by Cross,Amy
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Oh, just an observation. And, you know, attractive young women tend to get involved with attractive young men. It's the way of the world.” He leans back, resting his arms on his beer gut. “That's what I have observed, anyway. From a distance. So maybe she woke up at someone else's house this morning, if you catch my drift.”
“You're not listening to me,” I mutter, feeling as if I'm about to explode with frustration. “My daughter was upset when I spoke to her last night. She was sobbing, and she clearly needed help. I called someone before I left Shropley, but evidently none of you lazy fools could be bothered to go and check up on her. If one of you had just done what I asked, we might not be sitting here now!”
“Lazy?” he asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Fools?”
“Why didn't you go and check if she was okay?” I ask. “All of this could have been avoided!”
“Let me tell you what's most likely going on here,” he continues, already sounding bored as he leans forward and rests his elbows against the desk. “Your daughter Mary -”
“Katie! Her name is Katie!”
“Katie. I'm sorry. Your daughter Katie has more than likely met a fella.”
“There was a man in her apartment when I got there!”
He checks the paperwork. “That would be... Fernando Royas, yeah? The Spanish chap?”
“He must know what's happened to her.”
“Must he?” He pauses, before scrunching his nose up. “Nah. I doubt that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He's nothing special. Your daughter probably just let him and that French bird use the apartment while she went off with someone else. It's so obvious, I'm surprised I'm even having to tell you. This is just what young people are like these days.” He pauses, as if he's waiting for me to tell him that he's right, and to admit that I'm making a fuss over nothing. “They've probably gone for a long weekend and they'll be back on Monday or Tuesday morning,” he continues, leaning back again. “If there's no sign of her by then, then we can think about looking into things a little more. But my resources are already -”
“Two days?” I stammer. “You want me to wait another two days?”
“She's probably on a beach somewhere, and -”
“Check the Skype logs,” I continue, interrupting him. “Check the video, and then you'll see!”
“Do you know her password?”
“Hack in! Isn't that what you people do? Hack into it and see for yourself!”
He sighs. “I can't just check the video with the snap of my fingers. Do you have any idea how long it takes to get the necessary warrant, and then to obtain the files and process them? The whole process is a bloody nightmare.”
“So what can you do?” I ask, before hearing a flurry of voices over my shoulder.
Turning, I see Agnes and Fernando being led by two police officers toward an interview room. They're fully clothed and cleaned now, and my blood begins to boil as I see that they're laughing and joking with one another. Agnes nudges Fernando and whispers something, and then they both glance at me. Clearly they find the entire situation to be a source of great amusement, and I barely manage to restrain my anger as they're taken into a side-room, the door to which then swings shut. A moment later, another police officer carries a tray of tea and coffees into the room, after which the door swings shut again.
I turn to Detective Potter.
“They're under arrest, aren't they?” I ask.
“They're here for questioning.”
“They were in my daughter's apartment!”
“Which is why we want to ask them about -”
“They were covered in blood!”
“A doctor has -”
“Didn't you see what that girl was doing to herself?” I hiss, shocked that he's still so nonchalant. “She was cutting her body, and...”
I feel a shudder pass through my chest as I think back to the sight of Agnes naked on the apartment floor, digging her fingernails into her own flesh. The whole thing was quite abhorrent and clearly a sign of deep-rooted depravity. Katie would never comport herself with such people. Not my Katie.
“I know what Agnes did to herself,” Potter mutters, “and that's why I made sure she saw a doctor before she was brought here. I suppose he must have patched her up and cleared her to come to us.”
“Patched her up?”
“Some of these parts bleed a lot without there actually being much damage.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I'm not an expert in these things,” he continues, rather unnecessarily. “My colleague is interviewing the pair of them right now, and if they have anything to tell us, they -”
“If they have anything?” I ask, getting to my feet. “Are you insane? They were in my daughter's apartment, covered in blood, and now she's missing!”
He nods. “I'd be surprised if they couldn't tell us a few things.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, before realizing that there's no point. The man clearly enjoys acting the part of a buffoon, so I quickly turn and make my way across the office, squeezing between desks as I head toward the door at the far end. If these utter fools aren't going to do their jobs, I suppose I shall just have to take matters into my own hands.
“Mrs. Wren!” Potter calls after me. “Where are you going?”
“Where do you think?” I mutter as I reach the door. “I'm going to -”
“No!” he says firmly, stepping past me and grabbing the handle. “I'm afraid I can't let you go in there, Mrs. Wren. There is a formal police interview taking place.”
“And then you'll arrest them?”
“For what? Being naked in an apartment?”
“For whatever they've done to my girl!”
“This is just a preliminary investigation so far,” he replies. “Unless your daughter is missing for seventy-two hours, or there's some sign that she might be hurt, we really don't have any reason to take action.”
“Her apartment had been ransacked!”
“She's a student.”
“I haven't heard from her since last night!”
“Again, she's a student.”
“There was blood all over the floor!”
“And the blood belonged to Agnes,” he replies. “That much, we've already established. None of the blood was from your daughter. It looks like maybe Katie just let her friends use the apartment for a few hours.” He chuckles to himself. “For, you know, the kind of games young people like to play. Young people with too much time on their hands, too much imagination, and a complete lack of shame. Katie probably just stepped out for a few hours to give them a little privacy.”
“You can't possibly believe that,” I stammer. “What about the Skype calls? She was sick!”
“Probably just flu.”
“It was more than that! And there are those strange markings on the wall in her apartment!”
“My advice to you is that you should come back on Tuesday,” he continues with another sigh. “Until then, if you insist on staying in London, you should take a look around and see the sights. I'm sure a nice rural lady such as yourself can find ways to entertain herself. Is this your first time in London?”
“First and last,” I mutter, taking a step back. “I shall be going straight to another police station, and I shall make sure that your lack of cooperation is mentioned far and wide. And when I find my daughter safe and well, no thanks to you...”
I pause for a moment, keenly aware that he seems not to give a damn.
“I'll have your badge for this!” I add finally, turning and hurrying away. My legs feel weak, as if they might buckle at any moment, but I have to get out of here. I'm sure someone will help me once they find out about a missing girl in the heart of London. And once they swing into action, we'll find Katie. I know we will. She's still alive, she has to be. I just need some help to find her.
“My hands are tied!” he calls aft
er me. “Mrs. Wren, do you know what it'd be like if we investigated every student who doesn't call home and lets her room get messy? Mrs. Wren, there's nothing wrong! Your daughter'll show up! She's fine!”
Chapter Nine
The Journalist
As soon as I step outside the police building, I'm shocked by the brute noise of the city. I'm no country mouse, but somehow London seems bigger and louder and more overbearing than anywhere I've ever been in my life. People are shouting at one another, car horns are honking, mopeds are whizzing along the pavements, and somewhere nearby some persistent idiot is using a drill. For a moment, I actually feel a little disorientated.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, but even the air here is thick with smog and grime. This was the third police station I've tried today, and all three have given me the brush-off. I know I have to keep trying, but right now I feel as if nobody in this awful city gives a damn about Katie at all. They just tell me to stop worrying, they treat me like I'm some kind of nagging old woman. Frankly, I'm starting to think that nobody is ever going to take my concerns seriously.
“Winifred Wren?”
Startled, I turn and find a scruffy-looking woman watching me from the doorway. She's breathing out a thick plume of cigarette smoke, and I suppose I must have walked straight past her as I emerged from the building. She blends in rather well against the mucky walls.
“Hang on,” she mutters, holding the cigarette between her teeth as she slips several cellphones into her pocket. Wiping her hands on his coat, she hurries down the steps and comes over to join me. “Sorry about that,” she adds, forcing a smile, “I was just...”
She examines something on her right hand, before wiping it again and then holding it out for me to shake.
“Churchill. Annabelle Churchill. I know what you're thinking, and you're right, my parents were assholes for lumbering me with a name like that. I should change it, but I just never got around to all the paperwork. Plus, I think maybe I like having something to complain about. It's a way to break the ice.” She coughs for a moment. “I couldn't help overhearing what you were saying when you arrived earlier.”
I shake her hand with caution, although this woman – with her rough, dirty coat and her uncombed hair – strikes me as being barely one step above a street-sleeper.
“Your daughter's missing, I think I heard you saying?” she continues. “Someone named Katie? Katie Wren, yeah?”
“That's right, but -”
“Shocking,” she continues. “It's not right, is it? The world shouldn't be the kind of place where a lovely young lady can suddenly vanish in the heart of one of our great cities. We should be safer around other people, not in more danger. If you ask me, modern life is destroying the natural herd mentality of our species. Cows, pigs, elephants... They all feel safer when they're around others of their own kind, right? But humans, we're starting to have to be really careful with that stuff, aren't we? 'Cause you never know who's a weirdo and who's not.” She pauses, and she actually seems a little breathless. “And then when you come to the police, the people who are actually supposed to help ordinary, decent people such as yourself, what do they do? Bugger all. Absolute mother-”
She pauses again, before taking another drag from her cigarette.
“Well, excuse my language there,” she adds. “It just sickens me. Total horror, all around. I long for the world to be decent again. This city gets right up my backside sometimes.”
“I'm sorry,” I reply, “but... Who are you, exactly?”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“I was just -”
Before I can finish, I realize I'm not entirely sure where I was going. I have to find Katie, but the police were useless and I honestly don't know what I'm supposed to do next. Perhaps if I head back to the apartment, I might be able to work out where my daughter has gone, but at the same time I'm not sure I can face the blood just yet. For a moment, I feel completely and utterly lost.
“I know a place,” Ms. Churchill says suddenly, pointing along the street. “Nice little cafe. We can talk there, yeah?”
“What do you want to talk about?” I ask. “Do you know Katie?”
She shakes her head. “Never met her in my life.”
“Then what do you want with me?”
“The police aren't gonna do much to find Katie,” she continues. “I'm sorry, but that's just a fact. They haven't got the resources, and even if they did, they're the laziest bastards you'll ever meet in your life. Sorry again for the strong language, but sometimes it's just necessary. I've had run-ins with them over the years, more run-ins than I'd care to remember, and my opinion of their abilities has only -”
She holds a hand up high and then swoops it down low, while making a whooshing sound.
“Like that,” she adds. “Down in the gutter. Splash.”
“I'm not sure what -”
“Crap!”
Having suddenly dropped her cigarette, she quickly picks it up again and wipes the butt before placing it back between her lips.
“Seven-second rule,” she mutters.
“I'm sorry?”
“Now I know what you're thinking,” she adds, interrupting me. “You're thinking about all those girls who go missing and end up in the headlines, the ones who get their pretty pictures plastered all over the place. You're wondering why the cops bother with them, when they clearly don't bother with most cases. Well, that's exactly what I'm talking about. If you want the police to do anything more than take a cursory poke around, you need to generate some media interest. You need to get popular goodwill on your side, and then they'll slouch into action. But it's all about chickens and eggs, isn't it? How do you get Katie's story onto the front-pages in the first place?”
“I really don't -”
“Of course, it helps that she's photogenic.”
She holds up one of her phones, showing Katie's Facebook profile.
“How did you find that?” I ask.
“Skills,” she replies with a faint, proud smile. “She's pretty. I mean, I could see her on the front page of the tabloids. Really, I could. I mean, in that sense you're already lucky, 'cause an ugly girl wouldn't get so much coverage. I have to be honest here, I know that if I went missing, nobody would wanna look at my face over their cornflakes. It's the pretty ones who get the column inches and Katie ticks all the boxes. Innocent-looking, a nice smile, good hair, good skin, average weight, pretty but not too pretty. Homely. It's a good mix.”
I stare at her, still not quite sure what she wants from me.
“And that's where I come in!” she says as her smile grows.
“Are you drunk?” I ask cautiously.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a wallet and then selects one of many business cards. When she holds it up for me to see, I realize that she's a member of the press.
“I don't think I want to talk to a journalist,” I reply quickly, turning to walk away. “Thank you all the same. Goodbye.”
“Hold up!” she calls out, quickly hurrying after me. “Listen, I'll be honest with you. I come down here every morning to the station so I can loiter in the entrance hall, hoping to overhear something I can turn into a story. You'd be surprised what I pick up that way, but I've always been dreaming of getting my teeth into something meatier. Something that might actually help someone out. I've been working on the papers since the late 90's, and do you know what that means?”
“I really can't imagine,” I mutter, hoping against hope that she'll leave me alone.
“It means I've got connections.”
“That's lovely, but -”
“The kind of connections that'll help me find Katie.”
Stopping at the street corner, I turn to her.
“Maybe, anyway,” she adds. “Obviously I can't make any promises, but I'm a damn sight more effective that any of those cops in that building back there. And do you know why I'm so effective?”
“Why?”
“Pro
fit.”
“I'm sorry?”
“Let's be honest. Profit drives the world, and if I can find your daughter for you, I get a big story that'll put my name back on the front-pages. Or the home-pages, the big websites, all that new media rubbish. It might even be worth a book deal. The point is, I reckon the search for your daughter could hit a lot of big buttons that the public like. They'll lap it up and it'll be a win-win for both of us. You'll get Katie back, hopefully, or at least you'll get closure and justice. And in return, you'll grant me the exclusive rights to your story. And they'll have to be properly exclusive, that'll be part of the deal.”
“Deal?” I stammer. “You're trying to make a deal with me?”
“I'm being honest with you,” she replies, before taking a sheet of crumpled paper from her pocket. “This is the way the world works. Your daughter's missing, and you need someone on your side who knows her way around, someone who's motivated to do the work. I mean, no offense, but a nice middle-aged lady such as yourself probably isn't used to the hustle of London, is she? You've lived in Shropley all your life, you've only moved house once since you were born, you're not -”
“How do you know that?” I snap.
“Research.” She grins, as if she thinks I should be impressed. “See? That's just a taster of how effective I can be. I overheard you talking to that desk monkey in the station, and then I waited outside for you. And while I waited, I looked you up online and did some background reading.”
“You did, did you?”
“That's the other thing about me. I'm efficient. I'm a hard-worker.”
“That's lovely, but it really doesn't have anything to do with me.”
“The deal's simple,” she adds. “This is a boiler-plate contract you just need to sign. I'll work with you to find Katie, I'll pull some strings, ask some people, and I'll be a hell of a lot more effective than the police. If she's alive, I'll find her and get her back to you. If something unfortunate has happened to her, the people behind it will get what's coming to them. And in return, all you have to do is grant me the exclusive rights to your story, and exclusive rights to Katie's story in whatever form it might take depending on whether she...”