The Long Dark Road

by P. R. Black

  ‘This was one area we were exploring.’

  ‘So you knew. My daughter was on heroin, and no one thought to explain this to me, or make it clear?’

  ‘We have to keep a number of things out of the public eye, Mrs Healey, when it comes to investigations like this. That sometimes means shutting out close family members, as well as the press and the general public. It isn’t nice, but…’

  ‘My daughter was on heroin!’ She meant to keep her voice down to a whisper, but it came out as a hiss. ‘My daughter! And you didn’t think this was worth telling me? What, did you think I’d go to the papers with it?’

  ‘That was one angle we were keen to keep away from the press, yes.’

  ‘What if I had gone to the papers? Surely it would have helped the inquiry? Jogged people’s memories?’

  Hurlford took a moment to consider his response. ‘In inquiries of this type, if there has been some foul play – and I would stress, this is not my belief – then it is important that you project the right image to the public.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Sometimes, if there are lifestyle issues that your average newspaper reader might make a judgement about, rightly or wrongly, then it can hinder an inquiry.’

  ‘Lifestyle issues,’ Georgia echoed. She felt the tears coming again – but underpinned by something else. Brittle, icy fury.

  ‘In a word, sexism, Mrs Healey. Had we made it public that your daughter had developed issues with drugs, then it makes it less likely that people might come forward. Public sympathy can lead to more people getting involved, as a result of more favourable press coverage. Painting someone as a drug addict can lead to editors losing interest, and from there, the public can lose interest. It wasn’t relevant to Stephanie going missing.’

  ‘How could it not be relevant?’ Georgia spluttered.

  ‘Because here is what I believe happened to Stephanie. I am not alone in this. We’ve gone over everything, and I mean everything. Stephanie was a depressive – you know this as well as anyone.’

  ‘She had one or two issues but that is hardly the defining…’

  ‘By definition, Mrs Healey, she was a depressive. She had sought treatment for it. She had sought treatment for it while she was a student in Ferngate. It was made worse by the fact that she had, for whatever reason, gotten herself into the drugs scene. During the week or so before she went missing, she had tried to come off it. She was not a heavy user, but I don’t have to tell a medical professional about the dangers of withdrawal, especially after they had developed a dependency. She was suffering from severe depression. So here’s what happened. She left her room in the halls of residence. She switched the phone off, left it behind. That point is very important: think about why someone would do that. Who leaves their phone behind, these days?

  ‘She was seen leaving the building by several witnesses and her path was fully traced through CCTV. During a heavy storm, she walked up that road, whereabouts unknown. We don’t know why she did this. There may have been extenuating circumstances – there was some trouble within her social circle that night. We know all about this – every bit of it. Regardless, she walked up that road, and it is my belief that she did this in order to kill herself. She did it at St Anthony’s Ghyll, which would have been inundated with water at the time. She may have been swept out as far as Paveley Weir, which was also inundated that night, and it is more than possible she went into the River Dalton and from there could have been swept out to sea.

  ‘There may have been foul play; it’s a possibility. She may have met someone on that road who picked her up – perhaps this was even done with the best intentions. But we’ve traced every single vehicle that drove up that road, triangulated between several CCTV points, and we are satisfied that none of them had anything to do with what happened to Stephanie. The last points of contact all point to her walking up to St Anthony’s Ghyll, And I truly believe that’s where it ended. Her issues with drugs were a factor in what happened, but the simple cause and effect was – Stephanie intended to take her own life. And she did.’

  He sat back, cleared his throat, and gazed at a spot over Georgia’s shoulder. She wanted to grip him by the face, to scream at him. Instead she said, in a calm voice borrowed from someone else: ‘This is all circumstantial, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s circumstantial, but it’s persuasive. I won’t go over the amount of manpower or the number of hours people have put into this. But you better know this.’ He stabbed a finger at his own chest. ‘I’ve broken my back to find out what happened to Stephanie. Worked unimaginable hours. And my God, look… for what it’s worth, I’m a professional, but I’m also a dad. I don’t know what you’re going through, but I have a good idea. I would have moved the mountains to find out what happened to Stephanie. I’d have dried up the river. But that’s the best I’ve got. It isn’t an idle fancy.’

  ‘But it’s still circumstantial. And following that line of thinking… You have Stephanie’s writings, don’t you? Her poems, the short stories, the little tales she’d write. I’ve seen them. You passed copies of them onto me, personally.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘She was writing up until the day she disappeared. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So if Stephanie meant to kill herself… Where’s the note?’

  He did not respond.

  ‘My girl’s life revolved around writing. No matter what issues she was having. Whether she was depressed or not. She wrote. It’s what she loved. So where is the suicide note? Does it fit your theory that she wouldn’t leave one? That she’d just get up and leave and not commit something to paper? For the world – or just for me?’

  ‘I’ve told you all I can, Georgia. That’s what I believe happened to Stephanie. The conjecture fits all the facts. All that’s missing is a body. I’m sorry – for what it’s worth, I am so, so sorry you had to find out about your daughter’s drug problem.’

  ‘How bad was it?’

  ‘Bad enough. In a short space of time.’

  ‘And what are you doing about the source of the drugs?’

  ‘I obviously can’t comment on other departments or other detectives. Ferngate’s drug scene is complex, and doesn’t tend to advertise itself. Nor do I advertise the status of ongoing operations.’

  ‘I’m not talking about dealers. I’m talking about the source of Stephanie’s problem. I’m talking about Riley Brightman. Or Oliver Chessington Junior, to give him his Sunday name.’

  ‘Riley Brightman had a brief flirtation with hard drugs, and soon saw the error of his ways – long before Stephanie did, it seems. He has been clean for a long time. He has voluntarily entered programmes of rehabilitation. He is active in recovery clinics and various other groups.’

  ‘You know an awful lot about him.’

  ‘It’s my job to.’ Hurlford looked as if he wanted to smile at this point, but thought better of it. ‘Riley Brightman was questioned, in painstaking detail, about what happened to Stephanie. His every movement on the day she vanished, and on the days leading up to it, was checked and verified. His personal dealings with her were exposed, in every detail possible. The same was true of Martin Duke. And Tony Sillars. And Colette Browning. And Adrienne Connulty. And Scott Trickett. The same was true of everyone else you’ve contacted over the past couple of days. None of them abducted or killed Stephanie. None of them were directly involved.’

  ‘You’re missing something. I know it. You must know it, too.’

  ‘All I’m missing, so far as I’m concerned, is a body. I am open-minded. I can be convinced. If the evidence changes, my mind changes, to paraphrase a clever man. But you’ll have to do better than this. And so far as your suicide note theory goes… I’ll share the details of a case I attended as a PC. Six weeks on the job. I had to break down the door of a shed where a man had decided to kill himself. Sunday afternoon. His wife and kids were inside the house. They’d just eaten a roast. I could tell you to this day h
ow much of the roast he’d had, because they itemised every bit of it they found inside him in the post-mortem. He had been very quiet during the meal, his wife said. Hadn’t said much. After he’d finished his food, he went into his shed, locked the door, blocked it with a heavy table that he used to maintain and repair his model rail collection, shut the curtains, took down a shotgun from a box on the top shelf, put the barrel in his mouth… I’m glad the wife and kids didn’t see it. I can say that much.’ He quickly drained the last of his coffee.

  ‘Good story. But it doesn’t apply here.’

  ‘I must be going, Mrs Healey. I have other cases to attend to, today.’

  ‘One more thing. About the girl they found the other day. Jasmine, her name was.’

  ‘Long-term heroin user, Mrs Healey. Long-term. Worked on Bewley Street. A tragedy, but not the first time I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Did you know Stephanie knew this girl?’

  ‘Yes. They knew each other very briefly.’

  ‘And did you know they had both gone to the party up at Chessington Hall? The weekend before Stephanie vanished?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this doesn’t strike you as peculiar? That she kept it secret?’

  ‘It wasn’t secret. Stephanie had taken some work with an agency – bar work. They had given her a job up at the hall during Sir Oliver’s annual party. She was looking after coats, in fact. This is all on record. She also worked a shift or two per week at The Griffony, with old Reg.’

  ‘What? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘There’s lots you don’t know,’ Hurlford said, quickly. ‘And as for the girl – she called herself Jasmine, but Janina was her real name… And I’m going to do something unprofessional, now. I’ll share this with you in strictest confidence.’

  Hurlford pulled out a phone, and after a quick search – and a scan of the room to make sure no one else could see – he showed Georgia an image.

  ‘This is her, after we found her at the deserted farmland. In an old barn, in fact. I’m sorry if this disturbs you.’

  Georgia’s expression hadn’t changed. ‘I’m a doctor. It’s possible I’ve seen more bodies than you. If you want horror stories, I’ve got them.’

  ‘She took a bad batch of heroin. Several other people became ill with it. Two others died. But Jasmine, as you can see there, was quite frail to begin with. The farmhouse has been derelict for years. It was a known place where users would squat.’

  ‘And? What’s the point of showing me this? To shock me?’

  ‘She fell, Mrs Healey. She lost her way. That’s what I’m trying to point out. It was horribly routine. I’ve seen it before. I’ll see it again. There’s no link between Jasmine’s death and Stephanie’s disappearance.’

  ‘I never said there was.’

  ‘But you were working up to it. I can tell, Mrs Healey.’

  ‘Let’s move on to the other unexplained thing, which I didn’t know about until recently. What do you know of this party?’

  He waited for her to continue.

  ‘At Chessington Hall. All the big nobs go there, I’m told. Surely you know about it?’

  ‘Of course I know about it. It’s a big event on the social calendar up here.’

  ‘Did you know prostitutes go there? That they were there, alongside Stephanie? What goes on up there, exactly? What sort of party is it?’

  Hurlford snorted in astonishment. ‘It’s a charity event, Mrs Healey. Black tie. It’s exclusive, sure, I’ll give you that. But it’s not secretive. It’s just a party, an annual event. The spring ball. Been going on hundreds of years, in some form or other.’

  ‘Oh, it’s secretive all right. If it’s a charity event, then why isn’t it publicised? Why doesn’t anyone know anything about it, bar some girls on Bewley Street?’

  ‘It’s a private party, Mrs Healey. And it has nothing to do with what happened to Stephanie. As I say – every movement has been checked. Every theory has been gamed out. Every piece of evidence has been weighed up and verified as far as possible. Stephanie worked on the cloakroom at Chessington Hall. She was one of dozens of temporary staff who got a job there that night. There’ll be a few people working there this weekend, in fact. There’s nothing sinister or unusual about it.’

  Georgia sighed. ‘I can see I’m not going to convince you. How could I convince someone who knows everything?’

  ‘I wouldn’t claim that. But I do know most things. Mrs Healey… Georgia… I’m sorry,’ he said. His voice grew thick; he reached out on a sudden impulse and took her hand. ‘I truly am. I want this case resolved. I want it over with. I want you to move on with your life. The toll is unimaginable. You’re bereft, but you can’t grieve. You know, but you aren’t certain. It’s corrosive, it’s poison. I wish for better things for you. I really do. I’m sorry.’

  He got up without another word, and left. Georgia sat back, stunned.

  That’s it, she thought. That’s it. That’s all.

  Her own coffee lay still and dark in the cup, untouched since she’d laid it down on the table.

  No. Not all, she thought.

  She turned to her phone and looked up a number. On impulse, she dialled it.

  It was picked up on the first ring, and a slightly harried-sounding young man said: ‘Hi there. Ferngate Ferret, Ivan Bell here, music journalist, raconteur and warrior.’

  ‘Just the man I want to speak to.’

  26

  Neb and me… Neb and Magpie… Magpie and Ragdolly Morticia… I’m really bored of this. I never much liked soap operas. Time to burn it all down.

  From the diary of Stephanie Healey

  ‘So – Adrienne’s not back today?’ Georgia asked.

  Ivan Bell sat back in his seat, hands behind his head. He was a pudgy lad wearing a shirt that was too tight around the middle, with a couple of buttons taking on a lot of strain. His hairstyle looked all wrong, too, long, straggly curls that he was constantly blowing out of his eyes.

  ‘Well,’ he said, rolling his eyes, ‘it’s a safe bet that Adrienne won’t be back today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that. She’s always got something on, has Adrienne.’

  ‘Who runs the paper, then?’

  Ivan beamed. ‘What, on the ground, you mean? Day to day? That kind of thing? The guy in the know? The man with the plan? You’re looking at him.’

  ‘And her,’ came another voice, at the far side of the office. It came from a strikingly beautiful black girl with close-cropped hair. Her skin tone, chin and cheekbones as well as a slender neck was so striking that Georgia was sure she’d seen her somewhere before. Not more than twenty, she guessed. ‘At the moment, you’re looking at the senior editorial staff of the Ferret. While the, eh, senior editor does something else. Doing something else is what she does very well. It might be her talent, in fact. If she wasn’t so good at other things.’

  ‘Forgive my sexism,’ Ivan said, ‘this is Maria, the senior news reporter. Get a close look at her, because this face is going to be on the front cover of Vogue, mark my words. Come on, stand up…’

  Maria waved him away, grinning.

  ‘Aw, she’s shy, but she shouldn’t be, you know what I mean? Just look at her, for Christ’s sake. Is that Britain’s next top model, or what?’

  Georgia couldn’t help but smile. ‘Going back to Adrienne…’

  Ivan blew his fringe away from his forehead and folded his arms. ‘Do we need to?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I need to know a little bit more about a project she was working on… Going back a couple of years, now. Do you have an archive or something – you know, files backed up on your editorial system?’

  ‘Oh.’ Ivan pursed his lips; looked over to Maria for guidance. ‘You wouldn’t be Stephanie Healey’s mother, would you?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Well this is a bit…’ He shared a glance with Maria. The tall girl got out of her seat and came over. She glared at Georgia as she crossed the office with a lethal, feline inso
uciance. They must be friends, she thought; Adrienne Connulty would make friends with this girl, on the spot.

  But then Maria pulled up a chair, sitting close to the only other people in the Ferret’s offices, and smiled. ‘Yeah, there’s an archive, Mrs Healey. Adrienne was looking through it the other day, in fact. She found pictures of your daughter. She was very beautiful.’

  Georgia blushed, and stammered: ‘Well, thank you. That’s a kind, uh…’

  ‘Thing is,’ Ivan said, grinning, leaning close enough for Georgia to see a sesame seed lodged between his two front teeth, ‘we’ve been in the archives, too. And not just the computer archives.’

  ‘And we found one or two things,’ Maria said.

  Georgia became serious. She wanted to clutch the tall girl’s arm. ‘What about?’

  ‘Well…’ Maria checked over her shoulder. Someone walked past the frosted glass of the office door. After the silhouette had passed without pause, she said: ‘We found out that our esteemed editor had ripped off your daughter.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Stole from her,’ Ivan said, his mouth twitching with the sheer excitement of it. ‘Plagiarism. She stole an article. Stephanie had been working on something for the Ferret – an exposé of how badly sex workers are treated in Ferngate. How they get trafficked here; how they get put out on the streets and expected to earn back their fare. Straight up and down modern slavery.’

  ‘Does that article sound familiar?’ Maria asked, steepling her eyebrows.

  ‘Well… I knew Adrienne had taken the idea, I mean that wasn’t new…’

  ‘Yeah, but she took it word for word. Verbatim. Adrienne took the report that Stephanie had filed, the interviews she’d conducted… Word for word, she copied it, after Stephanie disappeared. It had been meant to go in the last issue of the Ferret before end of term. Next thing we know, it’s ended up on a national tabloid with Adrienne’s face gurning alongside it.’

  ‘How did you get this file? Was it on a computer?’

  ‘No,’ Maria said. ‘It was hard copies, annotated, with Stephanie’s handwriting. I can show you if you’d like.’