Helen had called ahead so was swiftly ushered in to meet the hostel manager. She confirmed her credentials, presented the most recent photo and trotted out her cover story with assurance. She knew it was a long shot, but nevertheless she felt deflated when the manager told her that Suzanne Cooke had not been seen for over a year. She had never really fitted in, the manager confided, never seemed interested in engaging with their programmes. They had obviously alerted the probation services after she’d vanished, but what with the cutbacks and reorganization they never spoke to the same person twice and her case was never followed up.
‘We’d love to do more, but there’s only so much we can do. We have our hands full here as it is,’ the manager concluded.
‘I understand – it’s tough. Tell me a little more about Suzanne. What did she do when she was here? Did she have friends? Anyone she confided in?’
‘Not that I know of. She didn’t really join in. Kept herself very much to herself. Mostly she liked to exercise. She’s very well-built, muscular, athletic. She did a lot of body-building and when she wasn’t in the gym, she was helping out with the culling. She was stronger than most of the blokes, they said.’
‘Culling?’
‘In Thetford Forest. It’s only a couple of miles away and every year we allow some of our residents to help out with the summer cull if they want to. It’s strictly supervised obviously because of the firearms, but some people like it – it’s hard manual labour and you get a whole day out in the fresh air.’
‘How so?’
‘It’s mostly red deer in Thetford. They are shot early in the day, usually in remote areas of the forest. It’s pretty impassable for vehicles, so draggers have to get them back to the nearest track so they can be loaded up.’
‘How?’
‘Using a deer harness. You tie the deer’s legs together, then clip a canvas cord round the bind. The cord is attached to a harness – bit like a mountaineer’s harness – that you put on round your shoulders. Then you drag the deer along behind you. Much easier than trying to carry it.’
Another piece of the jigsaw had fallen into place.
Charlie stared at the computer screen, her stomach knotted with tension. Skype was doing its trilly ring tone thing and Charlie was praying someone would answer. The fate of Stephanie Bines hung in the balance.
It had been an exhausting search, but Charlie had never given up hope. Accompanied by DCs Bridges and Grounds, she’d trawled every low-rent pub, café and nightclub in Southampton and beyond. The conversation always went the same way: