‘Oh no you can’t. I can smell the alcohol on your breath,’ Karen said. ‘Get in the car and we’ll take you home.’
‘I only had one,’ Dennis said, attempting to stare Karen down.
‘We could do a breathalyser test, but we really don’t have time, so just get in the car.’
Dennis gave Karen a rebellious look but did as she asked.
‘When a child is abducted, the person responsible is often someone they know and trust,’ DI Morgan said as he opened the passenger door. ‘Most of the time it’s someone known to the family. I’m not saying that’s the case here, but if you’ve noticed anyone acting a bit differently recently, Dennis, you need to tell us. You can’t try to sort this out on your own.’
Dennis sat in the rear passenger seat, staring ahead glumly at the headrest in front of him.
Karen got in the driver’s seat while DI Morgan called into the station for an update. Dennis perked up a little, listening to the one-way conversation. But when it became clear there was no fresh news, he stared despondently out of the window.
She pulled up outside Dennis’s house, this time not bothering to pull into the driveway. ‘We’ll keep you updated, Dennis. It might be best if you stay at home tonight in case Emily tries to get in touch.’
Dennis said nothing as he climbed out of the car, which lifted with a squeak when free of his bulk. He slammed the door before stomping up towards the house.
‘Back to the station, sir?’ Karen asked, glancing at DI Morgan as she prepared to pull away from the kerb.
‘You don’t have to keep calling me sir, you know. I don’t mind you calling me Scott.’
Karen shrugged. ‘Sorry, it’s a habit. I suppose the new recruits find it easier to be on first-name terms, but if it’s all the same with you, I prefer to stick to calling you sir.’
‘Fair enough. If you’re really keen on speaking to Nigel Palmer, then I could drop you there now. But I’d need to take the car. Superintendent Murray will expect me to lead the briefing.’
‘That would be great, sir,’ Karen said.
‘All right. Let’s go straight there, and then I’ll drive back to Nettleham. You’ll have to make your own way back to HQ.’
Karen nodded. ‘Not a problem.’
Karen drove along Station Road up to the junction and then took a right. A mile or so out of the village, she turned right again into a narrow country lane lined by fields on each side.
After they passed an old windmill that had been damaged by fire years ago, Karen said, ‘That’s the Palmer farm.’
A huge barn dominated the smaller redbrick farmhouse. Both buildings were set well back from the road and surrounded by open farmland. There were lights on in the house, lending it a warm and cosy feel. But Karen couldn’t help shivering as she thought of the residents inside.
‘I imagine it’s quite picturesque in the daylight,’ DI Morgan said, taking in the dark, flat landscape.
Karen nodded as she turned off on to the bumpy, single-track private road. ‘If you like that sort of thing. The place always seemed a bit barren and stark to me.’
DI Morgan put a hand on the dashboard as the car dipped into a pothole and bounced back out again. ‘Do the entire family live here?’
Karen pulled to a stop outside the farmhouse and paused a moment, watching the bats as they swooped to catch insects attracted by the car’s headlights. The weather had turned cold, and she was surprised the bats were still active. She guessed they must roost in the barn.
‘Nigel Palmer lives here with his daughter and son. His wife left him years ago. His son, Jasper, supervises most of the farm work these days, and the daughter – I’ve forgotten her name – looks after the home and takes care of her father. They’re an odd family,’ Karen said.
‘Odd how?’
‘I think Jasper and his sister have always been scared of their father, and even though they’re in their early forties now, they still tiptoe around him. Jasper takes after his father. He’s short-tempered and has a mean streak. The daughter’s a quiet, mousy thing, always seems scared of saying the wrong thing and getting into trouble.’
DI Morgan nodded. ‘Okay. Well, find out if they’ve seen anything, and if they know either of the girls. Keep it casual.’ He glanced at the dashboard clock. ‘I’d better get a move on. The briefing’s in thirty minutes, and Superintendent Murray’s not going to accept any excuses for my absence.’
‘I won’t need long,’ Karen said, sure that after a few minutes with Nigel Palmer, she’d be able to tell if he knew anything about the girls’ disappearance.
They got out of the car. Karen stared at the farmhouse as DI Morgan walked around to the driver’s side.
He followed her gaze and looked towards the glowing lights of the house. ‘Are you comfortable going in there on your own?’
Karen turned to him. ‘Absolutely. I think it’s worth taking the time to talk to him.’
DI Morgan glanced at his watch. ‘I could come in with you if you’d prefer.’
Karen shook her head. ‘No, sir. There’s no need. You’ve got more important things to be getting on with back at the station, but I appreciate you giving me the time to do this.’
‘Do you want me to arrange a ride back to the station for you?’
‘No need. I have a friend who’ll give me a lift.’
DI Morgan hesitated, and Karen was almost sure he was going to change his mind and insist she return to the station with him. Then he nodded and slipped into the driver’s seat. ‘See you back at the station.’
As he made a three-point turn, the car’s tyres crunching over gravel, Karen squared her shoulders and walked towards the farmhouse.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nigel Palmer’s daughter opened the front door. She was a good six inches taller than Karen with a pale, thin, pinched face, and when she recognised Karen her features tightened.
She shot a look over her shoulder and then turned back. ‘I thought all this was over.’
As soon as she spoke, Karen remembered her name. Cathy. Cathy Palmer, the poor, put-upon farmer’s daughter.
‘Evening, Cathy. You don’t mind if I come in, do you?’
Without waiting for an answer, Karen slid past Cathy and stepped into the hall. Striding forward, she crossed the flagstone floor of the hallway that led to the huge farmhouse kitchen.
Beside a large open fireplace, sitting in a wooden rocking chair with a blanket over his knees was Nigel Palmer. A clear plastic loop of tubing ran beneath his nose and was linked to an upright oxygen canister behind the chair.
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to have that canister so near to an open fire, Mr Palmer,’ Karen said.
The old man turned his wizened face towards Karen. Like his daughter, he was tall. Though he sat hunched in the chair, Karen had seen him standing before and knew he was at least six foot four. He was very, very thin. Nigel Palmer had emphysema, and it appeared his condition had worsened since the last time she’d seen him.
Nigel sneered at her. ‘Spare me your fake concern, officer.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Shut the door, Cathy, you stupid girl! You’re letting in the cold.’