Missing Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  ‘Not bad, considering,’ said Mariner. ‘I was glad her teacher was there though. I’m not sure that she would have come with a complete stranger.’

  ‘That’s reassuring,’ said Jesson. ‘And her mum is definitely missing?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I think we’ve found our Rosa. And we haven’t asked her yet, but if those clothes were posted when we think they were, sometime on Saturday, it means Dominique has been at home alone at least since then, if not longer.’

  Without disturbing them, Jesson took the tray into the room, leaving it close to where Dominique and Sam were beginning to explore the toys, then she retreated to the observation room next door, where Mariner waited and watched. Once she’d overcome her initial shyness, Dominique tucked in to the food.

  ‘God, she must be ravenous, poor little mite,’ said Jesson. ‘Do you want me to go in and talk to her?’

  ‘It would be helpful if we could at least confirm absolutely that Dominique’s mum is the same Rosa whose clothes we’ve been sent,’ Mariner said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘We could try the shoes,’ said Jesson. ‘They’re fairly distinctive and in my experience most little girls are interested in shoes, so hopefully she’ll recognise them.’

  ‘After that it’s just about getting as much background information as we possibly can about Rosa: her job, her friends, her routines,’ said Mariner. ‘According to the neighbour she goes out in the evenings and leaves Dominique on her own. It might be why Dominique is reluctant to talk about her mum’s job. But if we’re to find Rosa, the sooner we can establish where she works, the better. Are you OK to have a go?’

  ‘If I get the chance before social services get here, yes,’ said Jesson.

  But as they went out into the corridor, the door at the far end opened and a young man, who could only be the duty social worker, appeared with the desk sergeant. There followed a delicate negotiation process at the end of which Jesson was allowed ten minutes with Dominique, on the understanding that she wouldn’t ask the little girl anything that would make her more distressed. It was the best they could hope for, but Jesson would be up against it.

  Bringing her maternal experience to it, Vicky Jesson’s interview technique was flawless. Mariner remained behind the one-way glass of the observation room, taking notes, with the social worker also watching. The air was loaded with expectation, all the adults focused on one little girl and desperately trying not to make it look that way. Mariner was impressed at how quickly Jesson established a rapport with her.

  ‘We don’t think that Mummy just decided not to come home,’ she said. ‘We think something might have stopped her. She might be poorly, or she might have hurt herself, so we want to try and find her to make sure she’s all right. But we need you to help us. Is that OK?’

  Dominique nodded.

  ‘Does Mummy go to work?’ asked Jesson.

  Dominique briefly glanced up to make eye contact with Jesson, acknowledging the question, but she offered no definitive response.

  ‘What kind of work does she do?’ Jesson asked, disregarding this.

  Dominique returned to her picture. ‘It’s a secret,’ she said, in a barely audible whisper.

  ‘I see,’ said Jesson, neutrally. ‘Why is that?’

  The little girl lifted her shoulders.

  ‘Is that what Mummy says?’

  Another nod of the head.

  ‘Mummy wears a special badge with her name on it when she goes to work, doesn’t she? Why does she need to do that?’

  ‘So the people know what she’s called.’

  ‘Which people are they?’

  Dominique shrugged again, unable or unwilling to say.

  ‘Perhaps you could draw me a picture of Mummy,’ Jesson suggested lightly. ‘And then you could tell me all about what she’s doing.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ Sam McBride smiled encouragingly. ‘You’re really good at drawing. We’ve got some of Dominique’s pictures on the wall in the classroom,’ she told Jesson, but mainly for Dominique’s benefit.

  It did the trick and they waited patiently while she drew the picture. Nearly ten minutes had passed. While she was engaged in drawing Mariner slipped into the room and placed the shoes down on the floor beside Vicky Jesson. Although Dominique glanced up momentarily, he didn’t distract her from her task. When she had finished, shortly after Mariner had returned to the observation booth, Dominique sat back so that Jesson could see what she had drawn.

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ said Jesson. ‘I love Mummy’s hair. It’s like yours, isn’t it? Lovely and dark and curly. What’s that she’s holding in her hand?’

  Dominique murmured something in response.

  ‘A brush?’ hazarded Jesson. ‘Is Mummy a hairdresser?’

  A flicker of a smile crossed Dominique’s lips. Mariner couldn’t see the picture, but there was a hint that Vicky was teasing her. Dominique shook her head and said something.

  ‘Oh, a sweeping brush,’ said Jesson. ‘I see. She’s sweeping the floor. Is Mummy cleaning up? She’s a cleaner?’

  And finally Dominique smiled broadly and nodded her head, as if all along this had just been a simple guessing game.

  ‘And is that where Mummy went on Saturday?’

  ‘No, that’s her other job,’ said Dominique, as if Jesson was being a bit slow.

  ‘So what does Mummy do at the weekend?’

  The little girl’s head was down again as she added more detail to her drawing. ‘That’s a secret,’ she said, without looking up.

  And that was as far as they got. Despite Jesson’s careful questioning, either Dominique didn’t know exactly where her mum worked, or she was determined to hold on to that particular nugget. Mariner was inclined to think it was the former. Jesson tried to get at the question obliquely, asking how Mummy got to work but all they found out was ‘on the bus’ which without a number, could have been to anywhere in the city. And when Dominique yawned, twice in close succession, the social worker said that was enough.

  Jesson brought the bag containing Rosa’s shoes out of the room with her untouched. ‘She’s a bright little cookie,’ she said of Dominique. ‘I think it wouldn’t be beyond her to work out why we’ve got her mummy’s shoes and it’s not fair to put her through that. I think we can be pretty certain they belong to Rosa Batista.’

  Mariner couldn’t fault Jesson’s judgement on either count.

  ‘Is there anything more I can do?’ asked Sam. She looked shattered.

  ‘You’ve already helped a great deal,’ said Mariner. ‘If it wasn’t for your vigilance we’d still have no idea who Rosa is.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Don’t want to join the police, do you?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m quite happy being a teacher,’ she assured him. ‘Do you think something’s happened to Ms Batista? You’re linking her to that girl, Grace, who’s gone missing, aren’t you?’

  ‘There are some common factors,’ said Mariner, deliberately playing it down.

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘How did everything seem with Dominique and her mum, before this week?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said McBride. ‘There was something. A sort of incident, a few weeks back.’

  ‘What kind of incident?’

  ‘Well, more something I noticed. When Ms Batista came to collect Dominique she had some quite nasty bruising around her eye and to the side of her face. I wanted to ask her how it happened, but I chickened out a bit. I just asked generally if everything was OK, and she said she’d had an accident at work. It was obvious that she didn’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘What about Dominique’s father?’

  ‘We’ve never seen him. Ms Batista has always described herself as a single mum, though I understand they moved up here from London a few months ago for what she said was a new start, so I assumed that might have meant leaving him behind.’

  ‘What about partners since she’s been here?’

  ‘None that Dominique has
ever talked about, or who I’ve seen. As far as I’m aware it’s always been her mum who collects her from school.’

  ‘Does Rosa have any friends, other mums that she talks to in the playground?’ Jesson asked.

  But Sam shook her head. ‘I’ve never really seen her with anyone, but I can ask around at school tomorrow.’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Mariner. ‘I’ll get someone to run you home.’

  * * *

  Much later, when the social worker had left to take Dominique to a temporary foster family, Jesson and Mariner walked out of the building together.

  ‘I could have handled this, you know,’ Jesson said.

  ‘I do,’ said Mariner. ‘But I wanted to be here myself. As I’m sure you know, my domestic circumstances at the moment are a little restrictive, so I feel it’s important to . . .’ Mariner floundered, unable to identify exactly why he’d felt this compulsion to be here.

  ‘Prove your commitment?’ Jesson added for him. Knowing she’d nailed it, she smiled. ‘Without meaning to sound chippy or anything,’ she added. ‘Now you know what it’s like to be a woman.’

  ‘It’s a fair cop,’ said Mariner. ‘You came here from Steelhouse Lane, didn’t you? Where were you before that?’

  ‘Bromfield mostly.’

  So, north of the city and not a patch that Mariner had ever worked. They walked in silence for a few minutes, until Vicky said, ‘My partner was Brian Riddell.’

  Ah. Now Mariner felt clumsy and insensitive. ‘Of course. God, I’m sorry. I felt sure that we had met . . . your name and face were so familiar to me, yet . . .’

  ‘Yes, well, I was all over the papers for a while. And perhaps you came to the memorial service?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘There were a lot of people there—’

  ‘And most of us in uniform. You could hardly be expected to remember us all. I’m very sorry about Brian. From what I understand he was a good officer.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She seemed perfectly controlled and Mariner tried to remember exactly when it was that Sergeant Brian Riddell and his partner had responded to what they thought was a routine 999 call in the Aston area of the city, only to be greeted by a hail of bullets. According to the stories, Riddell had acted fast, throwing himself in front of the young PC as a shield and had effectively saved the man’s life at the cost of his own. It had been a heroic last gesture. By the time back-up had arrived at the scene the gunman was long gone, though traces of his presence remained in the derelict building from which the fatal shots were fired. The incident had shaken officers the length and breadth of the country and out of this was born Operation Athena, its aim to track, monitor and ultimately curtail the illegal importation of guns into the country. At the same time, they were also working to locate the murder weapon, a Mach 10, commonly known as the ‘spray and pray.’ How long ago was it now — eighteen months? It explained a lot about how contained and pragmatic Jesson seemed.

  * * *

  Rosa Batista was having one of those terrifying dreams in which she was completely powerless and unable to move. She had a sensation of being stranded somewhere dark, cold and alien to her. She knew she would wake up from it soon. These nightmares came to her on a regular basis, though not so much since they had moved away from London. All the same, as part of the dream, she couldn’t help being fearful for Dominique, hoping she had given her daughter enough skills to be able to look after herself. Dominique was a sensible child but she was still only eight years old. Even though rationally Rosa knew that she would wake up from this soon, she had no idea what was happening to her — or why. Was it something she did? Was it her fault? She couldn’t begin to comprehend it. She only knew that she wanted to wake now.

  * * *

  It was late when Mariner got home and he thought his tired eyes must be playing tricks when — as he was locking his car — he saw a shadowy figure emerge from round the back of his house, setting off at a brisk walk towards the edge of the park. Tall and wearing some kind of tracksuit with a hood, it was impossible to identify the individual, though Mariner was fairly sure it was a male. As he watched, the figure seemed to increase its speed, keeping close to the trees and finally disappearing out of sight. It may just have been a man walking back from a night out along the tow path, but even that would have been pretty unusual behaviour.

  ‘Was there someone else here?’ Mariner asked Mercy when he’d let himself in.

  She looked suddenly awkward, the first time Mariner had witnessed her in any kind of discomfort. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’ she said struggling to meet his eye. ‘Just me and Jamie here, same as always. Isn’t that right, Jamie?’

  ‘I’ve never asked you,’ said Mariner, ‘what it is it that Carlton does. His job, I mean.’

  She chuckled, relaxing again. ‘Oh, this and that. He’s a clever boy. He can turn his hand to lots of things. I try not ask too many questions, you know?’

  Mariner could quite imagine. He couldn’t stop himself, as they were talking, from scanning the room, just to check that everything was intact. He hoped that Mercy didn’t notice. He phoned for a taxi, and when Mercy had gone, made a mental note to look Carlton up on CRIMINT to see if he was known; an urge that up until now he’d resisted. He felt bad about it, as if he were somehow betraying Mercy’s trust, but he told himself it was as much for her protection as his. And whatever his personal reservations might be, his first responsibility was to Jamie.

  Chapter Eleven

  Charlie Glover and a couple of uniforms were assigned first thing on Wednesday morning to search Rosa Batista’s flat.

  ‘What are we looking for exactly?’ one of the officers asked Glover once he’d briefed them.

  ‘Anything that tells us more about Rosa, basically. Where she works, details of friends, family, that kind of thing,’ said Glover.

  In daylight, especially on such a dreary day as this, the flat looked barren and unwelcoming and after a couple of days with no heating the air was frigid. The furnishings were minimal, and apart from the beds, seemed to have been chosen for function rather than aesthetics and Glover quickly realised that this search wouldn’t take them very long. In fact, he probably could have managed alone.

  The living room contained what looked like a second-hand sofa, the brown upholstery faded and sagging, a TV on a stand and a small coffee table, on which an ashtray had been pushed to one side to make way for a child’s drawings. Dominique had been busy in her mum’s absence. Against one wall was a small sideboard that looked of post-war vintage and a couple of photo frames on top displayed a picture of Dominique in her school uniform and another informal shot of her in an affectionate hug with a man, presumably her dad. Sam McBride had estimated Rosa’s age to be about twenty-five, but this man looked older. It was here that Glover concentrated his efforts, leaving the other rooms to the uniforms. A drawer in the cupboard was evidently where Rosa Batista kept her paperwork and Glover quickly found a passport and medical cards, confirming Rosa’s age as twenty-six, and a P60 from a couple of years ago that had her National Insurance number on it.

  A couple of letters from a council housing department pertained to an address in south London and there was a handful of other, more personal correspondence, including a couple of postcards from Istanbul, both addressed to Dominique and signed ‘Papa.’ But though the P60 provided details that could be traced, there was nothing here that gave any clue as to Rosa’s extended family or, more importantly, her current place of work. At the bottom of the drawer were the odd bits and pieces that accumulate in any household: paperclips, what looked like broken bits of things and a number of insignia of the kind given in exchange for charity donations — a daffodil, a poppy and crossed rifles.

  The others turned up nothing of significance in either of the bedrooms, but Glover had a quick look around both, just to make sure. Whilst the double bed in the main bedroom was turned back and seemed to show signs of having a recent occupant, the single bed
in what was clearly Dominique’s room was neatly made. Glover thought it probably meant, rather touchingly, that the little girl had slept in her mum’s bed for comfort, like his own three often had when he was on nights, snuggling up with Helen. It had been brave of Dominique to stay here on her own for two nights, which made Charlie Glover wonder what kind of life she’d had up until now that would give her the resilience to cope with it.

  There were few clothes in Rosa Batista’s wardrobe, most of them casual — jeans and T-shirts, along with a couple of summer dresses — and Glover couldn’t help but compare it with Helen’s collection that sometimes seemed to take over the whole bedroom. It was one of the things they occasionally disagreed about. Most effort of all had been made in the little girl’s bedroom, where duvet and curtains matched, a chest of drawers held lovingly washed and pressed outfits in co-ordinating colours, and the bookshelf groaned with picture books above a row of cuddly toys sitting on the bed. It was obvious where Rosa Batista’s wages ended up and the sight of this room made Glover feel cold inside. Rosa Batista would not have abandoned her precious daughter. Something bad had happened to her.

  In the small kitchen was the evidence of Dominique’s recent efforts to prepare food. A knife rested on an open tub of cheap margarine and there were breadcrumbs and smears of jam on the counter top. But aside from a few tins and packets in the cupboards, there was no other food in the flat. A mouldy loaf had been consigned to the bin, which, half full, was beginning to smell, despite the cold. A biscuit tin in a high cupboard contained a large amount of cash and several pre-payment tokens for the electricity meter. It had been placed too far out of reach for the little girl. Charlie counted out the bank notes: two hundred and fifty pounds — a large sum to have been left lying around the house like that.