Cold Blood by Jane Heafield (great books to read txt) 📕

although there is a connection of sorts. A four-person film crew came to shoot a documentary about that crime–’

‘Crime?’ Turner cut in. ‘There’s no proof that a crime was committed. She could be out there somewhere.’

Bennet didn’t know the case, but he knew the odds and he wouldn’t have bet on them. Even Sally’s mother – and parents were usually the ones who lived in unfounded hope – thought she was dead. But he said none of this to Turner.

The vet approached the entrance to the reception and held the door open. An invite. Bennet entered what was indeed a reception, with a waiting room. The expected set-up: reception desk, chairs, table of pamphlets and magazines, posters all over the walls, including a framed photograph of Mount Rushmore National Memorial. A door in the wall that the surgery shared with the house was marked STAFF ONLY. Another said SURGERY and a third RESTROOM.

Turner leaned back against the reception desk, which had items for sale and a small hot drinks vending machine. A common interview tactic was to remain at eye level and close, but he figured Turner would open up his personality more if he didn’t feel so scrutinised. So Bennet took a sofa ten feet away.

‘So, the film crew? Don’t ask me for their names, because I don’t know,’ Turner said.

‘I know one of them. A helper they had, for local knowledge. She used to live here some years ago. Lorraine Cross, although she was a Taylor back then.’

‘I recall. She was your girlfriend.’

Bennet nodded. He’d hoped to keep that piece of information in the dark.

‘And now you want her back?’

‘No, that’s not why I’m here. I need information from the film crew, on another matter. Apparently they stayed one day and then left.’

‘Yes. They were here Sunday. You spoke to someone at the café, so I gather you know they went in the Red Lion pub that night and caused trouble.’

‘I heard. What trouble?’

‘I don’t know. Sunday is usually my night for a little drink at the Lion, but I was helping my son with his car and didn’t go. But I heard they were quite arrogant. That’s beside the point, though. I can’t imagine Ms Jenkins had much to offer about these people, since she hardly goes out. But she would have had plenty to say about her daughter, I suspect.’

Word had travelled fast.

‘She mentioned Sally liked to ride your horses. You taught her.’

‘Well, an acquaintance of mine did. A woman. And my son, he loved to help her too. I had two horses. A gift from a customer. I had land, so went for it. Yes, Sally used to ride Reeve, a three-year-old filly, but her mission was to brave B’fly, a mature Clydesdale.’

Turner headed behind the reception desk and grabbed a glass and a bottle of Hennessy VS 44. He raised the bottle in Bennet’s direction, but received a shake of the head.

‘However, B’fly was a hundred and eighty centimetres. He dwarfed Sally. Far too big for her at her age, but he was her mission. No astronaut or hairdresser dreams for that girl. Her destiny was to ride B’fly one lap around the field before she hit sixteen. I’ll always remember how she used to stand right next to him, arms folded, looking up at him, as if contemplating the challenge. Like a mountaineer staring at Everest and thinking, you will not defeat me.’ Turner gave a smile at the memory, then quickly lost it. ‘It’s a shame she’ll never realise that dream.’

Curious. ‘Never? But you think she’s got a new life out there.’

‘Don’t be so quick with judgements, detective. Reeve and B’fly died about two years ago, just months apart. That’s all I meant. I turned the stables into a workspace for my computer.’

Turner came out from behind the reception and sat on the same sofa as Bennet. Eye level, three feet apart. ‘So, Mr Bennet, Anika had nothing helpful for you?’

‘She seemed unhappy about the lack of progression in the case. Amongst other things.’

The councillor missed or ignored the accusation in Bennet’s final sentence. ‘No, unfortunately there wasn’t much progression. I didn’t feel the police did a very good job. My people were trying their best though. We tried to give them all the help we could, but the police didn’t seem to care. They did a shoddy job. No offence.’

He smiled. Bennet smiled back. ‘None taken. Different police service. I’m not part of Derbyshire. So why a shoddy job? Because they didn’t buy your theory that she ran away?’

‘I didn’t say she ran away, detective.’

Bennet sipped his tea. ‘You kind of did, councillor. You said there was no proof a crime had been committed. If she’d been taken away, even by a trusted uncle, or if she’d willingly gone off with a friend, she was not of legal age to make that choice and there was no permission from her mother, the legal guardian. That’s a crime.’

‘But I didn’t say it was a fact. Just a possibility. Just like her being out there somewhere. I know the police believed she was dead, although they didn’t dare say as much. Can you tell me Sally being alive and well this very day is not a possibility?’

‘A ten-year-old just one day gave up her parents, friends, everything? Never changed her mind come adulthood? Didn’t once get recognised from media appeals that would have gone out? Survived without a job or a home?’

Turner had finished his cognac and poured another. He again waved the bottle at Bennet, who again passed. But he noticed the bottle’s label said it was a limited edition released in honour of Barack Obama. The bottle, and the Mount Rushmore photo, said something about this man. Did he think of himself as presidential, of his standing in Lampton as akin to that of the men honoured by the cognac and the national monument? More like a despot.

‘So, Mr Bennet, you can promise me such a thing is impossible? Impossible?’

Bennet could