Discarded
The Missing Children Case Files
M. A. Hunter

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

Copyright © M. A. Hunter 2021

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

M. A. Hunter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008443351

Ebook Edition © March 2021 ISBN: 9780008443344

Version: 2021-02-11

Content notices: domestic violence, paedophilia, sexual assault, drug abuse, child abuse.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Acknowledgments

Thank you for reading…

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About the Author

Also by M. A. Hunter

One More Chapter...

About the Publisher

Dedicated to ‘Little’ David Knowles

who passed away in December 2020.

Thank you for 27 years of great memories.

The road was jagged

Over sharp stones:

Your body’s too ragged

To cover your bones.

The wind scatters

Tears upon dust;

Your soul’s in tatters

Where the spears thrust.

— Fire and Sleet and Candlelight, Elinor Wylie

Chapter One
Then

Portland, Dorset

Incandescent with rage, Joanna strode on, only once daring to sneak a glance back over her shoulder to where her sister watched on.

‘Stupid baby toy,’ she muttered under her breath, the salty breeze cooling the small blot of tears that had started forming around her eyes. ‘I don’t need it, and I don’t need them.’

Everyone always said Joanna was very mature for her age, and maybe that was part of the problem: they could see she was mature, but still treated her as a child. It wasn’t fair. She was practically ten anyway, and clearly her parents considered her old enough to watch over her kid sister while they talked, so they couldn’t complain that she’d decided to walk to the shop to buy herself some sweets; she’d probably be home before they even realised anyway.

The cause of this latest outburst – one in a long line of recent disagreements blown over the top – was the seeming lack of reward for this term’s school report. Joanna had worked hard to earn her high grades in English, Maths, and Science, but just because her younger sister had received a special mention in the end of term newsletter, she’d been given a new skateboard. How was that fair? Where was Joanna’s own skateboard, or age-appropriate gift, for doing so well? Were strong grades in English, Maths, and Science really worth less than the piece of music her sister had learned to play on that damned recorder?

And she’d missed a note when she’d played it!

But there was no mention of that slip-up in the newsletter that was now stuck to the front of the fridge, with copies sent out to family members far and wide.

‘We’ve high hopes for you,’ their father had said at breakfast, still beaming. ‘Today, the school assembly, but tomorrow, maybe the Philharmonic Orchestra!’

Yeah, sure, Dad, they have recorder players in the Philharmonic Orchestra!

Joanna had only asked for one turn on the bloody skateboard, to show her sister how to do it right, but would she listen? No! Always thought she knew better, that one. Well, Joanna would show her. She’d take the pound coin she’d earned for tidying her bedroom, and she’d buy chocolate, and casually walk home, eating it. Then her sister would know who the big fish in the family was!

But as she now looked up to get her bearings, she realised she’d missed the usual cut way that led up to the local shop. In fact, she’d missed it by quite some distance, and she wasn’t totally certain she knew where she was. The sea gulls cawed nearby, but she couldn’t get a sense of which end of the island she’d been walking towards. There was something vaguely familiar about the boarded-up fish and chip shop on the corner, the picture of the navy-blue fish on the orange backdrop looking ghastly. If she kept walking straight she would eventually come to one side of the shoreline or the other, or she’d see the signs for Weymouth and realise she’d walked far too far.

Stopping for a moment, and sweeping the hazelnut fringe out of her eyes, she took in the full horizon, looking for any indication of just how far she’d come. Wasn’t this the way their mum drove them to the dentist? Their dentist was on the way to Weymouth town centre, and so they made the six-monthly visit by car. Most of the time, Joanna had her head buried in a book of poetry or literature, and she didn’t bother to take in the scenery around her.

Not wanting to retrace her steps, she continued onwards, turning down past the fish and chip shop. If she was right, and this was the road to the dentist, then there should be a…

The smile broke across her face as she spotted the small newsagent’s shop with the giant plastic ice-cream cone standing outside of it. Joanna remembered this shop, because every time they went to the dentist, her sister would whine and crave an ice cream that big, even though she’d have no chance of holding something so large, let alone eating it. That didn’t stop her droning on about it though. And if anyone ever did invent an ice cream that big, she’d bet her parents would somehow find the money to buy it for her sister. That meant Joanna must have walked further than she’d expected, though she couldn’t spot the coastline in any direction.

Thrusting her hands into her pockets, she playfully ran her fingertips around the rough edges of the pound coin. One day, when she was older and she had children of her own, she would make sure they were treated equally; no special measures for the younger child. And both children would be allowed to choose whether they wanted to buy sweets or not. Joanna knew all about healthy diets, and very rarely asked for chocolate or sweets, but every once in a while couldn’t hurt, and that was why she was now determined to buy herself a treat. She wouldn’t use the entire pound right now. She’d use some of it, and keep some for the next time her sister got on her nerves. After all, she’d managed to find the newsagent’s shop this time without too much fuss, and so a return trip one day wouldn’t be out of the question.

Entering the shop, she was immediately hit by the wave of warm air that hung at head-height. It actually felt warmer in the shop than it had outside, where the sea breeze was pushing the few clouds in the otherwise crystal-blue sky. Clearly, the owner didn’t believe in the merits of air conditioning. The shop was about the size of her bedroom, but it was crammed full. Colourful magazines – like the ones her grandma read – lined the shelves, and above those were the magazines her dad would occasionally buy when Mum wasn’t around. The opposite wall, by comparison, was a thing of beauty. The shelves were chockful of colourful wrappers; could it be that every sweet ever produced resided here? So much choice; too much choice! And then, above the chocolate bars, was a shelf containing tall plastic cartons of sweets, including sherbet lemons, cola bottles, and her favourites: rhubarb and custards.

Maybe she wouldn’t bother saving any of her pound today; she could always earn another pound for tidying her room, or offering to dry the washed crockery after dinner. In fact, this Aladdin’s cave could become her secret place – somewhere she could sneak off to on the way home from school or when she was supposed to be walking to Grandma’s house. Her parents would never come in here, so it wasn’t like they’d ever catch her.

She was still deliberating over which chocolate bar to buy when she felt the dryness in her throat, and spied the tall fridge of ice-cold drinks cans and bottles. How hadn’t she realised just how thirsty she was? Walking to the refrigerator door, she looked in at the selection of Coke, Sprite, Fanta, and Lilt cans, but the sticker on the front of the door said all bottles were 80p, so she wouldn’t have enough money to buy a drink and a chocolate bar. If only she’d realised she would make this trip out today, she would have raided her piggy bank for another pound. Opening the fridge door, she pulled out the bottle of Fanta.

Returning to the wall of sweets, she ran her eyes over the selection again. If only she had another twenty pence, she’d be able to buy a Twirl and a bottle of Fanta. Picking up the Twirl, she turned the purple packet over in her hands. If only the shopkeeper would allow her to buy half the Twirl now, she’d have the drink and a taste of chocolate to keep her going. Or maybe, if she asked him really nicely, he’d let her have both if she promised to return and pay the extra twenty pence on another day. It was worth a try.

‘Hello,’ a deep voice said from behind her. ‘What’s going on here then?’

‘I wasn’t stealing it,’ she said, fear instantly gripping her heart, as she turned to see the tall man in the light-grey suit and tie, hovering over her. ‘I have money.’ She pulled out the pound coin to show him for good measure.

His eyes didn’t leave hers. ‘I know you, don’t I?’ he asked, his accent not local to the area. ‘You go to St Margaret’s with my daughter.’

Joanna thought there was something vaguely familiar about his face, but she couldn’t place him as one of the dads of her close friends. But why would he lie? And how else would he know she went to St Margaret’s?

‘What’s your daughter’s name?’ she asked.

He smiled harmlessly. ‘Kim. She’s in Year 4.’

She knew of a Kim in one of the other classes: a quiet girl with whom she’d had little engagement.

‘I think I know who you mean,’ Joanna replied forthrightly, ‘but we’re not in the same class.’

‘Ah, I see,’ he replied, looking down at the items she was gripping so tightly. ‘Well now, oh, it looks like you don’t have enough money to buy the drink and the chocolate.’

She looked down at the two items, deciding her thirst was greater than her hunger, and begrudgingly returned the Twirl to the shelf. She could feel his eyes watching her, but she willed her cheeks not to show her embarrassment.

‘I tell you what,’ the man said softly. ‘Twirls are my daughter’s favourite too, and look here, it says you can buy three for the price of two. How about I buy the three, and you can have the free one. That way, I can have one, Kim can have one, and you can have one; we all win.’

He reached out and picked up two Twirls, and opened his free hand, waiting for her to place the third in it. She knew better than to accept sweets from strangers – that had been drilled in long ago – but this guy wasn’t exactly a stranger; he was Kim’s dad, and he wasn’t asking her to go with him, merely giving her a free chocolate bar. Where was the harm?

She picked up the bar and placed it in his hand, before following him up to the counter where she paid for her drink, and then waited for him by the door.

‘There you go,’ he said, offering the Twirl once they were both outside. ‘I’d better be on my way or Kim’s mum will have my guts for garters. Do you need a lift home?’

She quickly shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

The man pulled up the sleeve of his grey suit jacket and looked at his watch. ‘Are you sure? It is getting late. You live near St Margaret’s, don’t you? I could drop you off there if you want? It’s on my way home.’

‘Thank you, but I’m not allowed to go in cars with people I don’t know.’

He smiled, and held up his hands as if surrendering. ‘That is very sensible! I hadn’t thought about it like that. You’re quite right to be wary, and I only hope Kim is as sensible as you if a man ever offers her a lift home. Well, so long, and it was nice meeting you… Wait, I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Joanna,’ she said, thinking nothing of it.

‘I’ll tell Kim you said hi, Joanna,’ he replied with another smile.

He opened the door of the long BMW and climbed in, starting the engine but not pulling away.

Joanna lingered, waiting to see which direction he would go in, but the car remained stationary. She looked down at her own watch and her eyes widened with panic. She hadn’t realised just how late it was. Her mum and dad would surely have noticed she wasn’t home and would be starting to worry. If she ever wanted to make a sneaky trip back to the newsagent’s shop again, she would have to get home sharpish.

She looked back along the road, trying to remember which way she’d come, and whether there might be a more direct route home, but she couldn’t even be certain which road she’d come along.

Moving to the side of the car, she could now see the man was typing something into his mobile phone, but he looked up and smiled warmly when he saw her watching. The electric window lowered, and he leaned over the seat to talk to her.

‘Is everything okay, Joanna?’ he asked, with just a hint of concern.

‘I wondered,’ she began, ‘if it’s not too much bother… would you be able to give me that lift to the school?’

He locked his phone, and returned it to his inside jacket pocket. ‘Of course I can. Climb in the back. I think Kim’s booster seat is in there.’

She heard the rear passenger’s side door unlock, and clambered in, finding no sign of a booster seat. Placing the Fanta and Twirl between her legs, she fastened the seat belt and glanced at her watch again. As the car pulled away, she suddenly realised her parents would be on to her little jaunt if she returned to the house with evidence of the Twirl and Fanta, and would have to try and hide them in the den at the back of the garden before they saw her. The side gate leading to the garden was bound to be unlocked, and if she was careful, she could sneak to the den, hide the goods, and be back out the gate before either of them saw her.

Feeling pleased with herself, she pressed her head against the head rest and looked out of the window, determined to remember the route she’d come by so she wouldn’t feel so lost next time. Before she realised, she saw St Margaret’s approaching on the left, and beyond it the entrance to her road. Only the car didn’t slow to a stop, as she expected.

‘Um, excuse me, sir,’ she called out timidly, not wishing to upset him, ‘but you just drove past my road.’

‘Oh, did I?’ he called out apologetically, staring back at her from the rear-view mirror. ‘My mistake. There’s a roundabout a little way along from here; I’ll turn around there.’

But the roundabout came and went, and still there was no return to her road. Her pulse quickened. Tears began to pool in her eyes, and she could feel his eyes watching her. ‘Please, I just want to go home,’ she whimpered, fear clawing at her throat.

‘We’ll be there soon,’ his voice soothed, even though she didn’t believe a word of it.

In a final act of desperation, she subtly moved her hand to the door handle, all the time checking that he was no longer watching her in the mirror. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal, coiling around the handle, but as she tugged on it, it didn’t budge.

She was trapped.

Chapter Two
Now

Winchester, Hampshire

I can’t explain the nerves I’m feeling as I wait on the kerbside. There is a small wall adjacent to my knees, and I’m tempted to perch on it to rest my legs, but it is suffering the effects of erosion, and I’m not sure it would adequately support my weight. The ball of tension in the pit of my stomach is large enough without the added embarrassment of recreating Humpty Dumpty’s most memorable moment.

The high wall surrounding HMP Winchester is casting a huge shadow over the area I’m waiting in, and I’m glad I opted to wear a sweater and a thick coat today, even though the weatherman had said it would be unusually mild for February. It’s been close to eight months since I last saw Freddie Mitchell, as he was led away from the dock at Reading Crown Court, sentenced to ten months at her Majesty’s pleasure for deliberately causing arson and criminal damage to the former Pendark Film Studios.

I’d wept for my friend as I watched from the public gallery, but he stood resolute, showing no remorse for destroying the site of so much abuse and evil. I don’t agree with the action he took, but I understand why he did it; having had his abuse claims overlooked and ignored, the arson was his way of making it impossible for him to be ignored anymore, even if it had cost him his freedom.

I’ve begged Freddie to let me come and visit him, but he has refused visitations from anyone on the outside. He’s phoned to let me know everything is okay and that he meets with the prison chaplain on a weekly basis, but I can hear the pain in his voice when he talks to me. Given the extent of the damage caused to the site, Freddie was lucky not to receive a longer sentence, and it is a reflection of his good behaviour that he is being released ahead of schedule. Ultimately, the studios had been long abandoned, and having searched the place prior to starting the blaze, he knew there was no immediate danger to life, and the judge had taken this into account. I just hope these last eight months haven’t taken anything more from my friend; he was broken when I met him, and nobody deserves a happy ending as much as him.

I can see movement at the security barrier and a moment later, Freddie appears, dressed in the denim jeans and sleeveless jacket that have become his trademark. The thick beard is certainly a new addition, as is the presence of hair on his head. It reminds me of my first encounter with Freddie when he was sleeping rough on the streets of Weymouth, and I was serving food at the shelter. I hope his time inside hasn’t changed him in other ways too.

Freddie doesn’t notice me at first as he steps into the cool late-morning air, and inhales a deep breath of freedom. I remain where I am, giving him the space to embrace his newfound independence. Eventually, he looks up, and double-takes when he spots me.

‘Emma, what are you doing here?’ he asks, quickly swallowing the distance between us.

I throw my arms open and around his shoulders when he nears, and squeeze him tight. ‘I know you didn’t want a big fanfare, but I didn’t want you to have to make the journey back to Weymouth alone.’

His head nestles in the crook of my neck and for a moment I’m certain he’s weeping, but it ends as soon as it starts and he looks away as we separate. ‘How are you keeping?’ he asks, unobtrusively wiping his face with his arm.

I don’t want to overwhelm him by telling him how much I’ve missed our chats, and how life just hasn’t tasted as sweet without him around. I’ve spent more and more time at the shelter, helping out in his absence, but it hasn’t made the loneliness more bearable. That’s not Freddie’s fault and I’m as much to blame for my isolation as anyone else. Rachel has phoned when she can, but I don’t like to intrude while her romance with Daniella blossoms.

I settle for, ‘I’m well, thank you. And you? How does it feel to be out in the open again, after so long?’

His head snaps round and fixes me with a hard stare. ‘Please don’t do that. As far as I’m concerned, these last eight months never happened. I never want to think nor speak of them again.’ His shoulders soften. ‘Is that okay? It was what it was, and that’s where I want it left. Can we just pretend like we’ve both been asleep since the summer, and now that we’ve woken with renewed purpose we can move on with our lives?’

I’ve never seen Freddie beset with such shame – even when he finally opened up to me about the abuse he’d suffered at the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys. My friend is usually so bouncy and full of verve but today he is flat; I just hope he can rediscover some of his old self once we’re back home in Weymouth.

‘I’m happy to pretend,’ I acknowledge, smiling warmly. ‘It’s what I do for a living, after all.’

He loops his arm through mine and we move away from the prison, in the direction of Winchester town centre. ‘How is the writing going? You were writing about that French girl the last time we spoke. Is that what you’re still working on?’

It was my investigation into the sudden return of Aurélie Lebrun that inadvertently triggered Freddie’s meltdown at the film studios. She was another one with a complicated past that needed unpicking. Having escaped prosecution by the British authorities, she returned to France, and the two of us have been meeting via video call to iron out the finer details of her story. It will probably be at least another four to six months until it hits the shelves, but at least that leaves plenty of time to sharpen the prose and syntax.

‘I submitted the first draft of the manuscript to my agent Maddie last Friday. You remember Maddie, don’t you?’

He nods. ‘She handled the contract for the TV series adaptation of your first book. It’s thanks to her that I had to submit my first ever tax return last year.’

‘That’s her. Well, she has the manuscript now, and will be running her digital red pen over it to bring it up to her very high standards before sending it on to my publisher, which means I am now at something of a loose end. So, like it or not, Freddie Mitchell, you’re stuck with me for the rest of the day. And as you weren’t around to help celebrate my birthday in August, the least you can do is come out to lunch with me now.’

He slows to a stop, taking my hand in his. ‘I’d rather just get home and have a shower and a shave.’

Freddie has battled with narcotics and alcohol for most of his life and as far as I’m aware he’s remained clean throughout his incarceration, but my gut is telling me not to leave him alone right now.

‘I insist you come to the restaurant with me, even if you just drink tap water,’ I say lightheartedly. ‘There’s nothing as unbecoming as a writer eating alone in a restaurant on her birthday.’

‘It isn’t your birthday though.’

‘It is my pretend birthday, Freddie. If the Queen can have two, so can I!’ I pull him closer to me. ‘On a serious note, I’m famished and if I don’t eat a proper meal, I’ll end up scoffing my weight in crisps and chocolate on the train back to Weymouth and we both know I can’t afford to turn into any more of a heifer.’

He laughs for the first time and I finally see a glimpse of the old Freddie returning.

‘That’s true, I suppose,’ he teases, and I playfully slap his arm. ‘Come on then, let’s get something to eat. And put the world to rights.’

A steak dinner for Freddie and a garlic chicken risotto for me later, and the conversation remains as stilted as it was outside the prison; maybe I’m not as good at pretending as I thought. It’s proving problematic trying to keep the conversation light and engaging whilst avoiding any mention of what happened last year.

‘Have you finally made a move on that detective boyfriend of yours?’ Freddie asks now, as the waiter collects our plates.

Freddie knows that mention of my feelings for DS Jack Serrovitz will be enough to get a rise out of me, but I’m not going to take the bait.

‘Actually, I haven’t spoken to Jack in a few weeks.’

Freddie frowns, all humour dissipating from his face instantly. ‘But what about the files and paperwork I dragged out of that hell’s kitchen?’

Right before Freddie set the Pendark Film Studios ablaze, he extracted half a dozen filing cabinets filled with receipts and invoices tying hundreds of individuals to the place; and whilst some of those filmmakers weren’t producing filth, it was Freddie’s contention that some of them would have been.

‘Jack is still investigating, as far as I’m aware.’

In truth, I have no idea what Jack is currently up to. Shortly after Freddie’s arrest, he was seconded to join a specialist team in the National Crime Agency with the specific purpose of uncovering a network of paedophiles and traffickers operating along the south coast of the UK. The filing cabinets and their contents went with him and although he promised to keep me updated, I guess he hasn’t been allowed to do so.

‘But I got those files out for you, Emma. You were supposed to use them to track down what happened to Anna.’

Another reason I’m disappointed that Jack hasn’t been in touch recently. My sister Anna has now been missing for twenty-one years, and the only evidence that she wasn’t killed the day she was abducted is her face on a pornographic video when she must have been about thirteen years old. What happened to her after that is anyone’s guess, and the bane of my existence. Deep down, I want to believe that she is still alive and kicking out there somewhere, but as the days wear on, that reality grows dimmer.

I recall a conversation I had with Elizabeth Hilliard when her daughter Cassie was missing. Elizabeth was adamant that she could feel deep down that Cassie was still alive, and she was proved right, but I don’t have any similar sense with Anna. Not anymore. I’ve tried – God knows I’ve fought against the cynicism – but how can she have been alive all this time and not made contact?

‘Jack knows that, Freddie, and I’m sure the only reason he hasn’t called is he’s been snowed under with work.’

Not even I’m convinced by the line.

Freddie looks forlorn and I don’t need to ask what’s going through his mind right now: that the last eight months of his life have been wasted.

I settle the bill, and then the two of us slowly make our way towards Winchester station, ready to board the next train back to Weymouth, but a dark cloud hovers above our heads. Maybe we’re both just bad at pretending everything is normal.

My mood lightens briefly when I see that Jack is calling my phone, and I turn the screen to show Freddie; it feels as though our prayers have been answered, but then I hear Jack’s morose tone and it puts me on the back foot.

‘I’m at Pendark Film Studios, Emma. I need you to come over here straightaway. We’ve found something buried beneath the ashes.’

Chapter Three
Then

Newbury, Berkshire

Catching the reflection of myself biting my nails tells me everything I need to know about the anxiety throbbing through me. Jack’s tone wasn’t warm and welcoming, but cold and pragmatic; he refused to elaborate on the phone what had been found beneath the ashes of what remained of the site, but it clearly isn’t good. My mind has been racing with possibilities and the only conclusion I can draw is that they’ve discovered a body, and that Freddie is now likely to be facing further criminal charges.

I could barely look at him as we parted at Winchester station, certain he’d see the alarm in my eyes. He looked relieved to be travelling back to Weymouth alone, and I just hope he stays true to his sobriety without me watching over him.

There can’t have been any remains in the rubble though, as a thorough search was performed of the grounds following the fire in order to rule out the prospect that the arson had taken a life. Freddie was adamant he’d checked the site before striking the match, and given the studios hadn’t been in operation for several years, there is no reason to doubt his word. Yet still, what else could have put Jack so on edge?

Newbury station is a short train ride from Winchester, and as the taxi nears the entrance towards the studios, I’m reminded of the last time I was here, after Freddie had called to tell me what he’d done. He hadn’t sounded ashamed at the time; if anything, he was victorious in finding the studios where he’d been so badly mistreated for so many years, and for bringing an end to its torturous past. I can’t bear to think about how many other children suffered in the same way as Freddie.

Since Freddie’s sentencing, I’ve tried to do some of my own research into the studios in an effort to shed any light on how it became such a portent of horror. Formerly a fallow piece of farmland, the site was bought by the newly formed Pendark Corporation in 1958 and developed into what became three large sound stages in 1961, set to rival the likes of Ealing Film Studios in West London, as well as Pinewood in Iver, Buckinghamshire. With the backdrop of the high turrets of Highclere Castle, the studio had some early success with a couple of well-known medieval-set pictures. However, whilst British cinema grew in the 60s and 70s, Pendark’s isolated location in Berkshire proved less appealing than London, and the Pendark Corporation flirted with administration for several years until it was bought by a Dutch entrepreneur called Arend Visser. From that point the studios’ output was limited to a few B-movie horror pictures which failed to set the world alight. From the fact that the Pendark Studios didn’t officially close until 2017, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that the business was being funded by some other means.

Arend Visser passed away in 2010, but despite owning the Corporation, he remained resident in his native Eindhoven until his death. Whether he was aware of the atrocities being carried out on his property is unclear. I did email all this information to Jack, in case it would prove beneficial to the NCA’s investigation, but he emailed back thanking me and reminding me that I am no longer part of the investigation.

What was the studios is now surrounded by high wooden boarding, branded with the name of a property developer. According to the large graphical display at the entrance, the plan is to turn the site into a luxury hotel, cinema, and casino leisure park, presumably to attract those visiting nearby Newbury racecourse. Just what the world needs: another place to go and waste precious resources. Why somewhere with so much blood spilled can’t be turned into something that can bring benefit is beyond me: a new hospital; a school; affordable housing.

The taxi pulls to a halt at the wire fence, and I pay the driver, before stepping out into drizzle. Pulling the hood up over my head, I move to the gate and peer through, catching Jack’s attention a few metres away. He’s wearing navy jeans, brown hiking boots, and a cagoule to shelter him from the rain. He never was one for high fashion, but I must admit it’s odd seeing him in anything but his usual black and white uniform.

He approaches the gate and I now see there is an officer in a high-visibility vest just inside the gate. Jack speaks to him, identifying me, and the officer then proceeds to unlock the gate and beckon me in. There is no sign of any blue and white police tape as far as I can see, and the fact that they’re not following standard crime scene procedures gives me a modicum of relief. Maybe I was allowing my imagination to get the better of me, and my appearance here has nothing to do with Freddie.

Time will tell.

Jack appears at my side, shielding his eyes from the dripping of his hood as the rainfall worsens. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he says, nodding for me to follow him. ‘We’ve got a hut we can wait in until the rain eases.’

I’m tempted to hug him, but as I move towards him, he turns and strides back through the mud. I hurry after him, trying to avoid the puddles strewn left and right. It’s difficult to picture what the studios looked like before. Little of them now remains. The stanchions that had survived the blaze are black with soot, with great steel struts bent and twisted from severe heat exposure. It resembles a giant gothic sculpture and there is little left of the corrugated plastic roofs that would once have helped produce magnificent scores. Even now – some eight months since the last of the fire was extinguished – the pungent smoke and ash still cling to the air, reminding anyone who passes of what occurred here.

One of the sound stages looks to be in the middle of demolition. Large yellow diggers wait idly to be put to work again. A tall orange crane has been erected in the middle of the site too, but glancing up I can see that the cockpit is empty. Work here has been indefinitely stopped and that doesn’t bode well for the development, nor for me, as we arrive at the small wooden hut which is akin to the sort of portable bathrooms quickly erected at music festivals.

Jack stamps his feet on the mat as he takes the large step up in a single bound. I follow suit, though it is clear from the muddy footprints already scattered across the floor that the doormat is having little effect in these conditions. There is a large table in the middle of the cabin upon which lies a paper map of what is presumably the architect’s site plan. Two men in yellow hard hats are studying and occasionally pointing at the map as they continue their hushed conversation.

One of them finally looks up as he catches Jack in his periphery.

‘Sir, may I introduce Emma Hunter, the writer I was telling you about?’ Jack says, addressing him. ‘Emma, this is Detective Chief Inspector Harry Dainton.’

The man is at least six inches taller than Jack, the skin beneath his eyes aged but taut. He extends a large hand and shakes mine firmly. ‘Great to meet you, Emma; my wife’s a big fan of your books. She keeps on at me that I should read them, but I just never have the time. Thanks for coming down here today.’

I’ve actually come up, but I don’t see the need to correct him. ‘Happy to help in any way I can. What’s going on? What was so urgent?’

Dainton looks at Jack to take over and he nods, leading me towards the back of the room, whilst Dainton restarts his whispered conversation with the other man in the hard hat. This second man is wearing a mustard and charcoal chequered shirt and a thick gilet and, given the girth of his gut, I would assume is the foreman of the site. They are back pointing at the map again.

I can see from the way Jack looks at Dainton that there is great respect there.

‘He seems nice,’ I say with a shrug.

‘We’re lucky to have him leading this investigation, that’s for sure,’ Jack whispers, as if trying to spare Dainton’s blushes. ‘And he’s going places. Plays golf with former Met Police Commissioner Sir Anthony Tomlinson as well.’

‘What’s all this about, Jack?’ I ask quietly, when we’re as far from the other two as we can be. ‘I haven’t heard from you in months, and then out of the blue you phone and ask me to come back here.’

He lowers his eyes. ‘I’m sorry about that. Things have been manic, what with work and Chrissie being in hospital; I just feel like I’ve been chasing my tail. I’ve meant to call and see how you are, but… I’m sorry.’

Chrissie is Jack’s ex, and mum to their eight-year-old daughter Mila, of whom they share custody. Born out of wedlock to two teenagers who thought nothing could separate them, Mila lives with Jack two days each week, and with her mum and stepfather the rest of the time. Given the number of horror stories I’ve heard about separated couples, Jack and Chrissie are on great terms.

‘Wait, what? What happened to Chrissie?’ I ask, picking up on the only point that mattered in his statement.

‘She was rushed to hospital just before Christmas and gave birth three months premature. The poor tyke has been in the prenatal unit ever since. It’s been tough on them, and on Mila, not knowing whether her new little brother will pull through or not. Sorry, I guess this is all news to you. It’s been a crazy few months. I’ve been trying to help out with Mila as much as I can so that they’re able to spend as much time at the hospital as they need.’

Overwhelming guilt swamps my mind; to think I was assuming Jack’s radio silence had something to do with his unrequited (well, almost) feelings for me.

‘Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry, I had no idea you had all that going on. You should have called; I’d have been happy to help in any way I could.’

‘Thanks, but we’re coping, just about. But when I’m not with Mila, I’m at the office in Vauxhall. And then all this blows up at the worst possible time.’

My mind snaps back to the small hut in the middle of a construction site. ‘Well, what is all this? What was so urgent you needed me here now?’

He glances over his shoulder at Dainton before returning to me and keeping his voice low. ‘As you may have noticed, the site is being redeveloped, but all that work has had to stop as of this morning. While they were digging to lay new foundations, a suitcase was discovered beneath the ground containing human remains. They’ve been taken away for examination and the dig site is being surveyed by a team of forensic specialists, though judging by the style and age of the case, it’s been down there for a number of years.’

At least that puts Freddie in the clear, but what does that mean for the investigation into the nefarious activities undertaken at these studios?

‘I was hoping you might share all your notes from your original interviews with Freddie Mitchell? We’re trying to piece together timelines, and I also want to speak to Freddie directly to see if he recalls anything about his time here that might help us identify other individuals in addition to the people who brought him here from the boys’ home.’

‘I’ll have to check that Freddie is happy for me to hand the notes over, but assuming that he is, sure I’m happy to send over everything I’ve got, so long as they’re returned to me at some point.’

‘That’s great, Emma. Thank you. Do you happen to know when Freddie is due to be released from HMP Winchester? I don’t want to go to the hassle of speaking to the visitation office, only to miss him.’

‘He was released this morning. That’s where I was when you phoned.’

‘He’s out now?’ He glances out of the portacabin window. ‘He’s not with you now, is he?’

I shake my head. ‘I left him on a train back to Weymouth. He should be there in the next hour or so.’

Jack looks at his watch. ‘Perfect! Maybe I can see him today and give you a lift home in the process. Does that work for you?’

He’s going at a hundred miles an hour and I’m struggling to keep up. ‘Yeah, I guess, but why did you need me here to say all this? You could have asked me over the phone for my notes; what was so important I come here?’

Jack closes his eyes, and takes a moment to compose himself. ‘The human remains that were found… The pathologist believes they belong to a female aged between thirteen and fifteen, based on bone development… There’s a chance they belong to your sister.’

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