Missing Without Trace

by P. F. Ford

  I could see what was coming next but I was too far away to stop her. Pete, of course, was all ears. This was all news to him.

  ‘They have first date last night.’ Jelena grinned triumphantly. ‘I come home-’

  ‘Jelena!’ cried Sophia, blushing scarlet. ‘Stop it!’

  Jelena pouted and affected a look of pure innocence. ‘What? I was just say Alfie is lucky man...’

  Pete looked at me enquiringly. Now I was blushing too.

  ‘Don’t listen to her, Peter,’ pleaded Sophia. ‘She is just teasing.’

  ‘...to sleep with Aunt Sophia on first date,’ finished Jelena.

  Pete’s mouth fell open. Sophia looked mortified.

  ‘Now don’t jump to any conclusions,’ I said. ‘There was nothing to it. Jelena is just exaggerating, making mischief. We literally just fell asleep on the settee in front of the fire.’

  ‘In each other arm,’ teased Jelena. She looked at our faces. ‘What is problem? Lovebird. Romantic. Not wrong. No problem. Is good.’

  She had a point. We hadn’t actually done anything we shouldn’t have. And Pete was a mate. He wasn’t going to go blabbing to everyone. And she was just teasing. So I guess I was okay with it. But what about Sophia? Suppose she hadn’t thought of it as a date?

  ‘She’s just teasing us,’ I explained hopefully.

  I looked at her face. Was she ok about it? Was that a hint of a smile? Yes, I think it was. She was trying to avoid my gaze, but then I caught her eye and she looked straight at me. For a moment I feared the worst, then there was that gorgeous smile. Yeah, she was okay about it too.

  Jelena certainly seemed to think everything was okay. Satisfied she had achieved her intention of lifting the mood, she threaded an arm through Pete’s and beamed happily at the world.

  I made a mental note that this young lady was going to suffer acute embarrassment at my hands one day soon. I would just bide my time. My chance would come. But I had to admit, she had a way with her. How could our spirits not be lifted with someone like this in our midst?

  Chapter Thirteen

  My computer had been ‘accidentally’ damaged during the search of my flat, but Sophia came to the rescue once again and allowed me to use hers. It didn’t take me too long to trace Allison Warren, or Allison Beatty, as she was now.

  Billy Beatty, Allison’s husband, was well known in Tinton for various petty crimes such as shoplifting, vandalism, and being drunk and disorderly. He was an incompetent criminal who never committed any major crimes but was a source of perpetual nuisance to the local police force.

  Except for those occasions when he was inside. Like right now. He was currently doing six months at Her Majesty’s pleasure after getting caught attempting to break into a betting shop.

  The Valleys estate was known locally as The Dump. It was the sort of small estate that would love to look clean and tidy, but, as the local name suggested, it failed miserably. Or at least, the people who lived there failed miserably. The place was littered with dead cars, broken bicycles, and the odd fridge and washing machine.

  It was depressingly appropriate for Monday morning. And there seemed to be shopping trolleys at every corner. Gathered in small groups, it was almost as if they had stopped for a chat. I wondered how on earth they got there. It had to be at least two miles to the nearest supermarket.

  Number 12 was the stand-out house in the street. Not because its occupiers had made the effort to look after their garden, but because theirs was the only house with its own mountain of rubbish. A huge pile overflowed from the wheelie bin at the side of the house. It was already blocking access to the side door and was slowly spreading along the path towards the street.

  As I contemplated this amazing sight, a large, balloon-like woman emerged from the front door carrying a bin bag full of rubbish. I couldn’t decide which was more attractive: the cigarette dangling from her lips; the shapeless tracksuit bottoms that seemed to be in danger of bursting at the widest part of her backside; or the filthy vest doing an inadequate job of covering an enormous pair of breasts that would have benefited from the support of a decent bra. In fact, any bra would have provided more support than she currently enjoyed.

  She walked halfway to the river of rubbish and heaved the latest bag roughly in the right direction, watching with disinterest as the sack curved upwards in a gentle arc, missing the pile and landing instead on the concrete path where it burst and spread its contents in all directions.

  ‘Fuck it. Missed,’ she muttered.

  She scratched an armpit and tugged at the backside of her trousers, where her knickers appeared to be in danger of being swallowed up and lost forever. I guessed it was probably a thong, judging by the depth of her excavations, but I didn’t want to dwell on that thought too much.

  Whether or not the tugging had released the errant thong, it was difficult to tell, but I clearly heard the sound of a fart roaring its way to freedom, so something had definitely been released.

  As she turned back to the house, her swinging breasts coming dangerously close to escaping the already inadequate cover of the overstretched vest, she finally noticed me standing in the street.

  ‘‘Choo starin’ at?’ she said aggressively. She fixed me with a stare and was obviously attempting to look hard, but the smoke from her cigarette was going in her eyes. She spat it out. Now she could see me properly.

  ‘Allison Beatty?’

  ‘No,’ she snapped. If there was an award for the world’s most unconvincing liar, she already had it in the bag.

  ‘Formerly Allison Warren?’

  ‘If it’s about money you can fuck off,’ she yelled. ‘I don’t owe you nuffin’, an’ I ain’t got none anyway.’

  I started to walk up the path. ‘It’s not about money, Allison.’

  ‘Well, piss off anyway!’ She looked warily towards the front door, apparently calculating whether she could get there before me.

  ‘Go on. Sod off, ooever you are. Whatever it is, I never fuckin’ done it, right? I wasn’t even there.’

  ‘Allison, listen,’ I pleaded. ‘I want to talk to you about something that happened thirty years ago.’

  ‘You’re one of them dirty pervert people, ain’t you? I don’t do that sort of fing no more, so like I already said, you can fu-’

  ‘It’s about Simon Younger,’ I interrupted. ’The little boy who disappeared when you were at school.’

  She thought about this for a couple of seconds before adding another denial. ‘I didn’t have nuffink to do with that neither.’

  This was getting ridiculous. I mean, how much of a persecution complex did this woman have?

  ‘Allison, listen. I’m not here to accuse you of anything. I just want to ask you what you remember about the day Simon disappeared.’

  ‘I told the coppers back then. You already know what I saw.’

  ‘I’m not with the police. I’m trying to find out what happened because I think there’s something fishy about the whole thing.’

  She eyed me suspiciously. ‘What? Bent coppers, you mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure. That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  That was my breakthrough moment. As soon as Allison realised I wasn’t with the police, but I might actually be working against them, I was no longer the enemy. I had just become a potential ally.

  ‘So, whatcha wanna know?’

  ‘Just tell me what you remember from that day.’

  She looked at the neighbouring houses. ‘Lots of ears out ‘ere,’ she warned. ‘You better come in.’

  I have to admit, this wasn’t the best offer I’d had that day, but I figured if I was going to hear what Allison had to say, I had no choice. I just hoped the house wasn’t as bad on the inside as it was on the outside.

  To my relief, the inside of the house was nothing like the disaster area outside. Allison certainly wasn’t the house-proud sort, but it was untidy rather than dirty, and surprisingly cosy. It was almost as if she occupied two different
worlds.

  She looked at my face, and it was obviously far too easy to read.

  ‘That surprised yer, dinnit?’ She laughed, leading me through her front door. ‘You thought you was coming into a pigsty, di’n’t yer?’

  My confusion was obvious, and I really didn’t know what to say. I wondered if I was going to be on the receiving end of another foul-mouthed outburst, but she saved my discomfort with a warm smile.

  ‘Me house is like me life,’ she explained. ‘I’m like two different people. Inside my home, in my own little world, I can just about keep fings under control, but out in the open I turn into a complete mess. Them shits buggered me up when I was a kid, see, an’ I ain’t never been right since.’

  She seemed to withdraw into herself for a few moments and I struggled for something meaningful to say. I mean, what do you say to something like that? ‘Sorry’ seemed totally inadequate. Not for the first time in my life, I found myself feeling ill-equipped to deal with another person. Then a little smile flitted briefly across her face and she was back with me.

  ‘But that ain’t your fault, is it? An’ it’s not what you’re ‘ere for. Come in and siddown.’

  She led me through to a surprisingly clean and tidy living room and pointed to an armchair. I sat down and she slipped into a similar seat opposite mine.

  ‘Right,’ she said, giving me her full attention. ‘I’m all yours.’

  ‘I’m told you saw Simon in town the day he disappeared. I need to know what you saw that day.’

  ‘It weren’t just that day,’ she said. ‘It weren’t that simple.’

  And then she told me her story...

  Brian Mallory was a bus driver who particularly liked little boys and girls, so, for him, it was the perfect job. Allison Warren, an unhappy and impressionable ten-year-old, had soon fallen under the spell of ‘Uncle’ Brian and he began abusing her. He had ensured her silence by telling her that what they were doing was their special secret and that something terrible would happen if she ever told anyone.

  The abuse had been going on for some time before Simon Younger had caught Mallory’s eye. Simon had been a beautiful child, with an angelic face, blue eyes and blonde hair. It was in his nature to trust everyone and he, too, had become one of Uncle Brian’s favourites, although Allison didn’t think he had actually abused Simon at that time.

  The day Simon had disappeared, Allison had seen him walking with ‘Uncle’ Brian when he was supposed to have been on his way to the bus station. Mallory was holding the boy’s hand and they were walking down a quiet alleyway away from the safety of the town and the bus station.

  She had told the policeman, Detective Inspector Nash, but he had told her she shouldn’t tell anyone else unless he said it was ok.

  Then next day, ‘Uncle’ Brian had told her she had been a bad girl and that he and Inspector Nash were both angry with her. He told her that if she ever mentioned it again, he would tell Inspector Nash what a bad girl she was and then she’d be in real trouble. Inspector Nash would lock her up and throw away the key.

  Terrified and confused, the once bright and intelligent Allison had retreated into her shell, becoming regarded as a hopeless case by those trying, and failing, to educate her. She had kept her terrible secret to herself, knowing she would surely be locked up and the key thrown away if she so much as mentioned it again to anyone.

  And she’d never said anything since because she didn’t think anyone would take the word of a failure like her against that of a man like Detective Inspector Tommy Nash.

  As I drove away from The Valleys estate, I reflected again on how easy it is to judge people on appearances without knowing the story behind the person. Allison had been a bright kid. If she’d never had the misfortune to meet a predator like Brian Mallory and then been let down by authority, in the form of Tommy Nash, who knows how she would have turned out. As Allison had said herself, ‘them shits’ had ruined her life.

  Judging without knowing was a habit many of us had fallen into, but I knew I was using that as an excuse. Even if it was a habit shared by many, it was nothing to be proud of, and I promised myself it was a habit I was going to try and break. After all, what makes me so special that I should presume to judge?

  But whatever I thought about judging people, one thing now seemed crystal clear – if Allison was telling the truth, and she had certainly convinced me, Tommy Nash had definitely covered up for his younger brother and it was beginning to look as though he had probably covered up a murder.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On the way back home, I stopped to call DB. If I was right, Nasty Nash didn’t know of the old guy’s involvement with what Pete and I were doing, so I wanted to stay away from his house just in case we were being followed. It seemed a bit paranoid but I didn’t want to take the risk of leading a bully like Nash to his door.

  DB saw it as an affront to his dignity, and he made a point of telling me so in no uncertain terms. I accepted his criticism that I was being melodramatic but told him I would rather be melodramatic now than be sorry further down the line.

  When he had finished lecturing me, I told him about Allison Beatty and what she had told me.

  ‘Her identity was definitely never revealed,’ he assured me. ‘But are you sure she’s telling the truth? Her husband’s always in trouble with the police – she’s not just trying to get even, is she?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure she is telling the truth. And why would she pick on a retired policeman? He wouldn’t have anything to do with putting her husband away, he retired years before that.’

  ‘She could be getting at Tommy Nash to get at the son,’ he suggested.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I replied. ‘Remember, she didn’t volunteer this information. I had to ask her. And anyway, the schoolteacher Miss Goodie is convinced Allison made a statement all those years ago.’

  He agreed that it seemed to be sound enough. ‘But how are we going to prove it?’

  ‘Still no progress on finding Mallory?’ I asked.

  He sighed in disappointment. ‘No. He seems to have left the bus company and vanished into thin air, just like the boy.’ Then he ended the conversation with a final thought. ‘It’s as if they both ceased to exist.’

  The people who worked in the shops, and those of us who lived in the flats above them, parked our cars in a small, private car park behind the shops. There was usually only a handful of cars parked here, and they were nearly always the same few, so it was easy to spot something different.

  I noticed the dark blue Ford as soon as I turned the corner and headed for a space in the corner nearest our flats. The light wasn’t good enough to see who was inside, but there was definitely someone. I wondered if this was the prelude to another of Nash’s attempts to intimidate me.

  Then I realised this was getting ridiculous. I wasn’t going to live my life looking over my shoulder all the time. Even so, when the doorbell rang almost as soon as I had shut the door, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  Cautiously, I opened the door a crack. A sheepish-looking Detective Sergeant Slater was outside, nervously checking left and right.

  ‘Oh, great!’ I said with heavy sarcasm. ‘Have you come back to smash the rest of my crockery? You did miss a few bits and pieces.’

  ‘Can you let me in, please?’ He sounded a bit desperate.

  ‘Can you think of one good reason why I should?’

  ‘I can think of at least two,’ he said, checking left and right again. ‘One, you need my help. Two, if I get seen on your step on my day off I won’t be able to help you ever again.’

  He certainly sounded sincere.

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘How do you know you can’t?’

  Good point. He had me there. I opened the door. ‘Come on in,’ I said.

  He quickly checked left and right again and then slipped through the door. He stood awkwardly in the hallway.

  ‘This is all a bit cloak and dagger, isn’t it
?’ I asked. ‘And what do you mean, I need your help?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly what you’ve done, but you need to understand you’ve made a big mistake stirring up Nash. He might be my boss, but he can be a real nasty bastard when he’s got it in for someone, and he’s certainly got it in for you right now.’

  He looked genuinely concerned and I remembered the warning Nugent had given me about getting on the wrong side of Nasty Nash. But it also occurred to me that this guy worked for Nash. Suppose this was just some ruse to gain my confidence so they could find out what we knew? I needed to be a bit careful.

  ‘Forgive me if I don’t seem too pleased to see you, Sergeant-’

  ‘Dave,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m off duty. The boss has no idea I’m here. He’d rip me a new arsehole if he knew where I was.’

  ‘Just cast your mind back a couple of days,’ I explained. ‘You and your lovely boss, and half a dozen storm troopers, invaded this very flat, my home, and all but destroyed it, supposedly searching for stolen property which you knew you weren’t going to find. Remember?’

  ‘I can explain that,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Oh please do. I can’t wait to hear it. But just bear in mind I may be a little sceptical. I’m sure you can understand why.’

  It turned out Nash had claimed to have had ‘a tip off’ about raiding my flat. The guys involved had only had a few minutes’ warning before they got here. As far as they all knew, it was the real thing. And you don’t question the boss, do you?

  But it seems this sort of thing had happened before. As Nash’s sidekick, Slater should have been privy to where some of these tip-offs came from, but he was never told. He told me he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he and his colleagues were simply being used by Nash to extract revenge on people whenever it suited him.

  Slater also believed his boss was on the take. Certain criminals always seemed to be one step ahead of them and never got caught.

  ‘He might be my boss,’ he explained. ‘But I’m fed up with people thinking I’m bent as well. In fact, people around here are beginning to think all coppers are bent, and that’s just not right.