* * *

“Doesn’t make pleasant reading, Tom.” Calladine could see from the pathologist’s face that this one had affected him. The way the body looked; the dreadful possibilities—fair enough, it had got to him too.

“She was murdered. Garrotted. It’s all in there.” The doctor spoke wearily. “You should know that she was pregnant too, only a few weeks along. The blood on her legs was from a botched abortion attempt. From the state of the uterus I’d say something sharp was used vaginally.”

Calladine felt his stomach heave. Poor girl. “It’s bad then.”

“The worst. And the body had been moved very recently, as you thought. There are marks on her feet, particularly her heels where she was probably dragged across the road, possibly from one vehicle to the other. Julian has taken samples of the grit found in the wounds and will compare it with that found on the bypass.”

Pregnant. And he’d tried to abort it. Doc’s description of what had happened to the girl made Calladine think of a medieval torture chamber.

“Julian’s also analysing the rust samples taken from her wrists and ankles. It might throw up something. I found fine metal slivers in the wound on her neck, so she was garrotted with a wire. She wasn’t anorexic either: she was starved. Her stomach had shrunk and her muscles show evidence of wasting.”

“Was there anything about the body that might help us identify her?” Ruth asked. “What about the DNA?”

“There’s no match on the database, I’m afraid, and no fingerprint match either. But the good news is she had an orthopaedic plate fitted in her wrist.”

“What d’you mean?”

“At some time in the past—within the last three years, at a guess, extrapolating from the bone development—she’d had a nasty fracture to her wrist. The bones had to be plated together to help them heal. The plate remains in situ; they are very rarely removed. The fixation plate from her wrist has numbers on it—batch numbers. With a lot of research and some luck you may be able to use it to trace her. Details are in the report.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We go back to the station and make a start, that’s what.”

Calladine flicked through the report quickly. “Thanks, Doc. Keep me posted on anything else you get.”

Chapter 8

“I know we’re short-handed, but we’ve got a lot on. We’ve several research tasks that need doing urgently. With regards to the murdered girl, it looks like the only way forward at the moment,”

Calladine told his team. “Imogen and Rocco drew a blank at the nursery. All of Alton’s delivery notes checked out, so it looks like he’s in the clear. Check Cassie Rigby’s birth details. Make it a priority. The kid’s been missing for over twenty-four hours now. If we don’t find something very soon I’ll have to call time and pass it on.” He sighed. That would be grim—the prospect of an abducted child, possibly worse. He paused for a moment. The team were lively enough, raring to go in fact. But, like him, they needed progress, and at present they were going around in circles.

“The big job on the murder case is tracing the plate found in the girl’s arm. It could have come from anywhere, any country. But we might start with the NHS first. Imogen—I know you’re on the Rigby case right now, but see what you can do.”

He knew Imogen was good at ferreting out information that the others seemed to miss, particularly where using the internet was concerned.

“Yes, sir. I’ll do the Rigby checks first though. We need to find the kid.”

She was right. That had to come first. There was a lot to do, and they were spread very thin. Could DCI Jones offer anything, he wondered? He’d go and discuss it with him when they’d finished here.

“Okay. We’d better get on. Get to it this afternoon and we’ll resume tomorrow.”

He picked up the report on what they’d found so far about the murdered girl, and went to find Jones. The man was a shambles.

Calladine doubted he had any idea about what really went on at the station, and how short of people they were.

“Sir!” The DCI was about to lock his office door. Alright for some.

He’d appreciate an early dart himself sometimes.

“We’re a little stretched, sir. I was hoping to discuss it with you.”

“I’ve got an appointment, Tom. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“I suppose it’ll have to. But can I ask you to have a look at this?

Perhaps tonight?”

DCI Jones frowned but took the folder.

* * *

“I know there’s no record of the Rigbys having a child,” Imogen told Rocco. But I’ve drawn a blank under Mrs Rigby’s maiden name too.’

“So what’s going on? She didn’t spring out of thin air. Someone gave birth to her,” Rocco replied.

“Indeed. But that someone wasn’t Jane Rigby, so it would seem.

I think we should go back and talk to them again. Push them a bit like the boss suggested.”

“Okay. We can go now if you want.” At last Rocco was getting back into it; beginning to enjoy the cut and thrust of an investigation. Right now, the icing on the cake would be finding the child.

The Rigbys lived in a neat semi on the outskirts of Leesdon.

Rocco rang the doorbell and PC Kate Robinson answered.

“She’s having a rest. But he’s here,” she said.

PC Robinson led the way into the sitting room, where Robert Rigby was seated, staring out into the gloom of his winter-worn garden.

“Bad time of year. Hate it when nothing grows.” He smiled.

“Have you found Cassie yet?”

“No, Mr Rigby, and we’re going to have to ask you some more questions, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t see why. I doubt I can add anything. I wasn’t there, so I can’t imagine what you think I can offer.”

“Well, you can tell me where Cassie was born for a start.”

“Well, in the General, down the road.” Rigby appeared to be completely unfazed by the question.

“No she wasn’t, Mr Rigby. Well if she was, not to you and your wife anyway.”

He fell silent and studied his hands for a moment or two. “I’m afraid you have me there, Detective Constable.”

Just as Imogen was about to ask him what he meant by that, there was a noise from the hallway. Mrs Rigby was coming down the stairs to join them.

“But I don’t see that that matters. Cassie is still missing, and you still need to find her.”

Jane Rigby came into the room. “Tell them, Robert. They’ll find out in time anyway.” She looked a mess. Her hair was dishevelled and her face was tired and drawn. Robert Rigby remained stubbornly silent.

Realising her husband wasn’t going to talk, she cast him a doleful look, and began to speak. “She’s adopted—well, fostered really. Isn’t that right, Robert?”

He remained silent, his eyes never leaving the window.

“But long-term, we want to keep her. We’ve had Cassie since she was a baby and she’s content with us. We can give her everything; make her happy. That drug-sodden mother of hers couldn’t do anything for her. Tell me, Constable—if you were Cassie, who would you choose to live with?”

Jane Rigby sat on the sofa beside her husband and made to hold his hand, but he moved away. She continued:

“We couldn’t have children of our own. Being able to foster was a godsend, and Cassie was a beautiful baby. We both fell in love with her, didn’t we, Robert? She had blonde hair and big blue eyes, and her natural mother was far too young and wild to cope. We had hoped that we’d be able to adopt, you know, in time, but her natural mother wouldn’t give permission. I can’t understand why she should have any say in the matter. She’s never bothered with Cassie until recently.”

Robert Rigby cleared his throat. What was going on inside his head? Imogen wondered. What was it he wasn’t saying?

“Did you want to keep her, Mr Rigby?”

“Of course he did. How can you ask such a question? Robert loved little Cassie—does love little Cassie …” She dissolved in a fresh flood of tears.