Chasing Innocence

by Potter, John

  From somewhere deep inside of him a voice whispered a tentative Stop. But what could he stop and why? If Hakan did not kill her then Baldur would. Once you moved beyond the question of what brought her here, what was there? She was still a woman.

  He shifted again on the arm of the sofa, impassively watching. Hakan was now chasing the final details, the woman mumbling, barely comprehensible, made to repeat the answers again and again. They knew all they needed to know. Hakan was just biding his time. His hand descended as he stepped around her, the movement disguised. She might have thought the shift in tone meant the ordeal was over, it caught her unaware. The blow was the hardest so far, the chair and the woman spinning and toppling onto the carpet. Hakan grinned at him as he lifted the chair upright, the woman’s chin rolling onto her chest. Hakan ran his fingers through her matted hair, taking a fistful and pulling her head back. He opened her eyelids and looked at dilated pupils. She would never know consciousness again.

  Stop, said the voice again, louder this time.

  But why? She was of no lasting interest. Was not the challenge she presented interest enough? Look at her! Something innocent, no conceit. Something of what you used to be.

  Hakan let her head drop to her chest and flexed his fingers as an athlete might before a prize-winning feat. He swung the palm of his hand around in an arc for the final time, angled upwards as if batting a home run.

  ‘STOP!’

  Hakan looked around and up at Simon with wide-eyed disbelief, the expectation of death raging in his eyes, Simon’s hand wrapped around his wrist. ‘What are you doing, Simon? Let go of me immediately.’

  ‘Stop this Hakan, enough.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Hakan swung his free fist around at Simon, but he was off balance and a foot short of being a physical threat. Simon locked his arm under Hakan’s and used the palm of his hand to push him down onto the sofa.

  ‘She will die, Hakan, but not like this, I will take her out on the boat. I still have tests to do.’

  Hakan looked back up at him. ‘You are a crazy man, Simon. You would not do this with the brothers here. She has been nothing but trouble and you want to keep her alive?’

  ‘It’ll just be for a day.’

  Hakan let his frustration ebb before coolly pushing off the sofa, making Simon step back. He straightened his jacket.

  ‘I see my faith in you needs reappraising. There have been too many mistakes here already. We will talk about this before you leave. If your needs get the better of you, remember you will have the child for three months when you sail. I do not need her screaming this place down. Understood?’

  Simon nodded and without further word Hakan brushed past him to the front door. For several minutes after the door closed Simon stood still, contemplating what he had done, thinking through what it meant for him and Hakan. Still puzzled by why? It had been an impulse, driven by some buried instinct.

  He walked through to the kitchen, retrieved a small knife and carefully cut through the cuffs. He let Sarah slump forward into his arms, lifting her with her head rested against his chest, carrying her through the dining room and up the stairs.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The reception room contained two decadent sofas that matched the room’s calming hues of earth brown and cream, the sofas facing each other across a tree stump now sculpted and polished into a table. Boer lowered himself onto one of the sofas and Ferreira sat beside him.

  ‘Wow! One day I’m going to find me a rich man and have a house like this.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t attract rich men?’

  ‘I don’t. I’ll abandon my Catholic ways, change my style of dress, show a little more cleavage.’

  Boer nodded silent acknowledgement.

  She directed his gaze to the wall. ‘What do you think that cost?’

  They both stared at the large rectangle of canvas that dominated the room. To Boer it looked like someone had spent hours hand-writing notes on lined paper, set them on fire, thrown water on them and then stuck what was left onto the canvas. And then splattered red and yellow paint on top.

  ‘God knows, a lot probably.’

  From the kitchen they could hear the distant echo of plates and crockery being pulled from a dishwasher. The insistent high pitched voice of a pleading child eventually cut off tersely by the mother, followed by hushed rapid fire dialogue. Two sets of light feet tramped up the stairs and across the floor above.

  ‘You want me to lead?’ Ferreira asked.

  He nodded. ‘I need a few words at the outset.’

  ‘OK.’ She retrieved her notepad and pen from her bag, crossing her trousered legs. They both waited in silence, their eyes moving from neatly ordered curtains to polished surfaces and rows of framed smiling faces. One of the pictures caught Boer’s eye. He struggled to his feet and picked up the photo.

  ‘My God.’

  ‘What?’ asked Ferreira.

  He showed her the photograph. ‘Who?’

  ‘Well, my super detective powers say she’s not one of the girls here, I would say that has to be Andrea.’

  He frowned back at her. ‘Look harder.’

  Ferreira stepped over to him and took the picture from his hand, studying it. She handed it back. ‘Sorry boss. I’m struggling.’

  He looked at the picture. It radiated from the eyes. ‘Don’t you see?’

  Ferreira shook her head, then frowned. ‘You mean Sarah Sawacki?

  ‘Yes, look at it. Sarah saw Andrea and saw herself…’

  The faintest noise from the hall diverted their attention. The mother stood in the doorway with a tray held in both hands. ‘Sawacki?’ she said as she stepped into the room. ‘I haven’t heard that name before?’

  Ferreira gave Boer a meaningful look that he avoided, carefully placing the photo back onto the polished surface. He and Ferreira sat down in unison, waiting on the mother as she distributed cups and a glass of water for Boer. She finally folded herself with precise movements onto the sofa opposite.

  ‘Your daughter Emma,’ Boer began, ‘seems to think Andrea has run away. I have no idea how that came to be but I want you to know before we go any further that nothing points to your daughter running away.’

  ‘But she cou…’

  ‘No, Mrs Smith.’ Boer’s voice was harsh. ‘We have an eyewitness who saw your daughter just before she disappeared.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, we are not sure of a good many things but from what the eyewitness saw, Andrea running away is not a consideration.’

  The mother sat motionless, staring round-eyed at some space through and beyond Boer, before focusing back to the moment. She made as if to stand but slumped back onto the sofa. ‘My baby has to come back.’ Tears glistened in her eyes and immediately spilled onto her cheeks.

  Ferreira cut in. ‘Mrs Smith. I am so very sorry. It was careless of us to assume you had been told the circumstances of your daughter’s disappearance. Doubly so that you should receive this information so bluntly. I apologise on behalf of us both.’ Ferreira let the pause and the woman’s sniffing drag on long enough for Boer to register her annoyance.

  ‘The fact is, the eyewitness story has been attested by several sources and we are well on our way to making fast progress.’ Ferreira waited to see whether the mother’s tears would abate but her shoulders started to shake. She leaned over the arm of the sofa, produced a box of tissues and started dabbing at her eyes.

  ‘So if we could possibly ask you to tell us anything that might be useful about Andrea and her friends, her habits and her relationship with her father, that would be incredibly helpful.’ Ferreira stopped talking and waited, too angry with Boer to give him the satisfaction of a glare.

  The mother kept dabbing at her eyes, the sniffs abated and she slowly pulled herself together. She leaned forward with her forearms resting on her knees, her mascara a little smudged, tissues hanging from her hands.

  ‘He’s a complete mess, you know that?’

  ‘Par
don me?’

  ‘Brian, Andrea’s father. He’s a complete waste of space. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was involved somehow. He seems to have little regard for his daughter’s welfare. You should speak to him. You will learn more that way than wasting your time with me.’

  Ferreira tested her pen on a corner of her notepad and noted the date and time in the other corner. ‘What do you mean, “he was involved”?’

  ‘Well, I don’t mean exactly. But somehow I bet his lifestyle and the people he mixes with have resulted in all this.’

  ‘You can’t be more specific?’

  ‘No, I don’t know,’ her voice faltered.

  Ferreira decided to change tack. ‘What about when you first met? He must have caught your eye at some point.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘When you first met Andrea’s father?’

  The mother snorted. ‘I was young and extremely naive. When I look back I’m amazed I saw anything in him. But I grew up in Colchester, it’s teeming with soldiers. Paratroopers are the best of the best, a real catch to an innocent seventeen-year-old. Brian was a paratrooper. Did you know that about him?’

  Ferreira nodded and started drawing a small circle on the left side of the page.

  ‘Well, one thing led to another. If you got married you got a house. I fell pregnant straight away. Andrea was almost six weeks premature.’

  Beside her Boer stifled a cough and reached for his glass of water. Ferreira drew a bigger circle around the one she already had.

  ‘But it didn’t work out?’ Ferreira asked.

  The mother laughed, a short sound that rose quickly in pitch. ‘Do you know what he did?’ Ferreira shook her head although the mother was not cueing on her reaction. ‘Well I’ll tell you. He woke me up in the middle of the night with Andrea still a baby in her cot. He told me he couldn’t give me the life I wanted, that he would do his bit for Andrea and then left. The life I wanted! Just like that, pulled on his jeans and walked right out the front door. In the middle of the night, can you believe a man would do that?’

  Ferreira looked sympathetically back at her. ‘He has at least kept his word regarding Andrea.’

  ‘What do you mean? He’s a disaster. I don’t recall the last time he kept his word, to me or Andrea.’

  ‘I mean he has always provided for her. Our records show he has missed only two support payments in the last nine years. And those missed payments were in the six months following his discharge from the army.’

  ‘Yeah well, there’s a big difference between regular payments and contributing. I’ve applied for a full financial declaration four times in the last two years. But each time I get a letter back saying he has been correctly assessed.’

  She looked at them as if they were meant to be appalled.

  ‘Which means?’ Ferreira asked.

  ‘Well it is obvious, he’s lying of course! I expect his black buddy is fiddling the books somehow. I’d bet he blows the rest on drink, he has a problem you know.’

  ‘Did Andrea tell you that?’

  ‘The alcohol, no. She never tells me anything about him or her weekends in that place. And to be honest I’m probably better off not knowing. It takes me almost an hour to disinfect her when she comes back, you know. He seems to think children love passive smoking and grow healthy and strong purely on a diet of sweets and pizza.’

  ‘So you can say you know a little about what Andrea does while staying with him?’

  ‘I suppose so, she’s usually very guarded. I’m sure he warns her against me. I pray to God he watch over her.’ Ferreira’s pen busily moved across the page.

  ‘You pray to God that Brian watch over Andrea?’ Boer asked. ‘Or you pray that God watch over her?’ He took another sip of water.

  The mother looked at him, puzzled, her mouth curled down at one end. Then she returned her attention to Ferreira.

  ‘So it would be fair to say, Mrs Smith, that you have little knowledge of your daughter’s routine yesterday or at any time during her visits.’ Ferreira’s pen was poised.

  The mother nodded. ‘She was with her father and that’s about all I know. He turns up Fridays after school in his stupid little security car and brings her back Sunday tea time.’

  ‘His security car?’

  ‘Yes, Ode… whatever security or something. It’s owned by the black buddy. Ali, that’s his name. There were three of them that served together, thick as thieves. Brian and Mike were always in trouble. Ali was the father figure, keeping them in line. It’s why Brian now lives in Hambury. Ali is just about the only person that will put up with him.’

  ‘And Brian’s friend Mike?’

  ‘Got himself killed in Helmand. Brian was injured at the same time. It’s why he was discharged. He gets disability in addition to the pension, you know.’

  Ferreira caught up with her notes, trying to imagine what Boer was thinking next to her. ‘So they served together in the Paratroop regiment?’

  ‘Two Para, yes. They used to tell the most amazing stories. It all seemed perfectly likely back when I was younger, but you just think to yourself they made it all up to charm innocent girls like me.’

  Boer stifled another cough but found himself sipping an empty glass and struggling to keep the cough under control. He shifted himself to the edge of the sofa, gasping. For a few painful seconds both women sat watching him before the mother whisked the glass into the kitchen, quickly returning with the glass frosted and full of water.

  ‘Sip this, the cold will help.’

  It did, soothing his throat and spreading a welcome chill down through his stomach. ‘Thank you. That was very kind.’

  She folded herself back onto the sofa. ‘You really ought to see a doctor about that cough, you know, you don’t look well at all.’

  ‘I know. Can’t seem to shift it. But thank you, this has helped.’

  Ferreira waited for Boer to get comfortable and then continued. ‘Can you tell us anything more about this Ali?’

  ‘Not much. You’d know him if you saw him in the street, the sort that blocks the sun. Nigerian parents I think. From what I hear he has a finger in just about every pie.’

  ‘What does that mean, every pie?’

  ‘Well you hear all sorts of stories. And like I said he’s almost a father figure to Brian, so it’s difficult seeing the wood from the trees. Popular thought is he made his money in internet porn and prostitution.’

  ‘How did you hear about that?’

  ‘Friends of friends. I still talk to people back home. The regiment is a close community even after you move on, word gets around.’

  ‘It certainly does.’ Ferreira glanced around the room. ‘At least now you seem to have built a good life here.’

  ‘Yes, although there’s always more to be achieved of course.’ She followed Ferreira’s gaze and appraised with a measure of satisfaction, ‘Kevin is a wonderful husband. Our faith and hard work has taken us a long way. But that’s not to say life is easy.’

  ‘It never is, Mrs Smith. Your husband is something to do with IT?’

  ‘He runs his own company with twenty men working for him.’ The mother’s answer was heavy with pride. ‘It’s mostly networks and cabling, media systems and the like. With so many jumping on the bandwagon it’s twice as competitive. He has to work all hours.’

  ‘Your husband is working away this weekend? When will he be back? We would like to talk with him.’

  Uncertainty briefly shifted across her face. ‘I told him to stay put.’

  ‘But his stepdaughter is missing?’

  ‘I know, but it has taken him a long time to get this contract. It would be jeopardised if he left now. I have faith, Detective. My daughter will come back to me, she has got to.’

  Ferreira tried to contain her shock. ‘Mrs Smith, your husband might be able to help, tell us of conversations with Andrea, things he might know about her.’

  ‘Detective, nobody can tell me anything about my child I do not already know,
certainly not Kevin. He loves her like he does his own two but I run this house and those girls’ lives. Anyway, if there was something important he would have told me himself, he tells me everything.’

  Ferreira searched for the right words. ‘My intention is not to be accusing and there is no obligation for Mr Smith to be here now, but we will need to talk to him, sooner rather than later.’

  The mother gave a short nod. ‘He should be home later tonight. We can re-evaluate tomorrow.’

  Ferreira’s pen moved rapidly across and down the page.

  ‘OK, maybe we should move on to Andrea herself and what she is like…’ A loud crash above was followed, after a short hush, by a child screaming.

  ‘Right on cue,’ the mother said. ‘Why don’t you come up and take a look at Andrea’s room while I tend to the wounded.’ With that she unfurled from the sofa and left the room.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The gentle movement down the side of her face felt safe so she opened her eyes, to a natural light that filled the room from above and behind. In front of her Simon was crouched, looking intently not at her but at her cheek. He was using a damp cloth to wipe away blood, the wet material in short strokes attentive to her face and neck. His other hand easily rebutted her attempt to push him away, supporting her as she swayed, unbalanced from the effort.

  She slumped back against the cistern, hard against her spine, suddenly aware of being in a bathroom. She thought about screaming but the effort required meant the intent never passed from thought. Her eyes wandered. His T-shirt lay crumpled on the floor, his bare skin smooth and tanned, gleaming with a soft radiance that pulled her along the contours of muscles moving thickly across his shoulders.

  ‘Where’s he?’ The effort of forming each word was a difficult journey in itself.

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Coming back?’

  ‘Not for a few days.’

  It took her a while to put the span of a day into context. A day seemed some distant definition of time, a few days an eternity she could no longer comprehend.