Read A Kind Of Wild Justice for Free Online Page A

He’s only doing his job …’
    ‘I don’t want any tea …’ the older woman began, but she fell silent and let Mary lead her over to a chair.
    Trescothwick slipped out of the room and began his search. First he went through the bedrooms, looking in the wardrobes and under all the beds. Then he checked all the downstairs rooms before starting on the yard. He did his best to search the big cowshed, the stables and the barn where they kept the feed, all with no result as he had more or less expected. It was now gone 10 a.m. The girl had been missing for almost eleven hours. She was wearing party clothes, a skimpy black dress if Trescothwick had ascertained it correctly. The only money she had was a few pounds in a small handbag. She had no coat. All right, it was the end of July, but nonetheless she was hardly equipped to do a runner. Trescothwick had extremely bad vibes about this and decided he wanted to shift responsibility for it on to broader shoulders as soon as possible.
    As he walked back to his car, intending to use the radio to call George Jarvis, a familiar dirty grey Ford Granada pulled into the yard and came to a halt alongside his blue and white panda. And it was with some relief that Trescothwick greeted Todd Mallett.
    The two policemen stood for a few minutes while Trescothwick gave a report on his findings so far. ‘Which amounts to bugger all, Sarge,’ he admitted. ‘Not sight nor hair of her, nor do I think there will be, not around here. Some toe-rag’s had off with her. I reckon the family are dead right.’
    ‘Yes, well, let’s not jump to any conclusions,’ instructed the detective sergeant coolly. ‘Evidence, not hunches, eh, Pete? I’d like to talk to the family myself and the boyfriend, and then decide …’
    He was interrupted by the noisy arrival of a Land Rover. A young man leapt out of the driver’s side and an older one opened the passenger door rather more slowly, his face quite grey. The younger man’s eyes were unnaturally bright. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something but seemed unable to find words. Instead, he managed only a sort of low-pitched moan.
    ‘Mr Rob Phillips, I assume? I’m Constable Trescothwick and this is DS …’ began Pete, thinking a formal introduction might help.
    ‘Yes, all right, Pete,’ said Todd Mallett quietly and something in his voice stopped Trescothwick at once.
    He glanced towards the DS and followed his eyes, which were fixed on the man Trescothwick took to be Angela Phillips’s father. Tears were starting to run down Bill Phillips’s face. In his right hand he carried a single stiletto-heeled black shoe.
*
    The shoe changed everything. It was the same story when Ginette Tate’s bicycle had been found after the girl disappeared on her paper round two years earlier. Any slight chance that Angela Phillips might have taken off under her own steam had now been eradicated. Not with one shoe, she wouldn’t have done.
    Todd instructed Trescothwick to look after the family as best he could and got straight on his radio to HQ in Exeter. Within an hour of his call a major missing person’s investigation, on the scale of a murder hunt, was under way.
    Blackstone village hall was commandeered as the investigation centre, a senior investigation officer appointed, DCI Charlie Parsons out of Exeter, and a team of more than fifty officers, CID and uniform, swiftly drafted in. Parsons was a very modern policeman. He regarded himself as more of a manager than a cop. A neat, trim man with a neat, trim moustache, he was much better at planning and paperwork than he was with people. His favourite detective sergeant, Mike Fielding, a high-flyer who at twenty-nine had already passed his inspector’s exams, would be Parsons’s unofficial number two, in charge of far more of the on-the-scene policing than a DS really should be.
    A search was launched that afternoon, in the usual fashion with officers beginning at the suspected scene of the