Lost Souls by Jenny O'Brien (android e book reader txt) 📕

‘Ellie, we’re friends right? Ellie and Ronan against the world. But for me to help, you need to be truthful.’

‘As truthful as you’ve been?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Hiding away in that cave when you have a home to go to. What’s that all about?’

His mouth formed a silent o at his naivety, because of course he should have seen it coming. He’d known she was intelligent; it took intelligence to do what she’d done but, up to now, he hadn’t heard more than a couple of words stream from her mouth at a time. While he couldn’t condone her actions at least she’d recognised when she was in need of help and the risks involved when seeking it. His thoughts returned to the vicious-looking dinner knife he’d found concealed in the bottom of her bag.

‘You’re right.’ He sat back in his chair, his hands gripping the sides of his seat at the thought of sharing the reason behind his actions, a reason he’d never shared before.

‘Like you, something happened,’ he said, suddenly fascinated by the way the spots of milk she’d split were soaking into the wood. ‘Something happened that I couldn’t deal with. My mum became ill and then … my dad. I couldn’t deal with it so I left.’ He raised his head, meeting her eyes only to watch as she averted her gaze.

‘I can’t tell you. You can’t make me and if you do, I’ll run again.’

Chapter 34

Owen

Tuesday 4 August, 8.40 a.m. St Asaph

It took a lot to upset Owen Bates. He was the most mild-mannered of men who took life very much as it came. While it irked him not to be involved with the hunt for Ellie Fry, he knew that it was the most sensible option. He’d headed up the inquiry into the disappearance of Katherine Jane and, with his near-photographic memory, had one hundred per cent recall as to the facts of the case. It was nonsensical to be upset but he found that he had to make a conscious effort to arrange his muscles into a smile when he turned to speak to Diane. Within minutes, they were making for the stairs to the archives department, Diane matching his stride pace for pace as he filled her in on the details of last year’s most mysterious of disappearances.

‘Miss Jane, sixty-eight years of age, a spinster who’d lived in Llandudno since her retirement from teaching three years previously. She had a fixed routine of leaving her seafront apartment and going for an early morning walk along the promenade followed by a restorative drink at Providero, one of the coffee shops in the town. It’s only by luck that the owner of the shop got worried when she didn’t appear and, remembering a conversation about where she lived, decided to pop in to check up on her at the end of his shift. When he got no answer, he alerted the manager of the building, fearful that she’d be found collapsed or worse. When they opened the door they discovered the remains of her breakfast on the kitchen table, a book propped up against the teapot, her reading glasses, neatly folded beside her plate and a machine full of damp clothing.’

‘But no trace of Miss Jane? I’m beginning to see a pattern,’ Diane said, her forehead wrinkling.

‘And that’s the problem.’ He pushed the door to the archives office open and gestured for her to go on ahead. ‘She had no family apart from a distant great-nephew living in Canada who’d never even met her. The CSIs didn’t come up with anything startling and, as Jason said, quite rightly at the time, if it had been a burglary gone wrong there would have been some evidence of a struggle. Originally we thought that she’d taken her own life, despite no evidence of ill health or depression. The only thing that made us think differently was an absence of any cash or jewellery found in the apartment. Her handbag was there but her purse was empty apart from a few coins.’

‘Maybe she didn’t have much on her and, as an unmarried woman, she might not have had any jewellery. Some women don’t like the stuff, you know,’ she added, spreading out her ringless fingers.

‘Very true but, by the same token, most women have a watch or two knocking around,’ he said, his attention fixed on the silver Seiko poking out the sleeve of her jacket. ‘I think you’re probably right in your assertion about her not having very much. It seems like she invested most of her money in her apartment and relied on her pension for the rest. She had set up standing orders for all her amenities so, apart from her food and day-to-day nonessentials like her morning coffee, she budgeted quite nicely.’

‘But something still happened to her.’

‘Exactly. Come on. Have you met Colin, our archives officer?’ He nodded in the direction of the short, rotund, bespectacled man slouched in front of a computer terminal. ‘He’ll do anything for you if you remember to bring him back a coffee from the machine.’

‘Duly noted,’ she said with a grin. ‘So, what are we doing down here then? I thought that most of the info would be on the system.’

‘It is but I want to reacquaint myself with the scene of the crime photos – I’m old-fashioned enough to prefer to hold them in my hand instead of squinting down at a computer screen – not that there’s much proof that a crime was ever committed.’ He heaved a breath. ‘The biggest breakthrough in the case so far is her metal hip being found among Duncan Broome’s ashes and the similarities between her disappearance and that of Barbara Matthews.’

With the help of Colin, they located the correct stack of archive boxes and were soon ensconced in the string of photos that they spread out on the long span of tables at the back of the room.

The 360-views and blow-ups were a