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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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