Monday 25 – Thursday 28 January 2016
‘Detective Poole? DETECTIVE POOLE!’ The young officer ran hurriedly after Julia. Poole stopped, brusquely turned to face the oncoming officer, and impatiently sighed.
‘What is it, Jackson?’
The out of breath officer huffed. ‘We’ve had a report, and I think it links with your missing girl case.’
‘Well, go on . . . don’t waste any more time,’ she grumped.
‘A trailer park on the I-80 route. A woman phoned in to report suspicious behaviour of an older guy towards a young woman. The description she gave of the girl fits Holly Quartermaine, except that this girl has dark hair. The description of the man is vague, but I figured an older man with a young girl, suspicious behaviour, we’d be remiss not to look into it.’
‘Is that the information from the call?’ Poole pointed to the small note in Jackson’s hand. The officer nodded and held it out to Julia. She swiped it, examined the scratchy handwriting, and nodded. ‘Good work, Jackson. Get on to the locals, and have them take a run by the trailer park on some bogus call out. Have them go trailer to trailer, see if they can find this couple, and the woman who called it in. But tell them I do not want this pair spooked. If it’s Turner and Holly, I want them there until Greene and I get there.’ She strode towards the detectives’ office without waiting for any sort of acknowledgement of understanding from Jackson. He teetered on the spot before returning to the front desk.
‘Greene, get your shit together. We’ve gotta roll.’
Greene looked up from his computer screen. Despite the relatively early hour of the workday, his eyes were reddened, and dry from spending too long in front of the computer.
‘Why? Where are we going?’
She handed him the note that she’d taken from Jackson. He rubbed his eyes, and read the note three or four times before the information registered.
‘We need to get this cleared by the boss.’ Greene moved with speed and purpose to clear their journey with their Captain.
* * * * *
Turner saw the patrol car before it had made its way completely into the trailer park. He looked at the trailer home opposite the RV. He could see the meddling old woman moving behind the curtains, backlit by the sun as it shone through the windows of her trailer. She wouldn’t have seen the patrol car approaching, but she was taking a long, hard look at his RV.
‘Fucking bitch! Holly, get ready to go. NOW!’
‘What? Why? I thought we were staying here for a few days,’ she whined.
‘Just do what I say!’ He pushed her aside and, as casually as possible, stepped outside to unhook the RV. Without missing a beat, Turner coiled the cord, stashed it away, and stepped back inside.
‘Ross? Ross, what’s going on?’
He pointed out of the side window, and she followed the line of his arm. The patrol car had made it to the visitor’s car park, and the two officers got out. The one who had been in the passenger’s side strode into the office, and the driver casually looked around at the trailers, and the few RVs camped onsite.
‘Her. Over there. She’s called the cops, and we need to get out of here. Something you did tipped her off. I knew it was a stupid idea to travel with you. For God’s sake, I should have left you to rot with your mother.’
His words were a slap across her face, a wake-up call. This was how Ross Turner would behave when there was no one around to protect her.
‘I want to go home, Ross,’ Holly whispered.
‘I want to go home. I don’t want to be here with you. You’ve been awful to me since we got on the road. You’ve changed.’
‘Oh honey, I haven’t changed at all. I’ve always been this way.’ A single punch to Holly’s face dropped her to the floor. He dragged her the length of the RV, threw her against the bed, and handcuffed her to the bed head.
The two officers were making there way towards the trailer of the woman who had reported the suspicious behaviour as Ross drove the RV directly at them. Diving towards the old woman’s trailer, they narrowly avoided being hit.
‘Get the licence plate. For Christ’s sake, make sure you get the licence plate.’
. . . To be continued . . .