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Although the drive would have fitted five cars comfortably, all police vehicles were parked on the opposite side of the road. Poe pulled up behind a CSI van.
A detective called Pearson met them at the gate.
‘Anything?’ Poe asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘No sign of a break-in.’
‘How’d you get in?’
‘Smashed a window.’
‘No sign of a struggle?’
Pearson shook his head.
‘And she’s not just out on the piss with the girls?’ Flynn asked.
‘Until we get a DNA match, all we’re going on is that she’s had a finger tattoo removed and she isn’t at home.’
‘Fair enough,’ Flynn said. ‘Can we go inside?’
‘I’ll get you some suits.’
Rebecca’s front door was rustic and huge. It was painted white and hung from three iron hinges. Pearson was right: no way could it have been forced. Poe doubted even the battering rams the police used would have had any effect on it. It had an old-style keyhole, stark black against the white paint. Above it was a modern dead-bolt lock. The windows were double-glazed, the type you can’t force from the outside without leaving a mess of evidence.
Poe hadn’t seen the whole of the house yet but he knew the back would be just as secure as the front. He wasn’t surprised by the level of security – Nightingale had told them that Rebecca Pridmore was a Ministry of Defence contracts manager at BAE Systems in Barrow. BAE was one of the largest defence and security companies in the world. They had fifty sites in the UK alone. The site at Barrow had produced all but three of the Royal Navy’s nuclear submarines.
When they were suited and booted, Poe and Flynn walked into Rebecca’s bungalow. It was the polar opposite of Howard Teasdale’s bedsit. Whereas his had been a glorified man cave, this was a home.
It had country charm but with the modern conveniences of city living. Modern paintings hung from the wall in the narrow hallway. It bisected the bungalow. A door on the left led them into an open kitchen and lounge area.
The kitchen was at the rear. It was lit by wall-mounted, half-globe lamps and had stainless steel appliances, an American-style double-door fridge and a polished marble counter. Utensils hung from ceiling hooks; an island in the middle had a large chopping board and a professional knife set. Fresh herbs lined the windowsill and a spice rack was fixed to one of the walls.
The only nod to the past was the Aga. It was squat against the wall, in between the double sink and the Bosch dishwasher. Peeling cream enamel but cared for nonetheless. Heavier than the car they’d arrived in. Solid and dependable, you didn’t get an Aga if you wanted to do precision baking: you got an Aga when you wanted the kitchen to be the heart of the home. If Poe had had enough room he’d have bought an Aga years ago.
The floor was tiled but the stepping plates had rubber feet and didn’t slip. Poe opened a few cupboards but nothing stood out. The fridge was stocked, but not in the way most fridges were this time of year. There were no leftovers, no drinks chilling. No fancy cheeses or chocolate truffles. If Rebecca Pridmore had celebrated Christmas, it hadn’t been at home. He made a note to check her computer for hotel bookings.
The lounge area was at the front of the bungalow. It was a room for living in. Seats and a sofa pointed at a wall-mounted LCD television. Her glass coffee table had a Jo Malone diffuser and some silver coasters on it.
A beautiful mahogany desk with a closed laptop in the middle was clearly her home office. The stepping plates only went up to the front of the desk but Poe wanted to check the drawers. He waited for CSI to put down more plates.
The desk had six drawers, three either side of the leg space. Poe pulled them, only the top right was unlocked. It was empty save some foam lining.
‘May I?’ he asked, pointing at the laptop.
‘It’s been photographed but the contents haven’t been checked,’ Pearson said. ‘We’re not even allowed to move it. The MoD are sending someone to collect it tomorrow.’
Poe picked up the laptop, turned it upside down and studied the foam in the drawer. He nodded in satisfaction then turned to Flynn.
‘Please tell Superintendent Nightingale that Rebecca Pridmore has been abducted.’
‘You sure?’
‘The drawer’s where her laptop lives when it’s not being used.’ He pointed at four round indentations in the foam. ‘You can see the witness marks from the adhesive feet. No way someone this security conscious leaves her laptop out when she’s away.’
‘It does suggest abduction rather than a spa break,’ Flynn admitted. ‘I’ll call Jo now.’
Poe studied the family photographs on the mantelpiece. They were mainly of her kids mugging for the camera. Some were of their birthdays, some were school portraits. Others were fragments of their lives. Rebecca was in all the family ones, Andrew, her ex-husband, was in a few. Probably included him so the kids didn’t get upset.
