Further down the piece was a photograph of her parents from the police press conference, distraught and huddled together in front of the Northumbria Police insignia, her father, George Chapman, talking into the microphone as if it were a cobra that might rear up and strike. ‘We’re terrified,’ he was quoted as saying. ‘Miriam’s just turned fifteen, she’s young for her age and very shy. She’d never go off without telling us. Christmas is important to the four of us, me and my wife, Miriam and Judith, her sister, and we’d spent such a happy day together as a family. We love our daughter and all we want is for her to come home. Please, if you know anything, however small or unimportant you think it is, come forward.’
Robin opened HOLMES. Christmas 1999 – it had still been the old version of the software then but they’d been right on the cusp; HOLMES 2, with its hugely improved capacity for linking investigations across forces, hadn’t been introduced until 2000. Had Northumbria been one of the first forces to get it? It was one of the biggest, Newcastle being a major city, of course, and one of several on Northumbria’s ground. Whitley Bay was a decent-sized town itself.
She typed in Miriam Chapman’s name. Yes, she was there, though barely; the entry wasn’t much more than her date of birth and address, the date she went missing, and a description of what she’d been wearing – a striped wool dress and leggings, ankle boots. It was a misper record, not a murder investigation, last updated in 2003 by a DC Frazer MacDonald.
She looked at the pictures side by side again then picked up the phone. ‘Come and have a look at this.’ Seconds later Malia appeared in the doorway.
Robin turned her screen round. ‘What do you reckon?’
Malia looked at the picture then looked at her. ‘She looks like the Gisborne Girl.’
‘Doesn’t she? But it can’t be. This girl – Miriam Chapman, she’s called – disappeared near Newcastle nearly twenty years ago.’
Malia frowned. ‘The Gisborne Girl might not even have been born then. What are you thinking? She’s a relative?’
‘I’m thinking a) it’s possible and b) frankly, as far as an ID goes, it’s day four and we’ve got no other leads.’
‘How did you hear about her?’
‘Maggie. I showed her our girl on the off-chance. She was up there at the time this one disappeared and she remembered her. I’ve had a quick look at HOLMES but there’s not much. My guess is, they had another crack at it in 2003, when the record’s last dated, and got nowhere then, either. Can you get in touch with Missing Persons and see what they’ve got on her? I’ll give Northumbria a call.’
There was no Frazer McDonald on the ‘Our Team’ list at Whitley Bay, and actually no CID based there at all. One of the two stations in the town was closed, she discovered, ‘rationalization’, no doubt, more swingeing cuts. The website told her that Whitley Bay was covered by their Northern Area Command Unit. She dialled that number and asked to speak to Frazer MacDonald, fully expecting that sixteen years later, he’d be long gone. To her surprise, however, she was put through straight away.
‘DI MacDonald,’ said a soft Scottish voice.
Robin introduced herself and explained.
‘Yes, I remember the case,’ he said steadily. How old was he? she wondered. Older than her if he’d already been a DC in 2003, she’d still been at university, but he didn’t sound ancient. Mid to late forties, maybe.
‘I wasn’t on the original team,’ he was saying, ‘I only came to it later, three or so years after she went missing. Someone thought they’d seen her in Newcastle so I was given it to have a go but I didn’t get anywhere. No way of telling if it was her they’d seen or just wishful thinking – well-meaning member of the public wanting to help, you know? It’d be a tough case to forget, though, even coming to it late, with what happened afterwards.’
‘What was that?’
‘Her dad, George Chapman – Georgie – committed suicide. Gassed himself in the garage in the family Escort.’
‘God.’
‘It was mostly grief, I think, they were a very close family, old-fashioned in a way, churchgoers, good people, and the strain of never knowing what happened to her wore him down. That, plus people thinking he had something to do with it – he’d abused her and she’d run away, or he’d killed her. Obviously the police had to ask those questions and he knew that but it was the sideways looks in the supermarket, you know, the graffiti on the front wall? The vile letters. His wife told me that about a week before he did away with himself, he’d overheard someone in the corner shop whispering something like “That’s him, the one who interfered with his daughter.” She reckoned it tipped him over the edge.’
‘The poor man.’
‘That was 2004, a few months after I had to draw a line under it. Then two or three years after that I heard that the mother had died, too. Cancer in her case, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was sheer grief, you know, that losing them both wore her out. There’s only so much the human body can handle.’
His voice was genuinely sad; Robin felt a bit guilty for bringing it all up again. ‘I’ll be frank,’ she told him, ‘this could be a complete waste of time, but we haven’t got much else to go on. Our girl isn’t Miriam but there’s a definite likeness.’
‘You’ve got pictures of yours?’
‘And a good e-fit. I’ll send them now – what’s your address?’
She attached the files to an email and a few seconds later heard MacDonald clicking around on the other end. ‘Aye, I see what you mean.’
‘How old was Miriam’s sister? Judith, was that her name?’
‘No, it won’t be her. She was only a year younger, partly why they were so close. Miriam was fifteen so Judith must have been thirteen, going on fourteen, when she disappeared. She’d be, what, early thirties now, older than this one.’
‘Do you know if any DNA samples for Miriam were taken at the time?’
‘I can’t remember off-hand, I never needed them, but leave it with me. I doubt it, though.’
‘Thanks. I know it’s a long shot.’ It was standard practice these days but twenty years ago, DNA samples hadn’t been required in misper cases. ‘DI MacDonald,’ she said, ‘there’s not much in the system but when you spoke to the original team, did they have a feeling about what might have happened, even if they couldn’t back it up?’
He sighed. ‘Honestly? They’d been through the whole thing with a fine-toothed comb, it took me hours on end to go through the files. Georgie, her uncle, a couple of her male teachers, the priest and the other men in their prayer group, boys at school, the bloke who worked at the chippy who was a sandwich short of the full picnic, you know, and had a bit of a soft spot for her, they’d looked at everyone, and they didn’t like any of them for it. I think in the end they concluded that she was one of the unlucky ones, one of those poor kids who’s in the wrong place at the wrong time, standing on the pavement when the nutter with the van and the nasty appetites happens to be coming through town.’
‘They thought she was dead, then?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They did.’
‘You want to let Gupta go,’ Samir repeated, looking at her over steepled fingers.
‘Well, ideally, I’d like him to be our killer but, given that he isn’t, yes. We’ve got clear CCTV images of him elsewhere for the entire window of time of death in Lara’s case and a solid reason why he’d be leaving the factory on Bradford Street shortly after the Gisborne Girl’s.’
‘Which is?’
‘He was going to work. Varan checked back with Too Posh to Pick—’
‘Who?’
‘Tom Peterson, the agricultural college gang-master wannabe. He confirmed that Gupta was on the bus on Sunday morning, said he specifically remembered because he was ten minutes late – big night at the Tipsy Pheasant on Saturday – and Gupta was waiting on the pavement, worried he’d missed him. Nothing remarkable about his behaviour, Peterson said, no agitation positive or negative once he knew he hadn’t missed the b
us. The man’s a bag of nerves – Gupta, I mean – there’s no way he’s a cold-blooded killer. I doubt he could nick a bar of chocolate without triggering some sort of psychic meltdown.’
‘But during the time of death, he was in the building next door with access to Gisborne’s via this basement level where he could come and go without being seen.’
‘As he freely admits. He was asleep, alone, no witnesses. The post mortem didn’t find anything and the scene’s a bust, too, so far. Frankly, with no forensics, either, I think the only way we’ll prove it isn’t him is by proving it’s someone else. And in the meantime, the clock’s ticking. It’ll be twenty-four hours at five fifteen tomorrow morning.’
‘Unless we apply for an extension, which we can.’
‘I honestly don’t see the point. It’s not him.’ She sighed. ‘Look, I know I’ve got form with letting people go, but I’ve learnt that lesson, Samir. I’m not going rogue here.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Perish the thought. What’s the situation with your brother and the Sword of Damocles, by the way?’
‘Still over my head if Kilmartin hasn’t been on to you breathing hellfire.’
‘He’s not going to like it if we let Gupta go.’
Should have thought of that before announcing we’d got someone. ‘T.I.E. Trace. Interview. Eliminate. That’s how it works. You’ll probably catch some more flak from Ben Tyrell and our friendly neighbourhood Neo-Nazis, too, for your rampant desi bias.’
‘Sod ’em,’ Samir said, eyebrows flicking up. ‘It’s almost worth letting him go for the pleasure of pissing them off.’
Robin grinned. ‘Definitely a happy by-product.’ She thought of Gupta in the shop doorway, his eyes round with trepidation. ‘Why don’t we release him in the morning?’ she said. ‘Just before the twenty-four-hour mark. He’ll get a better night’s sleep here than he would on the street, he’ll feel secure, and then if word gets out …’
‘Which it will.’
‘Then at least it’ll be too late to catch the papers and we’ll buy ourselves some time.’
He looked at her. ‘You’re sure? He’s definitely not our man?’
‘He’s definitely not our man.’
‘Then let’s do it.’
Chapter Nineteen
There were no spots on Mary Street so Robin was obliged to park around the corner and drag her exhausted carcass the thirty steep yards back uphill. The sitting-room window was warm with lamplight and Robin had a mental image of the sofa, her backside sinking gratefully into it. As she came up the path, however, she noticed that none of the upstairs lights were on. Maybe Len had only been home a couple of minutes, she thought, and hadn’t had time to go upstairs yet but as she put her key in the door, she heard music. Surprising: Len never put music on when she was alone, she liked to hear what was going on around her. Then Robin heard her laugh.
She opened the door and dropped her bag. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi Mum, we’re in here.’
She’d expected Asha but when she put her head round the door, it was Austin sitting on the arm of the sofa, Lennie next to him, her hands full of the CDs that Robin hadn’t yet – and probably never would – get round to uploading to her computer. They were listening to the Velvet Underground, All Tomorrow’s Parties. Lennie’s cheeks, Robin couldn’t help noticing, were a bit pink.
‘Hello, Austin, how are you?’
He stood up and came towards her, hand extended. ‘I’m well, how are you?’
She shook his hand, thought Lovely manners, then felt about a hundred and forty. She didn’t remember him being so tall, he had to be six feet, and the height made him look even willowier. He was wearing black jeans, trainers and a white T-shirt that said Trump for Jail 2020. ‘Nice shirt.’
‘We can dream.’
‘Austin brought me back, Mum,’ Lennie said, as if she needed to explain. ‘I was about to call a cab but then he offered to walk with me.’
‘That was kind, thank you.’ Quite a long walk, she thought; the Appiahs were the other side of Moor Green.
‘I was only staying until you got home,’ he said.
‘Well, don’t rush off unless you need to. I’m going to have a glass of wine – long day.’ She pointed stagily to the door then beat a retreat to the kitchen.
Interesting, she thought, as she took a glass from the cupboard, very interesting. So he liked her as well. Well, of course he did, Len was brilliant and yes, she was biased, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true – she was clever and funny and engaged, already a person of character, a million miles from some of these insipid teenage girls who didn’t have a word to say for themselves and sloped around with hands hidden inside their sleeves as if to signal their lack of agency in the world. She was lovely-looking, too. Only the other day, she’d noticed a twenty-something bloke ogling her bottom as she leant into the freezer in Tesco. Robin had given him a death-stare and he’d thrown a bag of oven chips into his basket and fled. ‘She’s fifteen!’ she’d only just stopped herself yelling.
But Austin was seventeen, which, at that age, felt like a big developmental leap. A leap over the age of consent. No: she put up a mental hand; don’t think about that tonight, enough for one day. But she’d have to think about it soon. Fifteen – Len was a baby. But, Robin reminded herself, she’d only been six years older when she’d got pregnant with her.
Quietly, she moved towards the door. She listened and heard their voices over the music, hers then his, something about Lou Reed and Iggy Pop. She was assailed by a sudden wave of nostalgia, talking about bands and books with Samir when what they were actually saying with their traded snippets about Radiohead and Pulp and The Cement Garden was I like you, I like you, See how we’re on the same wavelength? I really like you.
And now her daughter was the teenager with the rosy cheeks talking about music with the dude she liked. Her turn had been twenty years ago and now she was standing in the kitchen alone.
She gave herself a mental shake and got out her phone where she found a couple of emails from the duty shift which distracted her until she heard footsteps coming down the corridor. They appeared in the doorway, Lennie first, Austin behind her, a good six inches taller.
‘We’re going to have a quick cup of tea, if that’s all right, Mum?’
‘Sure, of course.’
Len filled the kettle and Austin hovered nearby. Robin could almost feel the air crackling with their physical awareness of each other, the careful effort never to touch while also never moving too far away. Another pang of nostalgia – no, it wasn’t nostalgia, it was jealousy. She wanted to feel like that again with someone – well, someone who was actually available. The thought stopped her – what did that mean?
‘Mum,’ Lennie turned the kettle on and leaned against the counter, ‘have you heard about these “neighbourhood watch” groups? Not Neighbourhood Watch, Neighbourhood Watch, like the official thing, but these people doing night patrols?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘We saw one on our way over, these two guys in reflective vests, “Keeping Your Streets Safe”,’ said Austin.
His voice was deep, Birmingham-accented to about the same degree as Robin’s own was. Having grown up in London, Lennie had lost the accent she’d got from her when she started school and became self-conscious about it but over the past six months, Robin had started to hear traces of it again, a sing-song rise and fall in her sentences.
‘Where were they?’ she asked.
‘Off Russell Road.’
‘Hm, I wonder which one that is. The police actually fund some of them, as far as they are funded. They’re still community volunteers, they’re not paid for the work, but they get some financial support and they report anything they see. It’s basically a cheap way of giving people a sense that at least someone’s keeping an eye.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Lennie. ‘It gave me the creeps – they were all, like, I don’t know … puffed up with their own importance. Peacocks in high-
vis jackets.’
‘They mean well,’ Robin said. ‘People don’t feel as safe as they used to.’
‘Well, that’s definitely true,’ Austin picked up the bit of plastic Lennie had pulled from the top of the milk and wrapped it round his index finger. ‘Knife crime’s out of control.’
Robin nodded.
‘That’s not all the police’s fault, though, is it? There are other reasons. Mrs Appiah’s a social worker,’ Lennie glanced at Austin, ‘and they’ve had their budgets slashed, too.’
He leant against the counter next to her. ‘Some of the groups she worked with had to shut down completely – two of the after-school clubs and her youth group. A lot of kids relied on them and now they’ve got nowhere else to go so they’ve started hanging out on the street.’
‘Yes, that’s definitely a factor. It’s not just knives, though, or even physical violence. People want to protect their homes and property.’ She thought of Ben Tyrell whipping up his audience with the perceived threat to their PlayStations. Or their ‘womenfolk’, in the case of Manda Pryce’s neighbour.
‘You’ve arrested someone for the murders, though, haven’t you?’ Lennie asked. ‘I saw it on Twitter. This morning, when you left so early, you got him.’
‘We got him, yes, but …’
‘He didn’t do it?’
She shook her head. ‘Between us.’
‘So the real guy’s still out there.’
‘We’ve got other leads, lovely. We’ll get him. Or them.’ She was glad she sounded so confident.
‘I know,’ Lennie said. ‘And that’s why they piss me off.’
‘Who?’
‘These night-patrol people. I mean, I get what they’re trying to do, but it pisses me off when they say the police aren’t doing their job. Do they think you like it, not having enough staff to do the work? You work all the time, I hardly even see you, and then they say you’re not doing your job? Great.’
‘It’s bound to happen. When people feel threatened, they …’
Austin shifted, eyebrows flicking. ‘I wonder if it occurs to them that some people might feel threatened by them? I’m sure you’re right and most of them mean well, but there’ll be some who get off on the power and think they’re running some kind of, like, vigilante militia. At least with the police there’s some screening and accountability, and even then you get bent ones and racists …’ He seemed to remember who he was talking to. ‘No offence.’
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