The Moving Stone Page 2

  "Good," said Isabel. "Because it might be a waste of your time and, as I explained in my letter, I can't offer to pay you a fee."

  "I don't expect one," said Lawrence. "I only take interesting cases these days."

  "But you may find it dull or too improbable to bother with. I don't know if it's worth your while – especially as I haven't told you anything about it yet."

  "No need. I have faith in your judgement."

  "If only that were true," said Isabel. "I still have nightmares about the harm Jennings could have done if you hadn't overpowered him. He seemed like such a nice man. I had no suspicions about his true character."

  "It's not your fault," said Lawrence. "I met Jennings several times, and he struck me as a perfectly normal chap. And in my experience, that is usually the case. I have yet to encounter a madman who looks like he belongs in an asylum. They hide it well."

  "I thought we could take a walk as it's such a nice day," said Isabel, changing the subject. "There's a pretty little park nearby."

  "Of course," said Lawrence. "Being cooped up on a train all day is tiring. I'll be glad to stretch my legs."

  "Where are you staying?"

  "Nowhere yet," said Lawrence. "I've left my bags at the station. I thought I'd decide once we'd spoken."

  They reached the end of the road, walking in silence as they crossed over the railway tracks. "There it is," said Isabel. "I come here when I need to escape. My lodgings are very comfortable, but it's nice to get away from people sometimes."

  "I'm not surprised, with your job," said Lawrence. "You see the worst of humanity. Is this case something to do with the council?"

  "Partly," said Isabel. "Although it doesn't concern my department. Shall we sit while we talk?" She pointed to a wooden bench beside a large pond.

  "That looks like a nice peaceful spot," said Lawrence. "I can imagine you relaxing here and trying to cast off the day's woes."

  Isabel nodded. "How well you know me. I come here often. I was sitting here when I first contemplated contacting you."

  "About the disappearances you mentioned?"

  "Yes. It's troubling. Lots of girls are missing, but very little is being done about it."

  "By the police, you mean?"

  "Yes. The constabulary has spent years trying to get answers. They say they have followed every clue, but without success. And I can't help feeling that there are more missing girls than the newspapers have reported."

  "Start at the beginning," said Lawrence. "Who is missing?"

  "It's not that simple," said Isabel. "Two girls disappeared over a decade ago, and I doubt their parents will ever see them again. But it's not only the vanishings but the murders that worry me most. Many girls have died, and I fear poor Bertha may be one of them."

  "Who is Bertha?"

  "A poor little child recently snatched from the streets."

  "Can't Richard help?" asked Lawrence, remembering the charismatic police sergeant from North Woolwich.

  "No," said Isabel, sadly. "They transferred him to another department two years ago."

  "That's a pity. Tell me what you can about the vanishings."

  "As I said, it happened a long time ago," said Isabel. "In the early eighties. Two girls went missing from West Ham never to appear again. Then eight years later, it happened again. This time they found the girl, stuffed into a cupboard in the bedroom of a locked, newly-built property. Someone had strangled her."

  Lawrence stroked his chin. "Two different crimes and two different methods. Are you sure they're connected?" he asked, doubtfully.

  "I don't know," said Isabel. "But that's not the only problem. There have been other murders around the area, most recently in Walthamstow. And I am concerned because the girls are getting younger. Little Bertha is only six years old, and I fear there will be an unhappy outcome for her parents."

  "Undoubtedly," said Lawrence. "I wish I could reassure you otherwise, but it is a fair bet that she's in harm's way. Did Bertha go missing from Walthamstow? It's quite a distance from West Ham."

  "I know and I understand your doubts about the location, but my department is well connected. Though West Ham is outside my jurisdiction, we still see the reports and they show distinct similarities. Yes, there are some differences, and that is why the Metropolitan Police are looking at the crimes individually. But in doing so, they are overlooking vital clues. I'd rather not say too much more. Part of the reason I asked you here is to set my mind at rest. If you investigate and don't see a connection between the crimes, then I will accept them as a series of unfortunate coincidences. But I fear somebody is preying on young girls and that all these disappearances are linked."

  "I don't know where to start if you've nothing more to tell me," said Lawrence. "I need some information about the girls. Where they lived or went to school at the very least. Better still, a name."

  "Samuel Higgins," said Isabel.

  "That's not a girl's name."

  "It's a reporter's name," said Isabel. "Samuel works for the Barking Advertiser and has accumulated a considerable amount of information on the case. I first met him when I visited the police station in West Ham Lane. I'd seen the reports by then and was starting to worry, so I approached K division. I don't know why I bothered. Honestly, Lawrence, they wouldn't give me the time of day. The police usually treat me respectfully given my work with the council, but not this time. They dismissed my concerns out of hand and told me not to interfere. I left feeling angry and on the verge of complaining. But then I met Samuel outside the police station. He was there on a different matter – a news story, I suppose. But he'd heard me speak about the girls and followed me outside. He introduced himself and told me he'd been following the story of the missing and murdered girls for some time. We spoke at length and have kept in touch ever since. Samuel is a resourceful man and an excellent acquirer of information. But he faces certain challenges and can't proceed any further alone. He considered employing the services of a private detective, and after ruminating on it for a while, I thought of you."

  "I see," said Lawrence. "I've never colluded with the press before, and frankly I'd rather work alone."

  "Samuel is not your average reporter," said Isabel. "He's quietly spoken and highly intelligent. And he has principles. You'll know what I mean when you meet him."

  "Well, it can't do any harm to see what he has to say," said Lawrence.

  "Then you'll try it?"

  "I will."

  "You can find him here," said Isabel, passing a slip of paper to Lawrence. "Please let me know what you think. I'll accept your judgement, whatever it may be."

  Lawrence opened the paper and read the address. "I'll be off to Barking, then," he said.

  CHAPTER 3

  Samuel Higgins

  The journey from Hampstead to Barking involved several changes, and an extra stop to collect his luggage from Liverpool Street station where he'd left it earlier. But the press office was due to shut at five o'clock, and Lawrence saw no reason to delay his visit. Isabel had assured him that Samuel Higgins would be there until the end of the day and she had already warned Higgins that Lawrence might make contact.

  Once seated in the train, Lawrence reclined in the seat. Ignoring a passenger who opened his mouth as if to strike up a conversation, Lawrence spread open his newspaper and pretended to read it. As his eyes settled over the international news, he considered Isabel's words. The case she had presented seemed disjointed to say the least and the perceived connections made little sense. Frankly, the crimes did not excite him and were it not for his regard for Isabel he would have refused to act. But Isabel Smith was a perceptive woman who had been professionally involved with children for a long time. She knew when to trust her instincts, and if she felt something was awry, then he ought to take her concerns seriously. Isabel had been cooperative when Lawrence needed help, and they had stayed in touch by letter ever since. Though he had not shared his most intimate problems with Isabel, her presence in his life mattere
d. Being able to tell her a little about Violet had helped him through one of the darkest times in his life. Not the blackest – that had been when he'd lost Catherine and Lily, but recent years without Violet had proved almost as challenging. Meeting Isabel Smith again had dredged up a surge of uncomfortable memories of his time in captivity with Valentine Jennings. But that wasn't the only effect. Deep and powerful recollections of Violet's part in the case had given way to unbearable grief, the like of which he hadn't felt in a long time.

  Over three years had passed since Lawrence had last seen Violet Smith, but it seemed like yesterday. He often thought of their last investigation together; still recalled the moment she had walked into their office while he was at his wit's end wondering how to deal with Loveday. Above all, Lawrence remembered her last letter gifting him their business. He'd folded the tear-stained paper in half and put in his wallet. It was still there. Violet had been generous to the end, giving up her stake in their partnership which she had thoroughly earned. The business had a monetary value, yet it didn't stop her walking away. And Violet must have needed the money. She wouldn't have had much in the way of savings, yet she was so desperate to end their acquaintance that she'd left it. Where had Violet gone? Why hadn't she been in touch? He knew he had treated her abominably, but it hadn't felt that way at the time. Not for one moment had Lawrence considered that he might lose Violet altogether, but that's what had happened. Not a word, not a whisper of her whereabouts had emerged since the day she left. He had tried to find her, pestering Michael and Francis relentlessly until they had to be firm. As hard as it was to believe, Violet had abandoned everyone. Annie didn't know where she was, and she'd only given the land agent her solicitor's address. The solicitor refused point-blank to see Lawrence, let alone answer his many letters. In the end, Lawrence had ventured to Cornwall, thinking it would be easy to track Violet down. He knew the village in which her aunt dwelled and after asking around, had found her address. But the aunt was dead, and the house already occupied by new buyers. Finally, in desperation, Lawrence broke into Violet's cottage in Bury, which for some unfathomable reason, had neither sold nor let. Only a few pieces of furniture remained and barely any personal effects. A large vase painted with daisies and a coal scuttle were the only moveable items in the parlour, and a wall clock lay haphazardly in the kitchen window. Upstairs, a picture of a ship hung against daisy patterned wallpaper that Lawrence could not remember seeing before. Violet must have had it freshly papered before she left, suggesting that she went in a hurry. But her rushed exit was the only clue, and it wasn't enough to find her.

  There were no leads and probably never would be. He had lost Violet and been careless of her feelings, all for the sake of Loveday Graham who was now Loveday Melcham. Despite their betrothal, she had never become Loveday Harpham. By the time Violet vanished, their affair was almost over. Lawrence had already torpedoed Loveday's expectations of buying a property in Gloucestershire. He had nothing against the Cotswolds – Gloucestershire was a fair county and Cheltenham was one of his favourite towns. But it was too far away from family, friends and his business. Loveday's compromise of settling in London was even worse. Lawrence couldn't bear the thought of taking up permanent residence in the busy metropolis. He'd prevaricated, twisted, turned and railed against it without actually saying no. Then Loveday had discovered his trip to Cornwall looking for Violet. Incandescent with rage, she had written a scathing letter, telling him to buy a property in London by the end of the following month or it was over. Lawrence had ignored the letter, disregarded her instruction and thrown himself into a fresh case. Six weeks later, the postman delivered Loveday's ring in a brown envelope with no covering letter. And the following month, he had opened a copy of The Times to see the formal announcement of Loveday's engagement to his old friend Tom Melcham.

  It ought to have troubled him. He should have felt at least a pang of regret, but the wave of sadness that he'd expected never materialised. Instead, he felt a profound sense of relief. Loveday's loss did not compare to Violet's absence. Dazzling, beautiful, graceful though she was, Loveday had shared none of Violet's values. Not her loyalty, her wisdom nor her intelligence, and especially not her regard for Lawrence. For like every kind of fool easily swayed by a pretty face, Lawrence realised that Loveday was as selfish as Violet was faithful. He had tossed away diamonds for fool's gold, but that was of no consequence now. Lawrence's recent life lacked a woman's presence. The only exception was his postal friendship with Isabel Smith. He valued her more than she would ever know, and that was why he was willing to throw himself into an investigation for which he cared little. Her goodwill was worth so much more than an inconvenient journey to Essex.

  Lawrence arrived at Barking lost in a sea of nostalgic memories, but the sight of the station banished all other thoughts apart from the case at hand. He exited the platform and asked a friendly barrow boy to point him towards The Broadway. Striding out, despite his heavy suitcase, Lawrence located number fifty-seven with relative ease. The press office door had been propped open but not far enough for smooth access. A man in tattered trousers and rolled-up shirtsleeves lugged two heavy packages of newspapers as he forced himself through the door.

  "Watch out," spat the man as Lawrence nearly careered into him in his haste to hold the door open to its fullest extent.

  "I'm sorry," said Lawrence, "I was only trying to help."

  The man sighed and dropped the bundles. "It's too late," he said, massaging deep grooves in his fingers where the string had bitten into his flesh. "Once you pick them up, you've got to keep going. I've told them not to bind so many together, but will they listen? No. Of course not. But then I'm only a working man and not a la-di-dah writer."

  "I'm sorry," repeated Lawrence.

  "Where are you going, anyway?" asked the man. "Mr Taylor is out."

  "I was hoping to see Mr Higgins," said Lawrence.

  "He's here," said the man. "He's always here. He might as well move his bed into that office."

  "Well, thank you," said Lawrence.

  The man grunted and picked up the bundles again before staggering towards a nearby cart.

  The door opened into a dark hallway with two other doors leading off and a large, wooden noticeboard which took up most of the back wall. Inscribed at the top, in large, tiled letters, were the words Barking, East Ham & Ilford Advertiser, Upton Park & Dagenham Gazette. Lawrence stared at the two lines of text.

  "It's a bit of a mouthful, isn't it?" said a friendly voice.

  Lawrence spun around to see a man who appeared on the surface to be too old for employment. A pair of bottle-lensed spectacles incongruously strapped to his head by a belted device, dominated his pinched face. On closer inspection, Lawrence could see why. Most of the man's right ear was missing, and one of the spectacle lenses was black.

  "How can I help?" asked the man.

  "I'm looking for Samuel Higgins," said Lawrence uncertainly."

  "And you have found him." The man smiled and held out his hand.

  Lawrence shook it and introduced himself. "I was expecting..." he said, then stopped for fear of offending.

  "You were expecting a younger man," said Samuel Higgins, helpfully.

  Lawrence nodded. It was a more palatable version of what he had been about to say. No wonder Higgins needed help, ageing and damaged as he was.

  "You came after all," Higgins continued. "Isabel wasn't sure, and neither was I."

  "I cannot refuse Isabel," said Lawrence.

  "What has she told you?"

  "Very little and not enough to know whether I can be of practical help."

  "I'm sure you can," said Higgins. "Come this way, and we'll talk."

  #

  The dull, nondescript beige wall in Samuel Higgins' office was no reflection of his character. The ageing reporter was outwardly ebullient, and despite his unusual looks, was not without charisma. His office, on the other hand, was an undisciplined mess. Someone had squashed two desks together a
nd forced another into the impossibly small space below the only window. Bookcases and shelves covered two walls with an array of overflowing pigeonholes crafted expertly around the door recess. In one corner several stacks of newspapers, writing paper, pens and various items of stationery leaned carelessly against the side of a desk. The office looked frantic and disorderly.

  This does not bode well, thought Lawrence as he surveyed the scene.

  "It's a bit of a mess," said Samuel, perceptively. "I share this office with young Malcolm. He's as keen as mustard and an able reporter, but not so concerned with the discipline of office life. He's untidy, but I gave up that battle a year ago and have accepted his shortcomings. He is first class in all other ways."

  "I don't know how you bear it," said Lawrence, thinking of his own tidy office, pristine now that Violet was no longer there to leave muddles.

  "As I said, it's not worth the fight. And you will see what I mean when you go through there."

  Samuel Higgins pointed to the recessed door hiding in the nest of pigeonholes. "Go ahead," he said, nodding to Lawrence.

  Lawrence crossed the office and gingerly opened the door. "Ah," he said, smiling.

  "You approve?"

  "Oh, yes."

  The room into which Lawrence had stepped had once been the press office stationery cupboard. At some stage in the recent past, Samuel Higgins had commandeered it. Daylight struggled through a solitary window at the back of the small room. But Samuel had fitted a pair of gas wall lights in addition to the formerly solitary ceiling lamp, and he ignited them with a spill. As Lawrence's eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a wooden noticeboard peppered with newspaper clippings. The articles, affixed with drawing pins, filled the space above a dark wooden desk and chair. Likenesses of young girls occupied the remaining wall space. A piece of string linked each picture with a written description containing relevant dates and locations.

  "This looks like a police incident room," said Lawrence, admiringly.

  "As well it might." Samuel crossed his arms and regarded his work with an air of satisfaction. "It took a long time and a lot of research to get this far."