Little Girl Lost

by Brian McGilloway

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ Fleming said, before Lucy had a chance to express her frustration.

  ‘No problem,’ the voice said, then the line went dead.

  ‘That was a waste of time,’ Lucy said.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Fleming commented. ‘We know the man was there, we know he had a limp. We know that he stopped at the top of Strand Road too.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Was it just me or did he look like he’d joined a queue?’

  Lucy glanced again at the screen but the final image had already gone.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘There’s a restaurant at that corner, but you wouldn’t need to queue outside it. The only other thing there is an ATM.’

  ‘You think he used the cash machine?’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ Fleming said. ‘Maybe he used it as cover so he could keep watching the girl. Contact the bank and ask them for a list of details for all those who used the machine around 9.35 p.m. on the 12th. You might get lucky.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Lucy had seen Michael McLaughlin’s picture in the newspapers over the past few days, but the grainy images had done little to reproduce how handsome the man looked in real life. He stood over six feet tall, with dark hair brushed back on his scalp, his sideburns touched with grey. He wore a charcoal, pin-striped suit for the conference, with a pale-blue shirt and navy tie. He shook hands with Lucy when Travers introduced her to him, his hands soft, his shake warm and firm. She smelt a hint of cologne on her own skin afterwards.

  Lucy stood at the back of the room while the press took their seats. A long table had been placed at the front of the room, covered in a green velvet cloth on which was stitched the Police Service of Northern Ireland logo. Behind the table an enlarged version of the Missing Persons poster was taped to the wall. In the picture Kate McLaughlin was smiling. It was clearly a studio shot; her hair was tied back away from her face. Her eyes were crinkled as though she were laughing at something the photographer had said. She was posed, resting her chin on her hand, a gold charm bracelet visible around her wrist.

  Michael McLaughlin sat in front of the picture, next to Travers. The two men leaned their heads together as they discussed the final details of what role each would play. Travers had dressed in a navy suit with a dark-red tie for the occasion. His hair was brushed to the side, still impressively thick despite his age.

  Travers spoke first, welcoming the press then reading a statement regarding the disappearance of the girl. The room flickered with flashing, the solemnity of Travers’s tone underscored by the whirring of cameras as the gathered reporters huddled forward slightly, focusing on McLaughlin. He stared ahead the whole time Travers was speaking. Once, his eyes caught Lucy’s where she sat and she smiled with encouragement. If he saw the gesture he did not respond.

  When Travers finished reading the statement, McLaughlin raised his voice to be heard above the constant soundtrack of the cameras. He seemed composed but, as he spoke, his hands fidgeted with the cable of his microphone.

  ‘I’d like to speak to the person or people who have taken Kate from me. Kate is the most important thing in my life …’ He paused for a moment.

  ‘Since …’ The word seemed to catch in his throat. Taking a sip of water from the glass in front of him, he cleared his throat and spoke again.

  ‘Since my wife’s death, Kate is the only family I have. She’s a beautiful child, a lovely girl; if you have her you’ll know this. Please don’t hurt her. Please let her come home to me.’

  His eyes glistened as he spoke. The silence grew in the room; even the cameramen seemed to have stopped shooting. Someone to Lucy’s left sneezed, then immediately raised a hand in apology.

  The distraction seemed enough to cause a shift in McLaughlin’s demeanour. He straightened himself in his seat and laid his hands lightly on the desk. ‘I have received no ransom demand yet for Kate’s return,’ he stated. ‘However, I would like to make it clear that I am prepared to pay for my daughter’s return. Not to her abductors, but to any member of the public who provides the police with information which leads to my daughter’s safe return. Therefore I am offering a reward of one million pounds to anyone with information which leads directly to Kate’s recovery.’

  The gathered reporters sprang to life, raising hands and shouting questions both at McLaughlin and Travers.

  ‘If there’s been no ransom demand, how do you know she’s been abducted?’

  Travers leaned forward without waiting for McLaughlin. ‘Without revealing too much, the circumstances surrounding her disappearance suggest that someone targeted Kate specifically. Considering her father’s status within the community, we suspect that this is an abduction.’

  ‘Why do you think your family has been targeted?’

  McLaughlin shrugged lightly. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Do you think it’s linked to the rumoured sale of the docklands site?’

  ‘I can’t … I can’t answer that. I have no idea.’

  ‘How does the PSNI feel about the offer of a reward?’ one voice shouted.

  ‘We understand that Mr McLaughlin is prepared to take any steps to help us find his daughter. I would appeal for anyone with information, which might help us reunite this family, to contact us as soon as possible. I would also appeal to those who have taken Kate to reconsider their actions. It’s not too late to let her come back home.’

  As he spoke, he looked over to Lucy and beckoned her with his finger.

  ‘Mr McLaughlin has also kindly agreed to allow one of our officers to make a further appeal regarding another child. DS Black will brief you, if you’ll allow her a moment.’

  Lucy made her way through the crowd of reporters. She carried a sheaf of leaflets that she’d made using the press release she and Robbie had composed the previous day, with an image which Tony Clarke had provided of Alice.

  At the top table, Michael McLaughlin stood and allowed Lucy to take his seat.

  She tapped on the microphone, despite the fact that both McLaughlin and Travers had used it a moment earlier, then felt immediately foolish for having done so.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. I will distribute flyers regarding the child, Alice, who was found in Prehen woods yesterday morning. The child in question is aged between eight and ten, has brown hair and blue eyes. She is four foot eight and weighs eighty-four pounds. We have reason to believe that she may have come into contact with an injured party prior to her discovery. Anyone who knows this child, or believes they may know someone related to her, please contact the Public Protection Unit at 71555999.’

  Lucy held up the photograph Clarke had given her. Automatically, the room was illuminated with flashes. One of the reporters lifted a handful of the leaflets from the table, took one and passed the sheaf back to those nearest him.

  Michael McLaughlin approached Lucy after they had left the podium.

  ‘The child that you found? Alice? Was she hurt?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Lucy said, feeling that she should offer her sympathies to the man but was unsure whether it would be appropriate. ‘We believe that she was in contact with someone who was hurt though; we found traces of blood on her clothes.’

  ‘And no word of her family?’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘Even if her parents are hurt, you’d think a grandparent or aunt or uncle would know her.’

  ‘It’s strange; I’d do anything to recover my daughter. You’d imagine everyone would feel the same way about their own.’

  ‘You’d think so, sir,’ Lucy agreed.

  A small, thin-featured man approached them. He stepped lightly as he walked, as if walking on the tips of his toes.

  ‘Will I bring the car around, sir?’ he said, glancing at Lucy but offering no apology for interrupting their conversation.

  ‘That would be fine, William,’ McLaughlin said. ‘I’ll be ready in a few moments.’

  ‘Sir.’ The man nodded curtly to Lucy, then left.

  ‘You have a chauffe
ur,’ Lucy said. ‘Nice.’

  McLaughlin laughed. ‘William’s not really a chauffeur. He’s an old friend who needed a helping hand. At his age he can’t do anything else so he drives for me occasionally and gets a weekly wage for it. I’ve been lucky; it seemed only fair to share it around a little.’

  ‘That’s very decent of you, sir.’

  ‘It’s only money, Sergeant. Good luck with the child you found.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Lucy said. ‘And I hope you get some good news soon.’

  McLaughlin smiled briefly, then turned to leave.

  CHAPTER 17

  Travers was sitting behind his desk when Lucy went into his office following the press conference. His suit jacket hung from a hook on the back of the door.

  ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘You did very well. Sit down.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You looked very professional. It’ll raise your profile no end,’ he added, rubbing his hands together lightly.

  Lucy wasn’t sure if that was meant to be the purpose of such exercises, but there seemed little point in arguing with him.

  ‘We followed up on the interview with Elaine Grant, sir. She said they saw a man with a limp behind them. His phone rang when Kate tried phoning her own father. We thought perhaps he had her father’s phone.’

  Travers puckered his lips as he considered what she had said.

  ‘Anything on CCTV?’

  ‘Not much,’ she admitted. ‘Though we think he stopped at the ATM machine at the top of Strand Road.’

  ‘I’ll contact the bank and see what they can do.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Lucy said, standing.

  ‘How’s old Tom Fleming?’

  ‘He’s very nice, sir. He’s very supportive.’

  ‘Tom’s one of the old guard. He was a DS with me when I was first made Inspector. He worked on Michael McLaughlin’s wife’s killing actually. Hard to believe that was nearly sixteen years ago. Just after the girl was born.’

  ‘The family has had a lot of bad luck, sir,’ Lucy said. She silently considered that Tom Fleming hadn’t been too lucky career wise, either; he’d been a detective sergeant sixteen years ago and hadn’t made it past detective inspector. Travers, by contrast, had moved from inspector to chief superintendent in the same period.

  ‘Police 44 did a fly-over of the woodland where Alice was found. Nothing to report; a couple of walkers spotted in the woods, but no sign of accidents or that sort of thing. I’m not sure sending Tactical into the woods in this weather would be a productive use of resources. The McLaughlin case overrides everything else, I’m afraid. Maybe when the snow shifts a bit we could send in a dog team.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Lucy said.

  ‘I did promise I’d keep you on the case,’ Travers said, standing and moving around his desk towards her. She was unsure whether this meant she was to stand also, but he settled at the edge of his desk, rested one buttock on the corner and stood looking down at her where she sat.

  ‘It’s always good to have someone to look out for you when you’re starting out,’ he said, shifting towards her.

  Lucy felt her insides constrict. He’s making a move on me in his office, she thought, crossing her legs and shifting in her seat.

  ‘But you already know that, don’t you?’

  Lucy swallowed drily. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, standing.

  Travers stood with her, only a foot from her, so that she could feel the heat radiate from his body, could smell the musky smell of his sweat, mingling with the aftershave he’d worn for the press conference. She tried to move backwards, but the chair thudded against her calves and she realized she couldn’t easily move.

  ‘You should have told me, Lucy,’ he said, leaning a little closer to her.

  ‘Told you what, sir?’ she asked, confused.

  ‘About the ACC.’

  ‘What …?’ Lucy began, but Travers’s expression halted her pretence. ‘I didn’t think it was important, sir.’

  Travers laughed lightly. ‘I’d say being the daughter of the ACC is important. Though I have to say,’ he added, waggling his finger, ‘I respect you not wanting people to know. Wanting to stand on your own two feet. It’s our little secret.’ He winked at her, smiling.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Lucy said, reaching down and pushing the chair away from her legs, freeing up a little space for her to leave.

  ‘Your mum’s an impressive officer, Lucy. I can see why you’d want to follow in her footsteps.’

  Lucy looked at him, wondering what to say: that she’d become a police officer in spite of her mother, not because of her? That sometimes she wasn’t even sure she wanted to be in the police at all, but couldn’t think of anything else to do?

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said simply, then left the room.

  It was only as she made her way down the corridor from Travers’s room that it struck her: if Travers knew who her mother was, he should also have known her father, yet he made no mention of the man.

  Lucy spent the rest of the afternoon following up leads that had come through following the press appeal from the previous day but all were dead ends. The news report on the TV would not run until the six o’clock news. Despite this, the afternoon bulletins ran the main story of McLaughlin’s reward for information about his daughter’s whereabouts. Alice would be an addendum in the evening news; she was, after all, not lost but found.

  She got a call from Travers’s office before five, telling her that the bank was drawing up a list of all those who had used the ATM between 9.15 and 9.45 on the night of Kate’s abduction. The list arrived by fax just as Lucy was leaving. She lifted the sheaf of names and glanced down it quickly, half suspecting that a name would stand out that might present the solution to Kate McLaughlin’s abduction. Instead she saw over forty names, none of which seemed spectacular enough to warrant immediate attention.

  She went to the hospital to see Alice before 5.30, hoping to catch Robbie for an update on his side of things. He was standing outside Alice’s room, chatting with one of the nurses. Lucy recognized him from the far end of the corridor by his now familiar posture of standing with his hands in his back pockets as he spoke. A young nurse was holding a patient’s file in front of her, twisting a strand of her hair in her free hand as she smiled at him. She was not pleased when Lucy interrupted.

  ‘I saw you on the tele,’ Robbie said. ‘It was just on the early bulletin. You looked very well.’

  The nurse scowled at Lucy, then, touching Robbie’s arm lightly as she left, promised to see him later.

  ‘Your adoring public?’ Lucy said, watching her leave.

  ‘I’m not the TV star,’ he countered. ‘You were very impressive.’

  ‘As long as it makes a difference. How has she been since?’

  ‘The shrink has been in with her all afternoon. Nothing. She won’t say a word. She brought her colouring stuff; crayons and paper. Wait till you see this.’

  They walked into Alice’s room.

  ‘Hi, Alice,’ Lucy said brightly.

  The girl lay on the bed, her back to them, her eyes open, staring at the wall. Her head shifted towards Lucy when she came in, then turned away again. On the desk at the end of her bed were three pictures. One was a page coloured red. The colouring was inconsistent. Some of the lines were thick and heavy, as if the child had leaned on the crayon. Other lines were lighter, swirls of colour. But all were blood red.

  The second picture was a matchstick drawing in black of a person. A triangle above the legs suggested the figure was female, small. Whoever had drawn the figure had included eyes and a nose, but no mouth. Then the face had been scrawled out with red.

  ‘The doc drew the figure, left out the mouth and asked Lucy to draw how she imagined the little girl felt – a smile, a frown, whatever. This was what she did.’

  The scrawls now were deep, in one place actually tearing the paper. To one side of the desk the stump of the red crayon laid, its edges sharp w
here the child had pressed it against the pages as she drew.

  ‘What’s her take?’

  Robbie nodded towards the door, suggesting they should step out again.

  ‘She reckons the child has a lot of anger. Self-loathing. The red might represent blood.’

  ‘Does she? Seven years at medical school paid off dividends there.’

  Robbie feigned a frown. ‘She’s a good psychiatrist. It takes time.’

  ‘What about the scrawling on the face?’

  ‘She suggested abuse – certainly a sense of self-loathing and guilt on Alice’s behalf. As if she’s trying to erase her own identity.’

  The third picture was different from the first two. At the centre of the page was a rectangle, coloured in with deep scrawls of red, but the artist had deliberately stayed within the lines. This time, in the middle of the rectangle, Alice had drawn an animal of some sort.

  ‘A dog?’ Lucy muttered, pointing to the creature.

  ‘Maybe. Or a wolf? The psych wondered about the framing in the rectangle. She thought it might be a window. Maybe Alice is looking out.’

  ‘Windows tend to be square, you’d think. The red’s only on the inside. Maybe she’s outside looking in.’

  ‘Or inside looking out.’

  Lucy glanced in through the door to the figure lying on the bed.

  ‘Maybe it’s a door frame. Like she’s looking through a doorway.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Robbie agreed, angling the picture as if so doing would make its meaning more apparent.

  ‘Regardless, God love her.’

  Her father initially appeared to have improved from the previous night. He recognized her when she came in and kissed her on the cheek as she hugged him on the bed.

  ‘How are you feeling today?’

  ‘Fine, love.’

  ‘Are the nurses being good to you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Any pretty ones?’

  Her father laughed gently, took her hand in his own.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’