Missing Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  It wasn’t until later that evening, when Sam was at home and sitting on the sofa in front of the six o’clock news that she recognised what a mistake she had made. One of the featured items about that missing young woman triggered a ripple of unease. As always on a Tuesday, Sam had brought home the children’s news books to annotate, ahead of writing up their assessments, and now she sorted through the pile until she found Dominique’s. In the first week of term it was customary to ask the children to write about themselves — their homes, families and friends — as a way of helping them to settle into their new class and to find out a little bit about them. There it was on the first page of Dominique’s news book in her big, crooked handwriting: My name is Dominique Batista and I am eight years old. My mummy is called Rosa. Sam was reaching for her phone just as it started to ring. Sharon, her teaching assistant, had also been watching the news.

  * * *

  Millie had got home from the park, fed Haroon and then the two of them had promptly fallen asleep on the sofa, so that when Suli came home she hadn’t even started on dinner. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘We went to the park with Louise this afternoon and I don’t seem to have the energy to do more than one thing each day at the moment.’

  Suli didn’t seem to mind a bit. His easy-going nature was what she loved about him. ‘Want to get a takeaway?’ he suggested.

  ‘That sounds great.’

  ‘Did you have a good time at the park?’ Suli asked Millie later, as they unpacked the cartons of food on the kitchen table.

  ‘Yes. I hope you don’t mind — I’ve asked Louise and her husband for dinner at the weekend.’

  ‘Not at all, it will be nice to meet them,’ said Suli. ‘They sound an interesting couple.’

  ‘Oh, they’re that all right,’ Millie told him. ‘I can’t work them out at all. Greg referred to Louise as a feminist. But what kind of feminist gives up work when she gets married to look after her husband and his house?’

  * * *

  It had taken all of Mariner’s skill and ingenuity to convince Jamie that a game of Angry Birds would be preferable to endless repeats of Pointless this evening, but he just about managed to get access to the TV as the regional news started. The appeal went out exactly as planned, with the contact number for Granville Lane displayed at the end, but he wasn’t holding out much hope. That Rosa’s clothes had already arrived through the post was an indication for Mariner that, if she had been the victim of some kind of crime, it had probably already happened, and at least a couple of days ago — during which time any concerned family, friends or work colleagues would surely have come forward. If they hadn’t so far, what would persuade them do so now, even if they did get to hear the appeal?

  As occasionally happened, Jamie was whacked out and finding it hard to keep his eyes open, so that when Mariner’s mobile went, they were going through the nightly prompt-and-reward waiting game that was Jamie’s bedtime routine. Mariner had found little to incentivise Jamie apart from the iPad and the TV, so, as payback for brushing his teeth (with help), using the toilet (with verbal encouragement) and putting on his pyjamas (with help) he got to have his iPad in bed for twenty minutes (timed with a clockwork egg-timer) before the light went out. They were at the pyjama stage when the call came, and Mariner thought it might be Superintendent Sharp. What he didn’t expect was the duty sergeant from Granville Lane: ‘The head teacher from St Martin’s primary school has been in touch,’ he said. ‘They’ve got an eight-year-old child whose mum, they think, might be missing. Her name is Rosa.’

  ‘What does that mean, “might be missing”?’ Mariner asked. ‘That’s it, Jamie, keep going, one arm in . . .’ Jamie was making listless and unsuccessful attempts to get his hand through a non-existent arm hole.

  ‘The class teacher noticed something unusual about the little girl’s behaviour and appearance, but she wasn’t sure what was going on, so she didn’t ask the right questions. But if it’s your Rosa, she’s a single mum so this child is at home on her own, possibly without any support network. It would explain why she hasn’t been reported missing.’ The duty sergeant cleared his throat. Everyone, it seemed, was conversant with Mariner’s current circumstances. ‘Are you able to follow it up, or shall I contact Superintendent Sharp?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I can take care of this,’ Mariner lied. ‘Where are we up to?’

  ‘The head’s got hold of the child’s address from their records — it’s a flat in Milton Tower on the Fen Bridge, and her name is Dominique Batista. I’ve suggested that he and the teacher who alerted him meet you there as soon as possible.’

  The sergeant gave Mariner the precise address and, after hunting around for the suitable means to do so, he wrote it down. ‘Have social services been contacted?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, but they can’t get anyone out there for a couple of hours at least, so I guess it will be a question of bringing the child here in the meantime.’

  ‘That sounds about right,’ said Mariner. ‘Open up the family interview suite and get some heating on in there, will you? And see if Vicky Jesson is available to come in too. It might help to have her there. It’ll be frightening enough for the kid without me wading in with my size tens. Tell the head teacher I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,’ he said, his fingers crossed. Jamie had finally succeeded with the T-shirt. ‘Well done, mate,’ Mariner said.

  ‘Just doing my job,’ said the sergeant at the other end of the line.

  All the while he was talking Mariner had been mentally reviewing his options, something that had started to become an automatic, reflexive response. He didn’t like to call on Tony Knox again so soon after Sunday, so this time he rang Katarina. Since she’d moved into her own flat he saw her only intermittently these days, but she got on well with Jamie and had always assured him he could call on her if he needed to. But her landline rang on unanswered and her mobile went straight to voicemail, which wasn’t encouraging. Mariner didn’t like asking Mercy to come out this late in the evening, but in the end he was left with no other option. ‘Jamie’s eaten, and he’s all ready for bed, so he shouldn’t be any trouble,’ Mariner told her. ‘Get a taxi, and I’ll pay for it when you get here.’

  As always, Mercy was offended by the extravagance of a taxi. ‘Let me find out what Carlton is up to. I’m sure he will be able to drop me off.’

  There were two reasons why Mariner wasn’t keen on that idea. For one thing he didn’t know how long it would take to locate the elusive Carlton and secure the lift, but also he wasn’t (for reasons he couldn’t even admit to himself) thrilled at the idea of Carlton knowing where he lived. Secluded as it was, his house had been the target of burglars and drug users in the past, and Carlton was probably well aware of all the property had to offer, including its state-of-the-art entertainment system. ‘Look, if this is going to be difficult . . .’ he started to say, thinking that maybe this time he would have to let it go and ask Jesson to deal with it. But Mercy hadn’t heard him and eventually came back on the line. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Carlton’s pickin’ me up. I missed the last episode of Casualty, so I can catch up on that.’

  Mariner went upstairs to change into more suitable work clothes, and as he came back down again he heard the approach of a souped-up engine, revving loudly against a thumping bass beat. He opened his front door to see Mercy climbing out of a tank of a four-by-four — complete with tinted windows and bull bar — that had pulled across the end of the service road. As soon as Mercy had stepped down the driver executed a rapid turn and accelerated away, with the faintest squeal of tyres on tarmac.

  Mercy waddled breathlessly to where Mariner stood, waiting with his coat on and car keys in hand. ‘See? I told you he’s a good boy,’ she said, even though Mariner had never questioned that fact out loud. Given that Carlton didn’t seem to have a proper job, Mariner was tempted to ask how it was that he could afford such an extravagant car, but now wasn’t the time. Minutes later, he was in his own vehicle, hurtling towards t
he Fen Bridge estate, wondering instead, at the back of his mind, where Carlton might be on his way to or from in such a hurry at this time on a Tuesday evening — maybe it was his embroidery class.

  Milton Tower was one of three angular blocks sprouting out of the dingy grey spread of social housing that was the Fen Bridge estate. Bordered by a fringe of scrubby green grass and a collection of undernourished saplings, it was rendered no more attractive by the harsh glare of sodium lighting. Mariner had decided long ago that the council planner who'd come up with the name had a sense of the ironic. Paradise had been irretrievably lost in this neighbourhood, somewhere down the back of life’s sofa. Parking his car in the only bay that didn’t seem to excessively sparkle with broken glass, he double-checked that the doors were locked before entering the bare, concrete lobby. In the last couple of years, efforts had been made to render the flats more appealing. A jacket of insulation and double glazing had been added around the outside, while the lobby, decorated in an overly bright salmon pink, smelled primarily of fresh paint. A couple to one side seemed to be surreptitiously waiting for the lift, but on closer observation, Mariner noticed the considerable age difference between them. That, along with the man’s good quality wool overcoat, seemed to indicate that these were not locals. He went over, already anticipating the negotiations for how the situation should be handled. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You’re the teachers from St Martin’s?’

  The man, as tall and lean as Mariner and with a fulsome head of grey hair swept back from his forehead, stood straighter, bridling a little. ‘I’m the head, Gordon Rhys,’ he corrected Mariner, keeping his hands planted firmly in his pockets. ‘And this is my Year Three teacher, Sam McBride.’

  ‘DCI Tom Mariner.’ Mariner held up his warrant card for them to see. He couldn’t help noticing the proprietorial ‘my’ and raised an eyebrow at McBride as they shook hands. Blonde and petite with a shapely figure under her parka, Mariner could imagine that the young teacher had to work hard to be taken seriously.

  ‘I feel terrible,’ she said. ‘I knew there was something not quite right with Dominique, but I just never guessed that this was what it could be.’

  ‘We don’t know what it is yet.’ Rhys was impatient. ‘The mother could be anywhere. Might be on the Costa del Sol for all we know.’ He was distracted, keeping an anxious eye on his surroundings, and Mariner realised he was nervous about being here.

  ‘With respect, Gordon, I don’t think that’s very likely,’ Sam said. ‘Ms Batista isn't like that.’

  ‘How would we know, Sam? We know hardly anything about her.’

  ‘I know enough to understand that she’s a committed parent,’ Sam said, firmly.

  ‘Have you any idea where she works?’ Mariner asked, partly to diffuse what he sensed was a growing tension.

  Sam frowned. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever really known, although for some reason I got the impression that it’s somewhere in the city centre. On the odd occasions I’ve tried to talk to Dominique about her mum’s work, she’s completely clammed up. The contact number we have on file is a personal mobile number, but that’s nothing unusual.’

  ‘You’ve tried calling it?’

  ‘Yes, about half a dozen times,’ said McBride. ‘It just goes straight to voicemail.’

  ‘It’s probably because the job is cash-in-hand and she’s claiming benefits as well,’ said Rhys. ‘It happens, you know,’ he added, as if that were proof enough.

  ‘Actually, I don’t think that has anything to do with it,’ McBride said, flushing deeply. ‘When we’ve had school trips Ms Batista has always paid her contribution, and she’s never asked for—’

  Rhys cut her off by ostentatiously checking his watch. ‘Now that you’re here, Inspector, do you actually still need me? We’ve contacted social services, and Sam here is the one who knows Dominique. This has taken me away from a meeting that’s been in the diary for some months—’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Mariner cut in, annoyed by the man’s skewed priorities. ‘I’m sure we can take it from here.’ He sought confirmation from Sam McBride.

  ‘All right with me,’ she said.

  ‘Good, well, I’ll leave you to it. Best of luck,’ said Rhys, with obvious relief, and hurried towards the main door. As an afterthought he turned back from the doorway. ‘You’ll keep me informed, Sam?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He’s a charmer,’ said Mariner, when Rhys had gone.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Sam. ‘Gordon’s all right really, but he does seem to have a particular downer on single parents, and it makes me a bit defensive. My mum raised me as a single parent and it hasn’t done me any harm.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Mariner.

  ‘Oh.’ She looked at him anew.

  ‘I know I look old enough to have grown up in black and white, but we weren’t all Kellogg’s Corn Flakes families back then.’ She waited for further elaboration. ‘You haven’t a clue what I’m talking about, have you?’

  ‘Not really,’ she smiled sweetly up at him and Mariner could imagine any child warming to her instantly.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s crack on, shall we? I don’t think social services are going to show up any time soon, so if we do find that Dominique’s at home alone we’ll need to take her to Granville Lane police station to wait for them there. How does that sound?’

  ‘Good,’ said Sam. ‘I only hope she doesn’t panic when she sees me at this time of night.’

  ‘I can’t imagine she will,’ said Mariner. ‘OK, let’s get this done. What’s the flat number?’

  Neither of them was inclined to trust the lifts, so Sam led the way up the concrete stairwell to a flat on the fourth floor, their footsteps echoing as they climbed.

  ‘It’ll be better if you make the first approach,’ Mariner said to Sam as they climbed the stairs. ‘Are you OK to do that?’

  They emerged halfway along a narrow landing that had two equally spaced doors on either side. The lighting was dim, and up here the smell of urine had not been entirely successfully glossed over. Flat forty-one was at the end. The small, rectangular reinforced glass window in the top half of the door reminded Mariner of the observation panel in the custody cell doors back at Granville Lane. No light shone behind it. He knocked hard on the wood and they waited, but there was no response. Squatting down, Sam lifted the letterbox flap and peered in, before calling: ‘Dominique, are you in there? It’s Miss McBride. I’ve just come to see if you’re all right.’

  ‘Can you see anything?’ Mariner asked.

  McBride straightened up again. ‘No, it’s pitch dark. Maybe I’ve got this completely wrong and she isn’t there. Oh, God — what if I’ve got you out here for nothing?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Mariner. ‘Better that than she really is in trouble and we fail to act. Why don’t you try again?’

  McBride crouched by the letterbox, pushed up the flap and called again. This time, as she did so, she stopped short. ‘Oh, there’s something here.’ Bit by bit she pulled through the rough string with its key tied to the end.

  ‘Christ,’ said Mariner. ‘I hope no one else knows about this.’

  ‘Do we use it?’ said McBride.

  ‘It saves me having to demonstrate my manliness by breaking down the door,’ Mariner said. ‘You go first and I’ll follow, just in case she’s in there.’

  Opening the door they entered the darkened flat, which felt as frigid as the landing outside. McBride flicked the light switch but nothing happened.

  ‘The meter’s run out,’ said Mariner. He took a torch from his inside coat pocket and switched it on, directing it down at the floor to light the way.

  ‘Dominique?’ Sam called, softly. They progressed carefully along a short hallway, and McBride pushed open the first door they came to on the left. The torch beam bounced around an empty bedroom. A second door, on the right, swung open to reveal a small bathroom, but as she pushed open the door at the head of the passageway, Mariner saw instantly fr
om McBride’s body language that they had found the little girl.

  ‘Hi, Dominique,’ Sam said brightly. ‘It’s Miss McBride. We were a bit worried about you, so I just came to see if you were all right. I’ve brought my friend, Tom.’ As Mariner came into the room, his eyes adjusting to the darkness and keeping the torch beam directed away from Dominique, he was in time to see McBride slowly advancing on the little girl, who seemed to be frozen to the spot sitting at the end of a sofa. But as McBride cautiously sat down beside her, Dominique flung herself into her teacher’s arms and McBride hugged her close. ‘It’s all right, sweetie, you’re safe now,’ she soothed, a crack in her voice. After a moment she said, ‘We came to see Mummy too. Is she here?’

  And Mariner could just make out the little girl’s whispered reply. ‘I don’t know where she’s gone.’

  Chapter Ten

  Leaving Sam to help Dominique gather some belongings and clothes together, Mariner went back out onto the landing and phoned in to the duty sergeant to say that they were on their way back to Granville Lane, and to get that message conveyed to social services. He learned in return that Vicky Jesson had arrived and was waiting for them.

  As he paced the landing he became aware of voices, possibly a TV coming from the flat next door, and took the opportunity to ring the doorbell. The thirty-something man who answered, clad in jeans and T-shirt and with a scrubby beard, didn’t really know much about the family who lived next to him and had done for the last six months. ‘There’s a kid, isn’t there?’ he said. ‘The missus said she’s seen the woman going out weekends and we hear her come back in the middle of the night. It’s the same time, regular as clockwork, but I’ve never seen a babysitter. The kid must get left there on its own. I thought about reporting it to social services, but you don’t like to interfere, do you?’ Mariner left his card with the undertaking that he might be back to talk to him again.

  When they were ready, securing the flat behind them, they went down to Mariner’s car. Tempting as it was to start questioning the little girl on the drive back to Granville Lane, the last thing they needed was for her to clam up on them, so they drove almost in silence, Mariner aware of Sam McBride murmuring comfortingly to her small charge about what would be happening next. In the rear-view mirror he could see Dominique pressed up close to her teacher, a towelling soft toy tucked up under her chin as she sucked on her thumb. Back at Granville Lane, Vicky Jesson met them and took Sam and Dominique into the PPU family room where there were comfortable chairs, books and toys. While they got settled Mariner made a quick call to Mercy to establish that all was well at home. As he got back to the family suite, Jesson emerged, keeping her distance for the moment, as Mariner had. ‘I expect she’s hungry,’ Jesson said, and they went together to get juice, crisps, chocolate and fruit from the canteen. ‘How does she seem?’ Jesson asked as they loaded up a tray.