Blood on the Rocks Read online

  She inched the car along the drive, eyes alert to any sign of movement. Two squad cars told her a search was already underfoot. So why drag me in? she wondered, still irritated. Any time now there would be a shout and she could return to the station.

  The grounds were neatly lawned with a few mature trees lining the driveway, already sprinkled with freshly fallen leaves which made it look like a brightly patterned carpet against the brilliant green of the grass. A sign pointed to a large car park at the rear but Joanna pulled up in front and parked at the side of the police cars, taking in tall bay windows either side of a panelled front door, shiny with black gloss paint, which was now firmly closed. Shutting the stable door? All looked neat, quiet, well-ordered and civilized, the squad cars the only sign of drama. She and Bridget climbed out of the car and locked it behind them.

  Now Joanna had reached the scene her narrative was finding colour and movement. An old man creeping out of that door, standing on the step, looking around him, already tense, nervous and completely lost. He would step down, getting even more lost and confused as he reached the grounds. So had he headed down the drive, out into the long, unfamiliar street where he would either turn right, towards the town, a slight decline, or left, climbing up to Blackshaw Moor, stepping into the dangerous void that was the moorlands, where he might suffer exposure, an accident, and where there was less chance of him being found by a passer-by. And already she was working through something else. This end of the road wasn’t actually in the town but a good half-mile outside, and at night was lit only by lampposts. To his left the road would have been black and bare, the lampposts finishing in a hundred yards or so. To the right the road sloped gently down towards the town and civilization. But, depending on what time he had made his escape, Leek is hardly a town of late-night bustle, bright lights and noisy bars. It is a rural market town, the native folk, in general, more likely to keep to their homes on a cold night in late October.

  So … she stood for a moment trying to put herself in his place. A confused old man. What would he be most likely to do? Surely he would have headed down the hill towards the lights? But there was always the possibility that he had turned left out of the gates and been swallowed up in the dark. It seemed unlikely but would their man have had the power of reason? Did he think he was heading somewhere? Had he a plan? A trigger for leaving – perhaps staff cruelty? Confusion? A misapprehension? The trouble was, unlike a person suffering from depression or a rebellious teenager, she had absolutely no idea how a person suffering from dementia would reason; whether they were capable of rational thought, a structured plan. She recalled the description of the missing man’s medical condition. They had described his mental state with the word dementia. A stroke two years ago. Surely that must have affected his mobility? And speech impaired, so if anyone did find him he might be unable to describe where he had come from. This didn’t look good. But surely he was nearby? He must be, hampered by that collection of medical stumbling blocks. She frowned.

  Had he headed into the darkness, they would have a logistical problem – the need to sweep the moors to search. It would be very difficult to achieve this on foot or by car which meant the police helicopter. There were tracts of land that roads couldn’t penetrate. The ground was soft and peaty but she couldn’t see Chief Superintendent Gabriel Rush authorizing a search with the police helicopter. Not in today’s straitened economic climate.

  But if their missing man was in the town, she would have thought the locals would have found him already. And if he was in the grounds, likewise the uniforms would have stumbled across him. It was only if he had, for some unfathomable reason, headed out towards the moorland that he might have escaped attention.

  Still, in her mind, this was a case which should soon solve itself.

  All she had to do was to play the game for a few hours, speak her lines and wait for the inevitable to happen, i.e., for Mr Zachary Foster, aged ninety-six, to turn up.

  Alive. Someone would find him. But for now she needed to act the professional, ask the right questions, home in on the detail. Privately she gave the case one day at most.

  PC Bridget Anderton was standing on the doorstep at her side, waiting for her to knock or ring the bell. Bridget wasn’t one of the world’s beauties – her face was pale and plain, the skin slightly doughy. The transformation happened when she smiled. It was as though all the love and joy in the world was contained in that smile. It actually seemed to radiate happiness. Added to that she was genuine and loyal and Joanna trusted her. She was one of the world’s good people who, unusually for a policewoman, rarely saw harm in anyone.

  Before knocking, Joanna eyed the solid-looking door. Unless this had been left open or unlocked, her missing man would have had no chance of getting through it. But then, surely in a well-run establishment which catered for elderly gentlefolk, all doors should have been secured so residents could not wander off. So what had gone wrong last night? Her first thought was how had he left without anyone noticing? There were surely watchful night staff? Had one door been left open and that had been enough for Mr Foster to abscond? Had he watched and waited for his chance? Plotted and planned? So her first questions to them had to be when exactly had he gone and when had his absence been noticed?

  Again her questions turned full circle back to Mr Foster’s state of mind and his ability to form a plan. She tried the front door. Locked. As it should be.

  She pressed the button and heard a satisfying ring reverberate inside.

  After a minute or two the door was pulled open by a pleasant-looking woman of about fifty wearing black trousers and a pale blue sweater. A pair of glasses sat on the top of her head. She looked questioningly at them, blinking shrewd grey eyes.

  ‘Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy.’ Joanna flashed her ID and Bridget did the same.

  The woman bent forward slightly to read them. ‘Have you found him?’

  ‘I’m sorry. No. Not yet. And I take it he’s not turned up here either?’

  Yeah, that was a little too hopeful.

  The woman shook her head and put her hands to her cheeks, sighing, ‘Oh, I do hope he’s all right. He’s a nice old man. I wouldn’t want any harm to come …’ Her voice trailed away as she realized how inadequate her words were. She gathered herself, stood upright.

  ‘Come in. Come in.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Sandie Golding.’

  ‘You’re the owner of Ryland’s?’

  ‘No, no. I’m just the manager. The owner is Sadiq Haldar. He’s based in the Potteries. He owns quite a few …’ an ingratiating smile, ‘… establishments. I just see to the day-to-day running. That is—’

  Joanna interrupted her. ‘Can we go into your office and speak privately, please?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Embarrassment surfaced. ‘Umm, I’ll have to get you to sign in, I’m afraid.’ And the usual explanation. ‘Health and safety.’

  Which hadn’t worked for the missing man. But to release that comment wouldn’t exactly move the case forward.

  They obliged, Joanna in a flourishing signature, Bridget’s childish and square lettered. Then they followed Ms Golding along a cream-painted corridor lined with sepia prints of ancient Leek, passing a room of residents sitting in high-backed chairs.

  Joanna peeped in. The television was on in the corner but most weren’t watching it. Though many of the residents, mainly women, were simply sitting, staring, doing nothing, she noticed one woman fiercely knitting and was immediately transported back to the pink-washed cottage in Shropshire and her grandmother’s knitting needles similarly flying and clacking, the air of total absorption identical. The woman looked up from her knitting, met her eyes and smiled.

  The manager led them into a small, snug office, pale green walls lined with rows of certificates. From a quick glance it looked as though all the staff had passed the appropriate training which must, in turn, have inspired potential clients to park their elderly relatives here with confidence. For the first time Joanna saw this disappearance of one of their residents from another angle. It would result in bad publicity for the home. Next time a potential user Googled it the reviews would not be all so good.

  Sandie Golding sat behind a desk and Joanna and Bridget took their seats. Joanna’s instinct was to ascertain the hard facts as soon as possible, a description, the when and where of the last sighting. ‘So …’ She pulled out a notebook. ‘First of all, let’s start with a description.’

  ‘About five foot ten. Brown eyes, sparse …’ The first glimmer of humour. ‘Very sparse white hair.’

  ‘His eyesight?’

  ‘He wore glasses. Like most elderly people he had limited sight.’

  Bridget Anderton interrupted. ‘Registered blind?’

  ‘Oh, no. Nothing like that. Not that bad.’

  Joanna took over. ‘And his hearing?’

  ‘He wore a deaf aid.’

  ‘Is that in his room or is he wearing it?’

  For the first time Ms Golding faltered. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. I should have checked.’

  ‘No worries. We’ll search for it when we look around his room.’

  That provoked a smile.

  ‘So …’ Joanna moved on to less tangible matters. ‘Tell me about Mr Foster. What was he like?’

  On safer ground here, Sandie Golding smiled. ‘He was a sweet old man with dementia.’

  ‘And what form did that take?’

  ‘He lived in the past.’ She smiled again. ‘He’d lived in Leek all his life. Worked for the Staffordshire Moorlands District Council – as a clerk, I think. He’d lived with his mother but when she died years ago he just lived alone – in the very same house he’d been born in.’ She smiled. ‘I can see him now, wandering around, always looking
a bit bemused, clutching a battered old teddy bear he’d had since he was a child, dragging it behind him like Christopher Robin.’ She paused, lost in the memory.

  Though it was a sweet picture, it described someone suffering from dementia quite graphically. But when you superimposed this image of a ninety-six-year-old man clutching his teddy like a six-year-old, possibly wandering the moorlands on a chilly October night, the smile was soon wiped from your face.

  ‘Was he prone to wandering?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t.’ A thoughtful smile. ‘He wasn’t one of our wanderers. He was a contented sort. He’s never done this before.’

  ‘OK.’ Joanna continued writing. ‘His full name?’

  ‘Zachary Foster.’ She gave an ingratiating smile. ‘No middle name.’

  Joanna didn’t smile back. ‘Can I confirm his age?’

  ‘He’s ninety-six.’

  ‘And you say he’s never absconded before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does he have family in Leek?’

  ‘No. He was never married and his mother died years ago. He was quiet and self-contained. A shy man who said little.’

  ‘The stroke. How did that affect him?’

  ‘He dragged his leg a bit but – considering his age – he’d made a pretty good recovery.’

  ‘And his speech – how bad was that?’

  ‘His speech was slurred. Deliberate and slow. Sometimes he just couldn’t find a word. That could make him upset and a little frustrated but in general he was a quiet, contented man.’

  ‘I see.’ Now for the nitty-gritty. ‘How did he get out, Miss Golding?’ (No wedding ring.)

  ‘I don’t know.’ Hesitation before the infill. ‘We’re reviewing our safety policy.’

  Of course they would. Joanna was finding it hard not to sigh. ‘Do you have CCTV?’

  Sandie looked even more embarrassed. ‘No – Mr Haldar …’ Her voice trailed away with misery and embarrassment.

  Joanna could guess. Saving money. Cutting costs. Privacy.

  ‘How many entrances are there to Ryland’s?’

  ‘Three main ones plus two fire exits.’

  ‘We’ll take a look at those in a minute. Do you know which exit he used?’

  Ms Golding shook her head miserably. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The front and back doors into the kitchen are both deadlocked. The keys are locked in my office and the spares stay with whoever is in charge. He couldn’t have got out through either the front or the back doors.’

  ‘And the third exit?’

  ‘The French windows open from the day room. The keys hang on a hook to the side. The night sister is responsible for locking up after the evening staff have left. The French windows were locked and bolted this morning when they were checked. We take security very seriously here.’

  The irony of her statement was obviously eluding her.

  Joanna bit back her words. So, this old guy with dementia is a reincarnation of Harry Houdini, able to exit through locked, bolted doors, hanging keys back on the hook, shooting the bolts across behind him. Either that or he magically pickpocketed the nurse in charge, relieved her of the keys to either the front or the back door, locked it behind him and equally skilfully replaced them. Without her knowing.

  Possibly sensing the flaw in her account, Ms Golding frowned, and Joanna knew someone would be getting into big trouble over this. She had to go through the motions – the public expected this from their police service. But already she could see holes. Someone was lying here. Probably to cover their back. Someone had broken the rules and Mr Foster had walked.

  ‘The fire exits?’

  ‘They were both secured and closed.’

  Joanna absorbed this. ‘So back to the day room. The French windows, you say, were locked and bolted?’

  There was a touch of asperity in the manager’s reply. ‘The key hangs on a hook, the bolts shot across.’

  ‘Could he have reached the key, shot back the bolts, opened it himself and maybe the staff secured it after he’d gone not realizing he was outside?’

  Sandie Golding gave a miserable shake of her head. ‘No,’ she said, reluctantly. ‘I don’t think he could have let himself out. The bolts are stiff, the top bolt right on the top of the door, halfway across, only reached by standing on a chair,’ She smiled. ‘Even by the staff. We did that deliberately to stop anyone reaching them. The key is hidden behind the curtain and quite high up. I don’t think Zachary could have reached it.’

  ‘How tall is he?’

  ‘Oh, around five ten. I’m not absolutely sure.’ Her eyes grew hard and challenging.

  But Joanna sensed hesitation. ‘So had he exited that way, somebody would have had to let him out and then locked and bolted the door behind him?’

  The manager shook her head, hung it miserably, focusing on the parquet floor. ‘I was wondering whether the night staff forgot to lock it in the first place and he wandered outside then later, one of them realized the door wasn’t properly secured and locked it, and he couldn’t get back in.’

  ‘Has that happened before?’

  Sandie shook her head and, more confident of her ground now, looked up again. ‘Not to my knowledge. They’re generally pretty thorough and careful. And he would have shouted.’

  ‘Have you checked with them?’

  ‘Of course. They insist they followed correct procedure.’

  Joanna looked up. ‘And you say you don’t think Mr Foster would have been capable of unbolting and unlocking the door by himself?’

  Sandie Golding tried to retrieve her previous comments. ‘Well …’ She looked flustered and changed her story. ‘Well, yes. Perhaps he was physically capable. I think he could have …’ She gave in. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said.

  Bridget Anderton spoke. ‘What was Mr Foster’s mobility like?’

  Perhaps sensing a softer persona, Sandie Golding’s attention turned to the PC. ‘He could get around,’ she said cautiously, as though anticipating a trap.

  Bridget persisted. ‘Was he unsteady on his feet?’

  ‘Not particularly. It was only the effects of the stroke that made him drag his foot.’

  Bridget wasn’t giving up. ‘How far could he walk?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s hard to say.’ Sandie Golding was hedging.

  Joanna pressed her. ‘Roughly?’

  She ducked the question. ‘You’d better ask the nursing staff.’

  ‘Could he have climbed on the chair to let himself out?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Joanna reverted to the subject of Mr Foster’s point of exit. ‘You say the day-room key hangs on a hook right by the door?’

  ‘In case of fire.’

  Joanna remembered the fire certificate. ‘How high up?’

  ‘About shoulder level.’ Her eyes were evasive. But Joanna was trying to puzzle out this initial part of the investigation. If the missing man was only a couple of inches short of six feet, he could easily have reached the key. Climbing on a chair and shooting back stiff bolts, though, might have proved more of a challenge. Looking at the manager’s face, Joanna sensed she could already see the negative reviews and dwindling list of prospective residents. For the home this could prove a disaster.

  But … Joanna’s mind moved along. If Mr Foster been accidentally locked out, surely when they had realized he was missing they would have found a cold, shivering old man sitting on the doorstep. Or else a corpse.

  She glanced at Bridget Anderton. Her face was a picture of sympathy and understanding. But, mirroring Joanna’s thoughts, there was a touch of accusation against the manager. In their opinion this case was one neither of them should have been involved in. Joanna breathed in the scent of elderly people, something fusty and confusing. She was resentful at being here at all. And the humiliation was making her mood scratchy.

  ‘And he was last seen …?’

  ‘They checked on him around two a.m. He was fast asleep. The staff had given him his evening medication.’