“I might have,” she says in a way that makes me read it as a yes.
The counsellor jumps in. “Ashleigh, if you did mention Ariel to the woman, it’s not your fault that something happened to Ariel.” She’s trying to be helpful but I don’t want her interfering.
Ashleigh bites her lip and her edge disappears; suddenly she looks very young. “When we were talking, I saw Ariel going back into school and I called out to her.” She addresses her response to the counsellor
“Ashleigh,” I say, drawing her attention back. “What did the woman say?” I cut a look at the counsellor and I hope her eagle eye can read my request for her to stay silent.
“She said she enjoyed talking to us and that she’d see us again soon.” The fear is back in her face. “Do you think that she’s going to come to the school again?”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Steve assures her. “We are going to have a real policewoman here at the school for a while.”
I applaud Steve’s motivation for saying this but am irritated that now he has broken the tempo of the interview.
“After she said that,” I say, “what did she do?”
“She left. She walked out of the side gate and got into her car and drove off.”
Steve jots a reminder in his notepad.
“What type of car was it?”
She shrugs. “It was black.”
“Did you see the license plate?”
She shakes her head three times.
“You’re being really helpful Ashleigh. I just need to ask you a couple more questions.”
“OK.” She manages a wan smile.
“Ariel told you that she didn’t want to be on Canada’s Littlest Beauty, didn’t she?”
She nods and Steve cuts a sharp look at me. He’s going to be ticked off that I didn’t tell him about this earlier.
“Can you tell me why?”
“It was her Mom. She made Ariel work so hard and practice her dancing and singing and gymnastics, like all the time. Ariel had lessons every Saturday and Sunday and she had to travel all over to those stupid shows. Can you believe she had to fly to Toronto for like one performance. She hated it but her Mom wouldn’t listen to her.”
“Ellie said that you told Ariel to stand up to her Mom.”
“She did too. Her Mom got so mad. She said Ariel could never talk to me again. She even came to the school and complained about me. Her Mom hated me anyway.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see that the counsellor is about to speak again. I give her a hard look and hold up my index finger to silence her. I see her inner debate going on.
I turn back to Ashleigh and smile, hoping that she didn’t catch the look I gave her teacher. “Why?”
“’Cause my parents aren’t rich like hers.” That rings true.
“Now Ash—” her counsellor starts to speak
I speak over her. “I think you’re a really good friend to Ariel,” I say.
She smiles.
“Did she say anything about any of the people who worked on the show? Was there anyone who frightened her or made her feel uncomfortable?”
“She said some of the other kids on the show were mean… and their Moms.” I can validate that. In the episode I watched last night, some of the parents were brutal.
“What about the people from the TV company?”
She shrugs.
“Can you think of anything else that might help us find Ariel?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Just one last question. Apart from Megan and Kaylee, is there anyone else who Ariel might have talked to?”
“No. She didn’t even tell them about wanting to stop doing Canada’s Littlest Beauty because they thought it was sooooo cool to be on the show.” Her young voice is laced with vitriol for Megan and Kaylee.
“OK, Ashleigh you’ve—”
“Oh, there was Justin.”
“Who’s Justin?” Not someone from school, St. Cecelia’s is all girls.
“A boy,” she giggles. I can hear the counsellor’s grunt of disapproval.
“Where does she know him from?”
“She met him on Facebook and they Messenger each other all the time. She showed me some of the messages, he’s really nice but kinda shy.”
Steve and I exchange looks. “Ariel had a cell phone?” I ask.
“Cellular telephones are not allowed on school property.”
I turn on her. “That is not relevant to my interview, Mrs…?” I don’t even know her name.
“O’Reardon. And it’s Miss.”
“Ms. O’Reardon,” I say, “you are here for Ashleigh’s protection, to guard her interests in the absence of a parent. I will thank you to keep any other comment to yourself during this interview.” Suddenly, I remember I am a civilian now and I have a lot less official standing in this room than she does.
I turn back to Ashleigh with a smile and see that she is smiling too. Clearly she’s not a member of Team O’Reardon.
“So, Ariel had a cell phone.”
“Yes. It was an iPhone, she was so lucky.”
Why in heaven’s name didn’t Rebecca Bradbury mention this to the police or, for that matter to me?
“Don’t tell her Mom, she’ll be mad,” Ashleigh answers the unasked question.
“Where did she get it?”
“Justin gave it to her. His Dad works for a cell phone company.”
“So she met Justin face-to-face?” I ask, just knowing the answer is not going to be the one I want to hear.
“No. He hid the phone in the hedge outside her house one night so she could pick it up next morning. She Messengered with him from her iPad to arrange it.”
“Did they ever speak to each other on the phone?”
“I think so. But it was mainly text, Facebook and email. But I’m pretty sure she talked to him too.” Her tone is matter-of-fact.
Hoping against hope I ask, “Do you know the number?”
She nods and recites the digits which Steve writes down. He nods at me and leaves the room.
“Did Ariel’s parents know she had a Facebook page?”
“She had two. One her Mom set up using her real name and it was all about the stupid show. But the other one she set up herself; she called herself Ariel Notastar. Not a star, get it?”
I feel very old. Eight year-old girls can set themselves up on Facebook? I’ve only just learned how to do that. Ellie has a computer at my house and another at Sam’s, I wonder…
Now’s not the time for that issue.
I get out my iPhone and hand it to her. “Can you show me Ariel’s Facebook pages?” I ask.
She taps away for a few seconds. “Here’s her Mom’s page.” She hands it to me. I click on photos and see an array of pics of Ariel in the costumes she wears on the show. In many of them she is posing in overtly sexual ways and I wonder again how a mother can encourage, no, pressure her daughter to do this. It is like a pedophile’s photo album. I remember the photo that Rebecca Bradbury gave me where she’s been made to look like a teenager. I make a mental note to get Stammo to dig around on Facebook a bit.
“How about her own page?” I hand the phone back to Ashleigh just as Steve walks back in.
He shakes his head. Ariel’s phone number turned up nothing useful… unless Steve is holding stuff back from me.
Ashleigh hands my phone back to me. It shows Ariel’s own page. I click her profile, it says, “Doing stuff on a STUPID TV show.”
I look at her timeline pictures and they are of Ariel behaving like any normal kid: hanging out with her friends; clowning around; just like millions of others.
I go to the friends section and scroll through. My stomach does an uncomfortable flip as my other unasked question is answered. Ellie smiles out of the screen at me.
Then just below Ellie’s picture is a Justin Brown, a good-looking boy, about ten years old. I show it to Ariel and she nods. “That’s Justin.”
“Have you ever m
et him face-to-face?” I ask. She shakes her head.
There is a knock on the door and a young woman enters. She is dressed in a steampunk style—her jacket is adorned with brass and silver gear wheels and levers and distorted, Dali-esque clock faces—and she gives me a flash-forward of what Ashleigh might look like in ten years’ time. She nods at Steve and smiles at me.
Steve makes the introduction. “Ashleigh, this is Sarah. She is from our forensic unit.” He sees the confusion on Ashleigh’s face. “You know like CSI on TV.” Nothing. Clearly Ashleigh’s parents monitor her viewing, if not her computer use. “She is going to ask you some questions about that woman who was dressed like a police officer and she is going to try and make a picture of her on the computer. OK?”
She nods.
Steve and I make our exit and leave Sarah to work her magic with Ashleigh and the computer.
Steve’s phone rings and I know from his end of the conversation that the news is not good.
“The phone?” I ask him.
“It was on a pay-as-you-go plan with Telus. The texts were to another pay-as-you-go and they have both been switched off since Friday afternoon. Unfortunately, Telus only keeps the actual messages on their servers for three days. We’re a day late and a dollar short.”
He is not pleased with what he has heard and, worse, it triggers a memory for him. “What was all that in there about Canada’s Littlest Beauty?” he asks. “Have you been holding out on me again, Cal?”
Before I can answer, his phone rings again.
“Waters.” He listens, looks at me and turns away, talking quietly.
Time to carpe momentum. I take off through the nearest door and head for my car. It’s time to call Stammo and get him to use some of his computer skills.
13
Cal
I’m sorry, Mr. Radcliffe doesn’t speak with private detectives,” she says. Rather than resist, I just look at her, a slight smile playing about my lips. She has that self-assurance many beautiful women have; I enjoy watching it crumble under the steady pressure of my stare. She is not going to impede me from the pledge to find Ariel.
“What?” she says.
“I’m investigating the disappearance of one of the children who perform on your show. Are you sure Mr. Radcliffe doesn’t want to help with that?” I ask.
Her face changes. It’s either fear or disgust. “Who?” she says, “Who’s disappeared?”
“If you had to guess, who do you think it would be?” I ask. I give her the look I’ve levelled at many suspects in many interview rooms.
“Me? I don’t know. I’m just Mr. Radcliffe’s personal assistant.” Her voice has taken on a defensive tone. At this point I could just ask to see her boss and she would cave, but I have taken an illogical dislike to her.
“You’re just his P.A.?” I say, my voice implying that she is lying to cover up a panoply of guilty deeds.
“Yes. Really. Listen, let me talk to Mr. Radcliffe again…” She snatches the phone from its cradle. She gives me an unexpected smile and I feel a bit guilty about pressuring her.
Within two minutes, I am sitting on a leather chair in the office of Mr. Thomas Radcliffe, Executive Producer of Canada’s Littlest Beauty.
The office is not nearly as lavish as I expected. The furniture is flashy but cheap and the general air of the place is one of style but not substance. Maybe this is one of the ways Vancouver, ‘the Hollywood of the North’, differs from the real item. Radcliffe doesn’t fit with my preconceptions of a TV producer, either. He is casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with the show’s logo; only his shoes look expensive. He looks more like a university student than the producer of a successful TV franchise. Then again, maybe I’m just assuming the show is successful.
He sits on the corner of his desk, holding my business card using the thumbs and index fingers of both hands. “So how can I help you Mr. Rogan?” he asks.
“Do you know that Ariel Bradbury has gone missing?” I ask.
I am almost sure that the shock on his face is genuine. “No,” he says. “What happened? Did her mother throw her out for lacing her shoes wrong or something?”
Immediately he regrets his flippancy. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that… well… her mother is the most demanding woman I have ever met. She’s brutal. It’s what makes Ariel so right for this show. She’s a nice girl and all, and has talent for sure, but it’s her mother’s wheeling, dealing and conniving that brings in the viewers. She is a piece of work, that woman.” He shakes his head.
Despite my loathing for his show, I find myself liking Thomas Radcliffe. “Why do you think she is so obsessed with winning these beauty pageants?” I ask.
He gives a cynical snort. “I have no idea why any of the mothers do it. For most of them, maybe it’s because they’re losers in life and they’re living their dreams through their daughters. But Rebecca isn’t like that. She’s a successful woman and she’s got more money than God. I have no idea why it matters to her.” He shrugs. “She’s giving me a lot of viewers though.”
A question leaps into my mind. “Until I told you, you didn’t know Ariel was missing, did you?”
He looks at me. He knows he’s already answered this question. I detect a look of uncertainty.
He shakes his head.
Then I ask the question. “So didn’t Rebecca call you and tell you Ariel wouldn’t be available for filming this week?”
He frowns. He knows I’m trying to catch him in a lie.
“No, we’re between seasons. The current series ends in June but we’ve already filmed all the episodes. We’re not going to start filming the next season until next month.”
“Were you planning to have Ariel back on the show next season,” I ask.
“For sure. And Rebecca was very keen too. After Ariel failed to win the national contest in Toronto, Rebecca was furious. But she was determined to take a shot at it again next year. That woman…” He shakes his head.
“Were any of the other contestants’ parents particularly upset at Ariel or her mother?”
“Only one.”
“Upset enough to do anything to Ariel?”
He is not as shocked at the thought as I expected he might be. “No. This one girl, Tammy, had a real aggressive mother. She threw a lot of trash talk in Ariel’s direction but Tammy ended up beating out Ariel in Toronto, so I don’t see that she would have a reason to do anything… other than gloat.”
“Was there anyone who might want to harm the show? Did you fire anyone recently?”
“Yeah. I fired a continuity girl. I found her using my computer, going through some files. She was crap at her job anyway so it gave me a good excuse to can her.”
“Anyone else?”
His face is expressionless for a moment. I watch his eyes. He’s looking down to his left: having an internal debate. He rubs the side of his face… And he decides.
“No. Just the one.”
Pause.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
He gets up off the corner of the desk, walks around and sits in his chair.
“Yeah.” He replies.
The certainty in his voice is forced. Boy, I’d like to play poker with this guy.
“Who was the other one you fired?”
He looks to his left. He’s accessing a memory.
“No one.” Even the forced certainty is gone.
“I don’t believe you Mr. Radcliffe.”
A flare of arrogance. “Who the fuck are you to tell—”
I stand up fast, plant my fists on his desk and lean over him. “Listen to me very carefully Mr. Radcliffe. I’m gonna say this once and once only.”
I stare down at him.
“What?”
“I’m working closely with the police on this. If I walk out of here without an answer, I’m gonna call them. When they come to speak to you, they are going to want to know why you lied to me about this. They will probably want to question everyone on the
show. Everyone, including all the contestants. They are going to subpoena files, tear this place apart and tear your life apart. You can avoid all that by telling me the truth right now.”
Silence.
There is a worried look on his face.
More silence.
“Five seconds, Mr. Radcliffe.”
I count to five, straighten up and turn toward the door praying that he doesn’t call my bluff.
“OK, OK. I had to fire one of the sound guys.”
I turn back and look at him… waiting…
He deflates. “Tammy’s mother complained he was getting what she called ‘too friendly’ with the girls, touching them too much when he was putting on their mics. When I confronted him with it, he completely overreacted, got really abusive. We can’t have anyone on the show that might become a liability, so I didn’t want to take a chance with him. I fired his ass.”
“You did the right thing getting him off the show.” It never hurts to throw a bone to a witness who has given up some useful information.
He relaxes, gives a half smile and a nod.
Time to hit him again.
“So why did you just lie to me? Why did you try to cover up that you fired him from the show?”
I love the words ‘cover up’—so much more emotive than ‘hide’.
“I didn’t,” he protests but even he knows it’s BS.
He stares at his hands for a moment and then looks me straight in the eye. “With Ariel missing, I didn’t want to put the show in a bad light. I couldn’t just tell you that one of my people had been accused of inappropriate behaviour It was probably a false accusation anyway.” His explanation is reasonable and his voice is sincere… but I know he’s lying.
“So what was this sound guy’s name?” I ask.
“Listen. You can’t tell him you got his name from me, OK.”
“He won’t have a clue.” One good lie deserves another.
“It’s Mark Traynor.”
“Give me his personnel file.”
He taps away at the keys of his computer for a while and after a moment the printer on the credenza behind him starts whirring. He hands me the sheets it disgorges: personnel records for Mark Traynor, complete with photograph.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 69