The Taken Girls: An absolutely gripping crime thriller full of mystery and suspense

He’d chosen the girl, the place and the time. On Friday, 8 March 2002, the sun was due to set at 5.40 p.m. Teresa should arrive just before six. He would be waiting.

The last of the daylight was disappearing in the west as he coasted the van to a stop between two street lamps. Spring was still 12 days away and the nights were cold. In order to move more freely, he’d left his heavy winter coat on the passenger seat. Shivering in the evening chill, he leant against the warmth of the engine, waiting until he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. A glance at his watch and he was sure they were Teresa’s. One more bend in the road and she’d see the lamps at the entrance to her home. As he soaked the pad and returned the bottle to his pocket, an image of his mother entered his head and he felt sick, hit by a wave of revulsion, which subsided to a lingering apprehension. He steeled himself. It had to be done. Focus. Teresa was a schoolgirl. It would be a young body against his own.

He grabbed her from behind. One arm encircled her waist while the other clamped the pad over her nose and mouth. Teresa was off guard and off balance. There was no time for her to register individual events before she was overwhelmed and he felt her legs buckle beneath her. Supporting the weight of her unconscious body, he walked her to the side door of the van and placed her gently on the floor inside.

It was done. He’d held his nerve.

The van swayed and bumped on the rough track through the woods. At the building, he parked under cover in the adjacent shed. Six minutes later, Teresa was behind the wire partition, handcuffed and chained to the wall. He sat in the armchair waiting for the effects of the ether to wear off. He could relax. He was in control. No element of chance stood between him and success.

Sunday morning. The first tolling of the bell for Holy Communion was followed by brief cawing and a flurry of wings as four black crows rose from their overnight perch and circled the tower of St Mary’s. Mrs Siddenham, the last of the small congregation to arrive, paused in the church porch to adjust her hat, a much-prized copy of the one the Queen had worn several weeks ago at the funeral of her sister, Princess Margaret. Satisfied all was well, Mrs Siddenham pushed open the heavy oak door and joined her fellow communicants in the musty pews.

The small congregation began the Prayer of Preparation. ‘Almighty God, unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid …’ Later, having dispensed the body and blood, the vicar drew the service to a close by completing the Prayer of Dismissal: ‘… and the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be among you and remain with you always.’

‘Amen.’

‘Go in the peace of Christ.’

‘Thanks be to God.’

As the final words of the ceremony were exchanged, Mrs Siddenham reached for her handbag and, excusing herself to her neighbour, hurried away down the nave. There was the sound of her lifting the latch, a moment of silence and then her scream, cut short by the oak door slamming shut behind her.

The vicar was the first to respond. He ran down a side aisle and wrenched open the heavy door. Outside, Mrs Siddenham, hat askew, was staring at the sun-bleached wooden bench on the far side of the porch. Propped in the corner was the body of a teenage girl, head slumped forward with dark hair obscuring her face. The vicar knelt, moved the girl’s hair aside, and placed two fingers to her neck.

‘It’s the missing girl, Teresa Mulholland. She still has a pulse. Call 999!’

When paramedics had lifted Teresa into an ambulance and driven away, the older of two detectives questioned the vicar.

‘You identified the girl?’

‘Yes, Teresa Mulholland, the schoolgirl who disappeared. She didn’t seem hurt but she’s been missing for 30 days, yet her school uniform was clean and neatly pressed. How could that—’

The detective raised a hand, cutting the vicar short.

‘Where are the Mulhollands, her parents?’

‘Oh … at home, I should think. They attend our morning—’

‘We’ll drive out to see them. If we need to speak again, someone will contact you.’

Later, the vicar was approached by a local reporter who was particularly interested in what the girl looked like and the state of her clothes. However, the next edition of The Canterbury Chronicle carried only a brief report buried on page two. There was no mention of the surprising state of her clothes.

Weeks went by with no contact from the police and no further articles in the press. It was as if the incident had never happened.

For ten years the silence was absolute.

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The Duty Sergeant looked up as she entered the building. There was no smile of welcome. Did he think she’d be apprehensive? No chance. Holding his gaze, her deep brown eyes shining confidently from beneath short dark hair, she approached the desk.

‘DI Ed Ogborne. I’ve an appointment with Chief Superintendent Addler at 16.00.’

‘Sergeant Barry Williams, Ma’am,’ the Sergeant introduced himself. ‘You’d best wait in Interview Room 2.’ He nodded his head to her left. ‘On the right down the corridor. I’ll ring you when the Super’s ready.’

Walking in the direction Williams had indicated, she imagined he was already on the phone to a colleague. ‘That Edina Ogborne’s just arrived. She looks a damn sight fitter than in the photograph we downloaded.’ Too true. While waiting for her transfer, she’d doubled the time spent working out. Twenty-seven and five-six in her trainers, she was now a toned nine stone.

The windowless Interview Room was newer and cleaner but its essentials were a carbon copy of those she was used to in London. Ed resisted checking her appearance in the one-way mirror. Expecting a short wait, she pulled out a chair and sat facing the wall-mounted telephone by the door. A transfer to the provinces hadn’t been her idea but she was ambitious and her boss, Chief Superintendent Shawcross, had made it crystal: there would be no early prospect of promotion at the Met.

Twenty minutes earlier, she’d been en route from London with the roof down, the wind in her cropped black hair flashing natural blue glints for no one to see. At the turning for Canterbury the trip meter showed she was 50 miles from her home in Brixton. As she approached the outskirts of the city, Ed caught her first sight of the cathedral with its twin west towers dazzling in the summer sunshine and the meter clicked to 60, adding another ten miles to her sense of separation.

With an eye for maps and a good memory she had no difficulty finding the Police Station. The dash display read ten to four. Good timing was another of her strengths. Patience was not. Waiting in Interview Room 2, Ed glanced at her watch. It was 35 minutes since she’d entered the building. She resisted a growing urge to confront the Desk Sergeant. After what had happened in London she could have done with a friendly welcome but, given the manner of her transfer, a hostile reception was always on the cards. Knowing her arrival was bound to ruffle feathers she’d vowed to play it by the book. A further ten minutes passed before the telephone rang.

‘DS Ogborne? The Super sends her apologies. Her previous meeting overran. Now she’s been unexpectedly called away. She’ll see you tomorrow at 08.00.’

Provincial ineptitude or was she being given the run-around? Biting back her fury, Ed managed to say, ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ before adding, ‘by the way, it’s DI Ogborne.’

‘As you say, Ma’am.’

Determined to remain cool, Ed called, ‘G’bye Sergeant,’ as she passed the desk on her way out of the building. If Williams responded before the door closed behind her, she didn’t hear him.

Ed slotted her car into a reserved space, checked in, and went straight to her room at the ABode hotel. She still thought of it as The County from years ago when she’d stayed with her grandfather. The name change, with its implication of mergers and takeovers, reminded her of the way she’d been shunted from the Met.

The rumours were that it had come to a head the previous November. Later, when she was told her fate, Ed realized the gossip had been right: the boys’ club had closed ranks. She could imagine a coarse instruction coming down from someone among the top brass: ‘Get her wetting her knickers worrying about disciplinary sanctions, possible demotion, even dismissal. Leave her to stew, then sweeten the transfer with a promotion. Get her onside and bloody grateful to move.’

Ed hadn’t been grateful to move but she was onside and she intended to stay onside. Transfer out of the Met would happen; it wasn’t an option. If she wanted a career in the Force she would have to toe the line. Ed was ambitious. One day she’d be in a position to change things. The sense of injustice was no longer sharp but the issue still rankled and she was troubled by the feeling that leaving London would increase her loss. This made no sense but she’d lived her entire life in London and it was there where they had been together briefly before her son was taken from her.

The decision had been made in the past, but a nagging sense of guilt remained. Had she acted in his best interests or her own? Had she abandoned him? Ed had become adept at brushing those thoughts aside, but they frequently returned. The move from London wouldn’t increase their separation but somehow the logic she applied as a detective didn’t always work in her private life. As a detective she was focused and methodical. In private she could be impetuous but, like Piaf, she steadfastly refused to regret her choices.

This time it hadn’t been her choice but, as she saw it, her career in the Met had been put on hold. She was hurt, but she would be professional and make the most of her opportunities in the provinces. Ed rejected the idea that it was a fresh start, regarding her move to Canterbury as a brief hiatus, a chance to broaden her experience and expand her CV. Her new posting would begin on Monday. Until then, apart from her postponed meeting with Chief Superintendent Addler, her time was her own and she intended to cosset herself.

Ed dialled room service and then the hotel restaurant to reserve a table for dinner. With a sandwich and half a bottle of wine, she sat at her laptop looking for somewhere to live. The income from the house in London and her increased salary meant she could afford somewhere decent, central and with a garage for her new car. A couple of hours on the internet passed rapidly. Calculating that her meeting tomorrow morning with Addler wouldn’t last longer than an hour, she made three appointments for viewings in the afternoon. Now she could relax. Ed ran a bath and thoughts of work were banished by the warmth which enveloped her body. Later, she selected clothes for the evening: a grey silk top and a bias-cut skirt. You never knew who you might meet when dining alone.

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Parked at the far end of Hollowmede, he watched Lucy leave her home and walk past the junction with Elham Road. Certain she was taking the footpath to Debbie’s, he drove round the block to check she entered her friend’s house. Thirty minutes later, the two girls were still inside and he was confident they were there for the evening. It would be two hours before Lucy left to walk home, plenty of time to swap his car for the van, eat and return to wait.

It was ten years since he had taken Teresa. She’d been the first and, he’d thought at the time, the last but he’d been thwarted; her parents had been clever. Teresa and her mother had gone abroad for a year. On their return, his baby daughter was with them. He’d thought he would care for her from afar but soon after their return there was a For Sale sign by the lamps at the entry to the Mulhollands’ home. The house was deserted. The family had disappeared and he’d been unable to trace them. After six years he’d changed. He wanted a son. He’d chosen Kimberley from a different social class but yet again he hadn’t been prepared for what happened, and it was four more years before he had the confidence to try again.

In retrospect, he realized the mistake he’d made moving from Teresa to Kimberley. Choosing from a different social class was good; overlooking the lack of religion had been bad. Kimberley had shown no scruples when she discovered she was pregnant. He’d resolved to do better next time but finding a churchgoing young woman proved difficult. Then he had a stroke of good fortune. By chance, he’d discovered that Lucy Naylor had a strong interest in religion. She didn’t attend church, but the more he observed her, the more he was convinced she’d be a good mother for his child.

Lucy would be the third, but now he was beginning to think she wouldn’t be the last. He had no fear of being caught. There were two risks. Lucy might not follow her usual route home or there could be people on the street when she did. If so he would terminate the mission. Termination would be a minor setback. The mission was his life’s work. There would be other opportunities. With sufficient time and money, success was assured.

He’d watched Lucy and Debbie for weeks. Neither had a boyfriend and they spent their free time together. Friday nights they went to the cinema in Canterbury or spent the evening at Debbie’s. When Lucy left to walk the quarter mile home she typically took the narrow path which linked their two roads. At the end of the path there was a triangle of grass across from the primary school. Tonight he expected Lucy to leave about ten. The area by the school should be deserted and he would be waiting.

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Armed with a novel, Ed decided to have a cocktail before dinner. The hotel bar was a small room with some half-a-dozen barstools and as many tables. All of the tables were occupied. Ed sat at the bar and signalled to the barman. In keeping with the name on his badge, Gino was short and dark with a perceptible Italian accent and a friendly warmth conveyed by his relaxed smile.

Ed knew exactly what she wanted: something cool. ‘A gin martini with three olives.’