“When did she go missing?” Sharp asked.
“A little over two weeks ago.”
“From where?” asked Bob Anderson.
“Chloe and her parents – Sally and Gareth Summerby – live in the village of Esholt, a few miles from the A65 at the bottom of Main Street, the last house on the left opposite the church. The village is small, rural, with a pub, a church, a café, a playground, and a post office. The rest of the area is residential, or surrounded by farms and outbuildings. In other words, everyone knows everyone else.
“On the morning of her disappearance, she waved her father off to work at seven o’clock. He’s a farmhand on one of the nearby farms. Her mother allowed her to go to the playground on Church Lane at ten o’clock with her ten-year-old friend, Masie Turner.
“Masie and her family live on Station Road, in the corner house, which is located at the junction with Main Street. They both came back, had some dinner, and then Sally told them both to make sure Chloe returned from the playground by three o’clock so that they could go to the nearest ASDA store for a weekly shop. The girl did not return. She was never seen again.”
“What about her friend Masie?” asked Sharp.
“Masie said she and Chloe left the playground at about two-thirty. When they reached the crossroads in the village, Masie watched Chloe walk down the lane towards her home, before going into her own house.
“Sally realized she’d become so engrossed in her housework, that she hadn’t noticed it had gone three o’clock and the girls still hadn’t come back. She went out to look for them. They were not where they said they would be. She called on Masie’s mother before finally jumping in the car and touring the village and the outlying lanes, eventually calling the police. A search of nearby barns and outbuildings was set up almost immediately, all to no avail. Chloe Summerby has not been seen since.”
“Wasn’t anyone watching them, supervising?”
“There should have been,” replied Gates. “I think there was a breakdown in communication. When we questioned the adults in the village, no one claims to have been watching them, but each adult was clearly under the impression that one of them should have been.”
“I take it you’ve asked all the usual questions?” asked Thornton. “No one suspicious hanging around the village? A place as small as that, as you say, everybody knows everyone’s business.”
“No one saw anything. No one saw her taken. No one’s seen any suspicious people, or strangers hanging around.”
“And no one’s seen Chloe,” added Reilly.
“What connection does she have to our investigation?” Briggs asked Gardener.
Gardener pointed to the board. “That photograph was found underneath Nicola Stapleton’s body. Her neighbour, Beryl Potts, said she had never seen the girl at the house, or in the neighbourhood. She only knew who Chloe was because it had been in all the newspapers. Goodman also ran a campaign on the TV.”
Sarah Gates had a number of A4 envelopes with her. She began handing them out as she continued. “I’ve prepared notes for all of you to save a bit of time. The main points of the case are all in these envelopes. There’s one for each of you.”
“Is Chloe Summerby related to either of our victims?”
“No,” said Gates. “Not as far as we know.”
“Have we asked her mother?”
“DI Goodman called her immediately after your officers came to Bradford. Sally Summerby has never heard of Nicola Stapleton, or Barry Morrison.”
Chapter Eighteen
Billy Morrison was standing by the desk in the portacabin. He wore a white tee shirt with slim fitting jeans and a pair of Reebok trainers. He was trim, carried no extra weight. He had a full head of jet-black hair, blue eyes, and his smooth complexion spoke of a healthy diet.
His expression, however, was haunted, and Gardener had seen it before. He’d be expecting bad news, but still hoping his brother may have been picked up on a minor charge, perhaps be home in a few hours.
Following introductions, Gardener asked Morrison to take a seat.
“That bad, is it?” he said, trying to make light of it.
“Please,” said Gardener, also sitting. Reilly stood near the window, glancing out at the pitch.
“We were called to an incident at five o’clock this morning, Mr Morrison,” said Gardener. “The butcher’s shop on Cross Bank Road.”
“John Wrigglesworth’s, I know him well. Our Barry lives above it.”
“Yes, we know.”