Discarded M. Hunter (the snowy day read aloud TXT) 📖

‘I see. What can you tell me about the photograph? How do you know it’s of Faye McKenna?’

‘Her name and date of birth were written on the back of the image. I looked her up online and that’s how I got your number. I can forward you a copy of the image if that would help?’

‘Sure, it can’t hurt.’

‘Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions about the case? I looked online, but couldn’t see much other than she went missing on her return from school.’

‘I’m sorry, Emma, I can’t share details of an open investigation with members of the public.’

‘Absolutely, I understand that, and I’ve signed numerous Non-Disclosure Agreements with the Met Police in London when I’ve helped them with open investigations. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?’ I cringe at the line but I want to stress that I’m not just looking for sordid details; I want to help.

‘Sorry, I can’t say I have.’

At least she can’t see my cheeks burning.

‘I’m trying to figure out who might have sent me the picture. I’d say Faye looks older than she does in the images used on her missingpeople.org page, so I wondered whether her mum might have had her aged using software, and it was her way of reaching out and asking for my help.’

‘Unlikely. Mrs McKenna died two and a bit years ago.’

‘Oh, I see. Is it possible that someone else in the immediate family could have sent it instead then? I read that Faye didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and that her dad wasn’t on the scene, but are you in touch with him, or maybe any uncles or aunts of Faye?’

DC Knox sighs. ‘Faye’s case remains open, but after Mrs McKenna passed, nobody has been in touch with us to ask about Faye – until you, that is. We will continue to review the case every couple of years, as we do with all our cold cases, but unless new evidence comes to light, there’s little chance of us ever finding out what happened to Faye.’

I picture Faye’s face in my mind. ‘Do you know if Faye ever did any acting at school or in her spare time?’

‘I’m not sure. Why?’

‘The picture I was sent – it’s going to sound silly, but – it resembles a headshot like actors would use when requesting auditions for parts, and I wondered whether… I don’t know what I wondered really.’

‘Listen, Emma, I wasn’t involved in the case originally, so I don’t know all the ins and outs of it. Send me the image and I will add it to the file along with your number, and when it next comes up for review, someone can contact you and provide an update.’

I know the drill, I don’t say.

‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about Faye or the picture you were sent?’ DC Knox asks, bringing the call to an end.

‘No, I don’t think so. Is there an email address I can forward the image to?’

She dictates one to me and then hangs up.

‘Any luck?’ Rick asks quizzically.

‘No,’ I reply, sighing heavily. ‘Faye doesn’t have any next of kin who would have been likely to send the picture, which puts us back to square one on who and why it was sent to me.’

Frustrated, I push open the door and clamber out. My legs are grateful for the movement, and I welcome the rush of fresh air as the branches sway overhead. The car park is barely large enough to fit more than half a dozen cars, and is probably here primarily for the use of those visiting the adjacent cemetery.

‘Why don’t we go for a wander,’ Rick suggests, climbing out and stretching his aching muscles. ‘Maybe we’ll run into someone who can tell us more about Chesney whatever his name is.’

There’s that positivity again, but in fairness a stretch of our legs is probably a good idea after the two-hour car journey. I certainly could do with burning off the calories we filled up on from the crisps and biscuits we both consumed on the way here. Locking the car, Rick leads us back to the main road, and I can immediately see there is a smattering of properties nearby, which were obscured by tall bushes and our low centre of gravity in Rick’s car.

‘Which way do you want to go?’ he asks.

The thought of knocking on all of the doors and asking whether the residents have heard of Chesney Byrne doesn’t feel like a good use of our time, but the road is empty of passers-by and very well may remain that way for the foreseeable future.

‘We could do with a list of names of everyone who lives within the postcode,’ I say aloud, though not sure where the thought is headed. ‘Maybe we’d then see a name that somehow links to Chesney.’

I know I’m clutching at straws, and I now regret us making this journey on such a whim. It was Rick’s idea, but I should have known better than just to go along with it. We could have researched the area, or reached out to the local police and explained who I was and what I’d received, as I did with DC Knox in Manchester.

‘I don’t think they make a phone directory by postcode, but we could always ask at the church and see if there is a list of local parishioners. It’s a start.’

I exhale loudly, but nod my head and follow Rick as he leads me out of the car park and in through the wooden gate. It really is a pretty church, set close to the road, and surrounded by a small collection of evergreen trees. I imagine on a sunny day it would be so picturesque – ideal for a wedding for those inclined to celebrate in a church.

‘It’s all closed up,’ I observe.

‘Yeah, but there’s a small house adjoining at the back. You see?’ He points