toolshed. It was small – no more than five or six feet across – and, although it was padlocked, it was flimsily constructed, attached to the house but gradually leveraging away from it. The woodshed was out of sight, at the side of the house, but the camera briefly passed a tree trunk with an axe embedded in it, where Franks must have cut the wood.
Next, the video switched to the interior for the first time.
Immediately inside the front door was a living room, running the entire length of the house. Off it were three open doors: through one I could see kitchen units; through the next, a downstairs bathroom; through the third, a desk with a computer on it, and two bookcases. The living room itself was neat and uncluttered. Three big leather sofas surrounding a TV. A dining-room table. A sideboard dotted with photographs. A beautiful flagstone fire. As Craw panned from left to right, I could see the photographs were mostly shots of her, her family and their kids. At the back was an L-shaped staircase leading up to a small, open landing area overlooking the living room. Upstairs, I spotted three more doors.
At this point, Craw spoke for the first time: ‘This room used to be divided into two, but Dad knocked the wall down when they moved in.’ A couple of seconds later, the video jumped again and we were in the kitchen. ‘This is the renovation they were in the middle of when he disappeared,’ she continued, and it was certainly clear that the kitchen had never been finished. There were spaces where some of the worktops hadn’t been placed yet; none of the cupboard doors had been attached; and the walls were half painted, two in cream, the others in a sickly yellow colour that they must have been in the process of covering up. Craw zoomed in slightly, taking in a long window above the sink that looked out over the back garden. This close, I could see a vegetable patch, a couple of flower beds and a patio. Again, I was struck by how much it seemed a part of its surroundings. Look quickly, and it was like the whole of the moor was theirs.
After that, there was a series of quick cuts, every room shown for thirty seconds. The house was bright and uncomplicated, and followed a similar pattern throughout: neutral walls, bright accessories, family photos, books, indoor plants. There were two bedrooms upstairs and a second bathroom. Finally, Craw returned to the spare room downstairs, which incorporated a prehistoric PC perched on a desk, and a cupboard. They sat either side of a narrow window that looked out across the moors, the edge of the toolshed visible on the left.
Suddenly, on the sofa next to me, my phone started ringing. It was a Devon number, but not one I recognized. ‘David Raker.’
‘It’s Clark,’ a male voice said by way of introduction.
Gavin Clark from the CCRU .
‘DCI Clark. Thank you for calling me b –’
‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘As I mentioned in the message I left, my name is David Raker. I’m looking into the disappearance of Leonard Franks. I believe he was in the process of taking on some –’
‘I never ended up giving him a case.’
‘That’s what I was told, yes.’
‘By who?’
‘By his wife.’
‘You’re working for her?’
‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘I was hoping to get an idea of the arrangement –’
‘We never had an arrangement because he never ended up taking on any work for the unit,’ Clark said. ‘I spoke to him on the phone, I liked what he had to say, he had the perfect CV, so I was in the process of getting him signed off. That’s it. End of story.’
‘You didn’t talk about a specific case to him?’
‘Why’s that your business?’
‘I’m just trying to find him.’
‘Yeah, well, so are the police.’
‘I think the police have run out of ideas.’
‘This is still an active case – you know that, right? Not my active case, so you do whatever the hell you like. I don’t care. But you buzzing around trying to get answers will make
Next, the video switched to the interior for the first time.
Immediately inside the front door was a living room, running the entire length of the house. Off it were three open doors: through one I could see kitchen units; through the next, a downstairs bathroom; through the third, a desk with a computer on it, and two bookcases. The living room itself was neat and uncluttered. Three big leather sofas surrounding a TV. A dining-room table. A sideboard dotted with photographs. A beautiful flagstone fire. As Craw panned from left to right, I could see the photographs were mostly shots of her, her family and their kids. At the back was an L-shaped staircase leading up to a small, open landing area overlooking the living room. Upstairs, I spotted three more doors.
At this point, Craw spoke for the first time: ‘This room used to be divided into two, but Dad knocked the wall down when they moved in.’ A couple of seconds later, the video jumped again and we were in the kitchen. ‘This is the renovation they were in the middle of when he disappeared,’ she continued, and it was certainly clear that the kitchen had never been finished. There were spaces where some of the worktops hadn’t been placed yet; none of the cupboard doors had been attached; and the walls were half painted, two in cream, the others in a sickly yellow colour that they must have been in the process of covering up. Craw zoomed in slightly, taking in a long window above the sink that looked out over the back garden. This close, I could see a vegetable patch, a couple of flower beds and a patio. Again, I was struck by how much it seemed a part of its surroundings. Look quickly, and it was like the whole of the moor was theirs.
After that, there was a series of quick cuts, every room shown for thirty seconds. The house was bright and uncomplicated, and followed a similar pattern throughout: neutral walls, bright accessories, family photos, books, indoor plants. There were two bedrooms upstairs and a second bathroom. Finally, Craw returned to the spare room downstairs, which incorporated a prehistoric PC perched on a desk, and a cupboard. They sat either side of a narrow window that looked out across the moors, the edge of the toolshed visible on the left.
Suddenly, on the sofa next to me, my phone started ringing. It was a Devon number, but not one I recognized. ‘David Raker.’
‘It’s Clark,’ a male voice said by way of introduction.
Gavin Clark from the CCRU .
‘DCI Clark. Thank you for calling me b –’
‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘As I mentioned in the message I left, my name is David Raker. I’m looking into the disappearance of Leonard Franks. I believe he was in the process of taking on some –’
‘I never ended up giving him a case.’
‘That’s what I was told, yes.’
‘By who?’
‘By his wife.’
‘You’re working for her?’
‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘I was hoping to get an idea of the arrangement –’
‘We never had an arrangement because he never ended up taking on any work for the unit,’ Clark said. ‘I spoke to him on the phone, I liked what he had to say, he had the perfect CV, so I was in the process of getting him signed off. That’s it. End of story.’
‘You didn’t talk about a specific case to him?’
‘Why’s that your business?’
‘I’m just trying to find him.’
‘Yeah, well, so are the police.’
‘I think the police have run out of ideas.’
‘This is still an active case – you know that, right? Not my active case, so you do whatever the hell you like. I don’t care. But you buzzing around trying to get answers will make
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