Abduction in Dalgety Bay

by Ramsay Sinclair

  “Alright,” McCall reluctantly agreed. “But be careful. DI Cooper and I will tackle upstairs. Is that alright, Finlay?”

  “Peachy,” I gulped and willingly obliged. Moving onto the creaking staircase, I cautiously took one step at a time. Trailing along behind me, McCall tried to hide her crossed fingers, and I didn’t mention them so as not to embarrass her. Mentally, my own fingers mirrored hers.

  It began to finally sink in that we didn’t know in what state we may potentially find Sarah. We’d theorized beforehand, of course, we had, but actually seeing a child harmed or neglected would be an entirely different scenario. Nobody could prepare for that sight, no matter how much we convinced ourselves we had the skill set to deal with the findings appropriately.

  One step. Then two. And three.

  With dry throats and anxiety-riddled brains, a whimper threw us off-guard. Stopping dead in our tracks, I glanced over my shoulder towards a wide-eyed McCall.

  “Sarah?” McCall said in hushed tones.

  “I think so,” I whispered in return, not wanting to frighten the young child any more than she already was. “You stay here for a minute, and I’ll go first. Just in case there’s anyone waiting up there with Sarah to catch us off-guard. Jerry Clark’s partner could be up there too.”

  “Finlay, please be careful,” McCall stared up at me, shorter than I was used to from our alternate positions.

  “Always,” I replied honestly and proceeded to round the corner of the ascent, which revealed a decent sized and grubby landing. Two potential bedrooms and a bathroom were attached to the open space. All the entrances were made to match by a terrible choice of a light blue carpet. The material was clumped together by all sorts of mud and grime, and if Abbey saw this, she’d have a fit.

  Those sniffling whimpers seemed to be coming from the smaller bedroom on the right, and the door hung slightly ajar.

  “McCall,” I hissed downstairs. Her soft footsteps didn’t take long to pad up to join me. Taking the hint, McCall took over the lead. When it came to gentle persuasion and consoling, McCall was the woman to ask.

  “Sarah?” she purred in a sweet honey tone, footsteps muted and restrained. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

  Although we didn’t have much experience when it came to younger children, we assumed every child knew what the police were. At the very least, they’d know who PC Plum is.

  “I’m Kirsty, and I’ve got my friend Finlay with me,” McCall tried again and inched ever closer to the broken bedroom handle. She started to push the bedroom door open softly, on tenterhooks to discover the sights inside.

  The subdued sniffle came again.

  I trailed my partner into the pokey bedroom, and the sight unveiled to us wasn’t particularly our finest hour. Complete with only a threadbare bed, a crappy television set to keep the kid distracted, and packets of food littering up the bin, we could rest assured that she hadn’t been malnourished. The wrappers in the bin were all chocolate or processed food and littered our smart shoes in dirt.

  The young girl sat on the bed complacently, her knees tucked underneath her chin. She had ratty, shoulder-length blonde hair, thinner than it appeared in our pinned photographs back at the office. An aftermath of tear stains streaked across her grey pallor, and both eyes were red-rimmed. The usual demeanour of a carefree child had been sucked firmly away, replaced with a lifeless ragdoll of a girl.

  Still dressed in her severely crumpled school uniform, the natural odour that escaped from the child was relentless. It infiltrated our pores, sunk deep into our suits and became tangible by the minute. Giving a harsh shiver, I placed my palm upon the radiator to feel that no heat escaped through at all. No wonder she’d whimpered and sniffed, and it was only surprising that she hadn’t been susceptible to the flu or even a bout of pneumonia. These were no sort of conditions for anyone to live in, let alone a child of this sort. Anyone who thought this was okay had an entire brain loose, let alone a screw.

  “She’s probably on a sugar high,” I said in disbelief. “What a basta--” I stopped myself there, remembering we had company whose ears had already heard things past her years. “Idiot. Wait till I get my hands on that scumbag.”

  McCall got the gist. “He’ll get what he deserves in prison. You know how they treat his kind in there.” Crouching down to Sarah’s level, she tried to fake a confident exterior. “We’re going to take you home, Sarah. Is that okay?” McCall smiled as much as possible in a kindly fashion to put the child at ease.

  It must’ve worked, for Sarah nodded eagerly upon hearing the word ‘home’. But then, a succession of shouts echoed from outside, making Sarah jump in fright and cover her ears at the noise.

  I stalked over towards the tiny window, still covered in a misty sheen of rainwater. I was in time to see a group of uniformed officers slap two pairs of handcuffs onto Jerry Clark, egged on by DCI Harvey. He’d been pummeled forcefully onto the ground, face down in the mud. Tony had a heavy boot holding Jerry flush to the floor with all his might. As someone read out his rights, another officer slapped a pair of metallic handcuffs slapped on, and the officers hauled the criminal up as best as possible. They pushed Jerry towards the waiting vehicle.

  “They’ve got him,” I murmured.

  Being coaxed by McCall and after flinching away from us a couple of times, Sarah was finally convinced that we weren’t going to hurt her.

  “I want to go home.” Sarah rubbed her under eyes which were covered in purple shadows, and it was easy to see she’d barely slept in days.

  “Your parents are waiting for us to bring you home. They’ve missed you,” McCall said softly. “We’ve been searching to find you, and everybody was worried. Did the man hurt you?”

  Sarah Carling looked up at me, her bottom lip protruded as though she was going to cry again. She nodded sadly and showed us her tiny wrist that wasn’t any bigger than a bird’s. A coating of violet and tinted bruises dusted her light, pale skin. She’d been gripped tight, and the outline of Jerry Clark’s fingers were visible to the naked eye. A hot temper rose from my toes upwards, igniting every cell in my body. It took all of my willpower not to go down there and take it out on Jerry Clark because I was afraid that when I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

  “Hey, don’t cry,” I begged Sarah gently and smiled as much as I could too. “The bad man can’t hurt you anymore. We’ll make sure of that. Trust me.”

  Sarah lisped in shy understanding and outstretched her tiny arms towards me. I didn’t know what she wanted until McCall explained.

  “I think she wants you to carry her,” McCall said. “She’s still afraid.”

  Carry her? Seven-year-olds were still fairly heavy, and of that, I was certain. Stumbling and tripping over a response, I faltered at the idea.

  “Finlay. Go on,” McCall urged, and I was forced to bite the bullet. Grunting, I let Sarah clamber ungracefully into my sturdy arms, and she hid her chubby face into my neck. Breathing heavily, she clasped my suit jacket tight between a strong little grip.

  “That’s not so bad, is it?” McCall grinned.

  Knowing that Sarah trusted me to look after her, I couldn’t help but feel like an overprotective father figure. A warm and gratified sensation filled my soul in an unimaginable sentiment. All of our hard work and restless evenings had paid off. and to have the Carling family whole again would be all the reward we needed. As a man who rarely ever thought about having a family of my own, this planted a rare seed inside of my mind.

  What would children of my own be like one day? Sweet or boisterous? Or naïve and helpless, like Sarah Carling?

  No. Children in this day and age weren’t easy to care for. There were too many criminals roaming our streets. Our time was best spent catching these guys rather than giving the criminals another opportunity.

  McCall patted my shoulder for motivational purposes. “Come on, let’s take her downstairs. DCI Harvey will be relieved to see her, as will the rest of the team.”


  Outside, our appearance distracted the roaming officers. They gathered around to fawn over Sarah and patted my shoulder in appreciation for looking after her dutifully. We were in time to see Jerry Clark strenuously bundled into the vehicle with screaming flashing lights. His narrowed, creased eyes of wicked grey gave a culminating glace towards us, primarily towards Sarah bundled in my arms.

  “You’re a scumbag,” Tony couldn’t help but spit at Jerry Clark, probably imagining if his own children were in this position. “I know how they’ll treat you in prison, and that’s just the guards I'm thinking of.”

  “And you guys think you know best and act all macho, but in reality, you’re clueless to what’s really going on here,” Jerry retorted as he pushed against the officers who were trying to force his bullet-shaped head into the car. “The whole lot of you are nothing but first-class fools.”

  Cillian went to lunge at the criminal with balled fists, but Tony managed to grab him before contact could be made.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Tony hissed.

  With a malicious smirk and little in the way of remorse, Jerry Clark shrugged. “No comment.”

  With that, the officers snapped and used their full strength to tussle with the wriggling criminal. Jerry Clark turned to smirk at us out of the back window as the vehicle roared away.

  I shuddered at his lack of remorse.

  “Criminals like him infuriate me.” DCI Harvey wiped a mud stain away from her elbows from the wrestling match, staring fondly at the little girl. “Even if Jerry gets himself a lawyer, he can’t wriggle out of these charges. I’ll make sure to fight to the death to ensure he gets locked away for as long as humanly possible.”

  Having located a woollen blanket from upstairs, McCall caringly draped it around Sarah and me to cease the small girl’s shivering. The girl was worn out and rumpled, and a moist coating covered her cheeks.

  “Thankfully, she’s fairly unharmed, physically that is,” McCall noted and turned on her heel.

  “Sarge,” Rebecca resurfaced from the pithole of a house, holding a miniature object between some gloves she’d carried in her pocket. “I found this on the mantelpiece.”

  The object turned out to be an inconspicuous diamond earring. Elaborate with multiple settings. On the reverse side was a simple stud to connect to the wearer's earlobe, a piece of costume jewellery rather than high end. All in all, whilst not too expensive, it certainly wasn’t of Jerry’s masculine taste.

  “I’m guessing it belongs to Jerry Clark's girlfriend, the partner that Thomas Kirk believed him to be in cahoots with. Unless I’m wrong, and Jerry parades around in women’s clothing when he’s home alone?” Rebecca suggested and bagged the earring before someone dropped or lost it. “I’ll send it off for forensics as soon as we get back.”

  Lifting her feeble head up from my unshaven neck, Sarah’s warbled mouth upturned at the earring. “That’s mummy’s sparkle.”

  Sharing a confused look, DCI Harvey chuckled. “Kids, eh?” she tutted at Sarah’s mistake. “Poor girl, she’s been through a lot. Any other feminine items lying around in the house, Rebecca, or anything else we can send off for scientific evaluation?”

  “Nothing,” Rebecca said as she passed the evidence bag over. “Nothing. The girlfriend must’ve tried to hide any trace that she was here.”

  “Marvin Clark did suggest that their relationship was inappropriate. We’ve all had those kinds of arrangements that we’d rather keep them a secret.” DCI Harvey shrugged. “We’ll question Jerry properly in the morning and see whether he’ll tell us who he worked with. Even if he doesn’t crack under pressure, we’ll conduct a search for this partner of his and come down on them like a ton of bricks.”

  “What if she’s telling the truth?” I wondered, seeing some sense in Sarah’s ramblings. The team looked over at me like I was crazy. “You said so yourself. The relationship was deemed inappropriate. What if Sarah’s right and the earring belongs to Julie Carling? I can’t see anything more inappropriate than a relationship between a married woman and her convicted employee.”

  “Finlay, don’t you think that’s a bit far-fetched, even for you?” McCall started and stepped closer to me. “I know you’ve been struggling with DCI Reid’s death and feeling helpless at the station recently, but you don’t have to prove yourself to anybody,” she advised. “It’s finished. We’ve got Sarah back, and Jerry Clark will be taken care of. Let’s just enjoy the win for today.”

  “Take her,” I passed Sarah over to McCall, who was more than happy to care for the child.

  “But where are you going?” she stuttered.

  “To the station,” I said firmly, mouth set into a firm line. “The one person you can trust to tell the truth when it really matters is a child.”

  24

  From the comfort of my office, I could hear the reunited family exclaim at the return of their little girl. Past the point of exhaustion, I was spurred on by the niggling hunch that told me something was amiss about the entire case. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The more I thought about it, the more none of the information added up. Meanwhile, the team were rejoicing at the neatly wrapped up investigation. They’d perked up to no end and were sharing around sneaky mugs full of champagne. We kept a bottle in the tearoom for special occasions, and today was supposed to be one of them.

  From my window, I could see that the tangled mess of Sarah’s strawberry blonde tresses were barely visible beneath Mr Carling’s bold muscles, and those nerves of his had simply melted away at the sight of their pride and joy. His haggard lines had upturned into beams of joy, silent sobs of jubilation wrecking his chest. The father had stooped to the ground on his knees and scooped up Sarah for the longest and perhaps, most important show of affection of her life. Full of pride, solace and that funny word we called love.

  Love could mean so many things, everything and nothing. In their solidification of love, their adoring affection said all it needed to. Mrs Carling stood on the outskirts of their embrace as a loose end to the father and daughter pair. I frowned at the sight.

  I was surrounded by all the files we’d used for the investigation, and they covered the room in a brilliant blanket of white. I flipped through the hundredth piece of paper I’d read since returning, certain that there had to be a mishap somewhere. A mistake. My eyes watered from staring at the sheets and small lines of typography and knuckles sore from banging the desk in frustration whenever the combing through proved ineffective.

  I began to think that McCall was right, that I was trying to prove some ridiculous theory that meant nothing, picking out details that were said in the spur of the moment and were entirely false. Still, I wouldn’t let myself be deterred. I did have something to prove; that I was right to follow my gut instinct. Sifting past yet another dead lead, a useless file, I stopped to wrack my brains.

  What had we missed? What had been overlooked?

  We’d dug deeper into the lives of the Clark brothers, the Carlings, and even the stooge we’d caught taking the briefcase from us. I cracked my neck and each finger in turn, something I did to relieve the stress physically as well as mentally.

  Think, I urged myself and kicked my own shin underneath the desk. This was a mental game. Start from the beginning, make your way through to the finish. Work in chronological order, I remembered the advice that a superior had given me at the academy.

  The kidnapping came first. I leafed through some dented files that had coffee rings staining the front of them from the underside of someone's mug. The kidnapping on a road adjacent to the school and in the middle of broad daylight. Sarah Carling was taken in the middle of rush hour, more commonly known as the end of the school day, where parents would have passed nearby, or teachers would have stood at the gates to ensure the safety of their students.

  Rifling through the somehow organised chaos, I plucked the witness statements from their nook and used my pointer finger to read the lines typed upon them. Out of the dozens
of people walking by at the time of our crime, we’d only obtained two statements out of an expected seven or so.

  Why? I focused. Why would there only be two witness statements? Then there was Lucy, who we spoke to at the school too, who had worked the playground duty less than twenty or so metres away from the corner where Sarah was stolen in the white van. Noise travelled, especially during days or nights when the wind was gustier than usual. Yet, the lovely teacher claimed to have heard nothing.

  Clambering over the desk, I ripped off a few posters that had been stuck to my whiteboard for months on end. Like a crazed lunatic, I'm sure somebody would say if they saw me pacing and groaning. Grabbing a whiteboard pen, I wrote as much as I already knew about the case onto the display. Lack of witnesses and noise meant what?

  I faltered, chest rising and falling in a strange sort of fury. Fury that this wasn’t in my control and that I hadn’t cracked the connection between all these ideas yet. I drew an arrow towards a line that simply noted Mrs Carling’s earring, with a question mark to end, then closed my eyes and breathed in and out in a pattern similar to the ones that upbeat yoga teachers would preach about.

  I willed myself to look at things from a different perspective. I had to clear my mind and pretend that I didn’t know anything about the crime, not a single detail.

  Jerry Clark and Julie Carling, I opened my eyes. What was the significant connection between them, and if they were in this together, did Mr Carling know? If Julie Carling was keeping secrets from her husband and forming a partnership with an employee, we had to assume that there was a deeper connection there too. Of the sexual kind. The kind that an emotionally exhausted husband wouldn’t be able to provide, between fretting about the failure of their business or the lack of affection that he gave his wife.