneged on various surveys and the process was very drawn out. I heard whispers that he was planning to restore it himself and then charge a fee for entry. I doubt he got very far. It’s a specialist project and requires workmen with expert knowledge.’

  ‘How extensive was the fire damage?’

  ‘That was a long time ago. The windmill has endured years of misfortune. Some superstitious locals believe it’s unlucky. It lost its sails in a gale back in the late 1800s, and the fire in the fifties wiped out most of the inside floors. They were made of wood, you see. The brick surrounds were undamaged but the inside needed a complete refit.’

  Karen frowned. ‘Do you think it’s possible Nigel Palmer attempted the restoration on his own? Because we searched the building and our officers have reported four floors, each linked by a ladder. If there was fire damage or it looked unsafe, a risk report would have been carried out and I can’t find anything mentioning one.’

  ‘How interesting,’ the historian said. ‘Can you leave it with me? There are a few people I can ring around and ask. I’ll find out if anyone took this project on for Nigel Palmer. It’s not something he could do himself . . .’

  ‘No, definitely not. I don’t know when you last saw Nigel Palmer, but he’s become quite ill with emphysema. His son Jasper’s fit and healthy, though. He could have carried out some of the work.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I really think they’d have needed expert advice.’

  ‘Right, I’ll give you my mobile number and if you manage to find out who helped him with the internal refit, I’d be very grateful.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ the historian said cheerfully.

  Karen hung up. Why was she wasting her time with this? Even if the windmill had been restored, how would that make any difference to the case? The old windmill had been searched and the girls weren’t there.

  She yawned again and knew she’d better head home otherwise she’d suffer for it tomorrow. She switched off the computer, grabbed her bag and coat, and on her way out stuck her head around DI Morgan’s door to say goodnight.

  ‘I’m just finishing up a bit of paperwork,’ he said. ‘But I’ll be leaving soon too. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Karen left the building, threw her bag on the passenger seat and had just slid behind the wheel when her mobile rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘DS Hart? This is Terry Masters. We just spoke about the Palmer windmill.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Don’t tell me you’ve already found out who carried out the restoration work?’

  She was expecting him to laugh and explain he’d forgotten to ask some question about the windmill. She didn’t dare hope he had any information that might help.

  ‘Yes, I found the chap who did the work. A contractor based in Kent called Reggie Furrows. He has a fair amount of experience.’

  ‘Excellent. Thank you, Terry. I’m impressed you managed that at this time of night. I hope he wasn’t too upset at the late phone call. Would you be able to give me his contact details? I’d like to have a chat with him at some point.’

  ‘I can do that, of course. But I called you back because he told me some information that might interest you.’

  Karen was intrigued. ‘Yes?’

  ‘He did refit the four floors as expected. But Reggie said he also blocked off the ground floor. You see, beneath the ground floor there’s a small sack room. It was heavily damaged by the fire, and wouldn’t be of much interest to visitors. The money to make it presentable and safe would have increased the price of the refit considerably. Nigel Palmer said he wasn’t going to pay to have the sack room renovated, so the contractor blocked it off for safety reasons.’

  Karen was stunned. ‘So there’s another floor? A basement?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But if there’d been a way to access this sack room, then the officers searching the building would have seen it . . . They wouldn’t have missed a doorway.’

  ‘No, but they could have missed a hatch,’ Terry said. ‘According to Reggie, he put a small hatch in the floor so they could access the sack room for future maintenance. It would be hard to hide a doorway, but if something heavy had been laid over the hatch, it’s possible the officers may have missed it.’

  Karen’s weariness evaporated. There was a room beneath the Palmer windmill that hadn’t been searched yet. ‘Thank you very much, Terry. That’s really helpful.’

  Karen felt a flutter of excitement. After she hung up, she quickly dialled DI Morgan’s number and filled him in.

  ‘I could go to the Palmers now and ask them for the key. I can search the place myself,’ Karen suggested.

  DI Morgan hesitated before saying, ‘No, that’s not a good idea. There’s no way you’re going into a fire-damaged building on your own at this time of night. My instinct is to search at first light.’

  Karen clenched her fist and hit the steering wheel. ‘I don’t want to wait, sir. I really feel this could be it. The girls could be down there.’

  DI Morgan sighed heavily. ‘You’re relying on a hunch.’

  ‘No, sir, I’m relying on evidence. The girls didn’t exit the wood via Longwater Lane. If they had, someone would have seen them, which means they must have ventured on to Palmer farmland. Sian’s glove was found two fields away from the windmill. This basement room is the only place on the Palmer property that hasn’t been searched.’

  DI Morgan was silent.

  ‘The girls can’t have vanished into thin air, sir.’

  ‘I’ll get a team together and get over there as soon as possible. You go to the Palmers and see if they’ll let you have the key. Otherwise, we’ll have to wait for a warrant.’

  Karen grinned. ‘Right. I’ll head over there now.’

  Karen drove through Lincoln. The roads were quiet, and she cruised down Lindum Hill. She pressed a button to lower the window. The cold night air was bracing. Not that she needed it to wake her up tonight. The adrenaline coursing through her body had already done that job. But when dealing with the Palmers, she wanted to be fully alert.

  She’d spoken to DC Farzana Shah again, calling the station before she’d left the car park, and learned that the officers searching the windmill hadn’t mentioned a hatch on the ground floor. She told Karen there had been some large wooden cogs stored on that level which could have obscured the hatch.

  At the bottom of Canwick Hill, she turned left, heading for the Palmer farm. She passed the woods by the school and the old windmill came into view. She shivered, unsure if it was simply the cold night air or the dark building that loomed menacingly over the fields. She’d never considered it creepy before, but tonight it looked sinister. It was odd how feelings could be projected on to buildings.

  In the distance, she could make out the Palmer farmhouse. The lights were on, so someone was still awake. There were no streetlights, so she needed to pay close attention to spot the single track that ran up to the farmhouse.

  Karen slowed the car, determined not to miss the turning. But then she saw something that made her press hard on the brakes.

  There was a light coming from the old windmill.

  How was that possible?

  Karen pulled to the side of the road, leaving her hazards on. She got out of the car to take a better look and peered over the hedgerows. She hadn’t been mistaken. In one of the small, narrow windows near the top of the windmill, there was a warm chink of light.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Jasper Palmer was pleasantly drunk. He’d spent the ev
ening at the pub with some of the local lads, and he’d enjoyed his time there until somebody brought up the subject of those missing girls. He wasn’t stupid. He saw the way people looked at him around here. The Palmer family, tucked away in their isolated farmhouse, well away from the rest of the village, were viewed with suspicion. Some of the women looked at him with open hostility.

  He knew how to turn on the charm, though. He could have had those stupid women eating out of the palm of his hand if he’d spared the time, but tonight he hadn’t felt like making the effort.

  Jasper trudged up the single-track road, expertly avoiding the dips and muddy puddles even though he was worse for wear. He’d have to get up early tomorrow and once again he’d have a terrible hangover. He wasn’t cut out for farm work. Sure, he was strong enough, healthy and fit, but he didn’t like the early mornings. Never had. Not that he’d ever had any choice in the matter. It was expected of him. He was a Palmer, and the Palmer family had farmed the same land for generations.

  As he got closer to the farmhouse, he was surprised to see one of the lights was still on in Cathy’s bedroom. She normally went to bed early because she had to be up to attend to their father. Cathy, the paragon of virtue.

  He snorted with contempt and thrust his hands into his pockets. He was almost at the farmhouse when another light caught his attention.

  At first, he assumed he was seeing things. That wasn’t unheard of, and he had knocked back seven pints this evening.

  He turned, swaying slightly as he stared at the old windmill.

  There was a glowing light coming from near the top. His initial thought was that the building must be on fire, but there was no visible smoke. He took a deep breath. The night air was clear and there was no smell of burning either. He narrowed his eyes. No doubt some local kids had broken in and decided to use it for shelter while they smoked pot or something. Bloody kids. Jasper would give them the fright of their lives. He jogged the rest of the way to the farmhouse.