by A D Davies
She winked at him. “That’s why I disengaged it as soon as I bought the car. Us short-arses have to make these little adjustments. And don’t look like that. Yours still works.”
“That’s not the reason I gave you a look. You’re short enough to be cute. Try being a lanky beanpole all your life.”
“Aw, diddums. Would ickle Donny Murphy like a hug?”
The grumpy DI almost smiled. “How the hell do you get away with that?”
“With what?”
“This silly little girl act.”
“This is an act?”
“It must be. No one’s as cheerful as you. Not unless they’re medicated. Legally, or otherwise.”
“So because I choose to be happy rather than sad, this is a bad thing?”
“In your case? Yeah, a bit.”
“Oh, you’ll get used to it. On average, it takes five stages. First, disbelief that moi could possibly be considered one of the best in my field. Then the second stage is irritation. But when you see how useful I am, you’ll reach stage three: acceptance. Stage four is reliance, and stage five is collaboration, where you actively want me around. I don’t do this consciously, though. I’ll just be my cheery self. You’ll fall in love with me and the change in you will happen all by itself.”
Murphy pulled a jolly serious face with a seriously serious frown. “You don’t choose whether you’re happy or not.”
“Actually, you do. Everyone knows how body language betrays what you’re feeling, that if you’re amused you smile or laugh, if you’re angry you look … frowny. Grumpy, you look like, well, like you. But it works the other way too. Smile. Try it right now. Smile for thirty seconds and I guarantee no matter how miserable or grumpy you are you’ll feel better at the end of that thirty seconds.”
“It’s the next left.”
She turned, obeying both Murphy and the satnav. “Smile, Donny-boy. Look.” She smiled for him. “Not hard.”
“Pull up here.”
She parked and turned off the engine, opened the door and got out. Murphy did the same and leaned on the roof.
Alicia mimicked him and said, “Before the end of the day, I will make you smile.”
“If we find Katie Hague by the end of the day, I’ll definitely smile.”
“Nuh-uh. Ten pounds. You’ll smile, regardless.”
“No tickling?”
“No tickling.”
“Make it twenty,” he said.
“Fine. Twenty. Now which one is Mr. Hague’s?”
“Go easy on him. He’s a widower, raised Katie alone for the past ten years.”
“Hey, who’s the psychologist here?”
“Just don’t bloody tell him to smile.”
Richard Hague lived with Katie in a nice semi in the Shadwell area of Leeds, a place where the moderately well-off and stinking-rich live side-by-side. Older than her by a fair distance, he was still a good-looking fellow; not Ryan Gosling good-looking, more Robert Downey Jr. or Pierce Brosnan. Mid-to-late forties, she guessed, early fifties at the outside. She could have checked, but decided to guesstimate for the fun of it.
Murphy had phoned ahead and told Mr. Hague about the Serious Crime Agency, how they mostly dealt with organised crime, not the murder of individuals. But Murphy insisted—as much to reassure himself as Mr. Hague, Alicia supposed—that Katie was not a murder victim. She was a kidnapping. And since the SCA dealt in kidnappings, albeit usually for ransom, they were putting their best man on it.
Detective Sergeant Alicia Friend was now their best man.
“What a pretty name,” Mr. Hague said, gently shaking her hand.
The instinctive comment made Alicia smile, without forcing it this time. No wife in the picture, but clearly not attached either. He wasn’t coming on to her, she was sure of that, but Mr. Hague was only human after all.
“Sorry,” he said, and sure enough, the skin beneath his eyes bloomed a little rosier.
“Don’t be sorry.” Alicia took a deep-cushioned seat in his warm living room. “It is a pretty name. I like my name.”
“Mr. Hague,” Murphy said. “I’m really just here to advise you that Detective Friend is now collaborating with us. She has an excellent record in the Serious Crime Agency and I’m sure we’ll make progress soon.”
Richard Hague nodded.
“You refused the offer of a family liaison officer,” Alicia said. “I’d like you to reconsider. They can be extremely helpful in keeping you informed—”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me as soon as you know anything. DI Murphy’s communication has been more than enough. I’d rather be alone for now.” Mr. Hague’s mouth tightened.
Alicia thought, He doesn’t want a police officer to see him at his weakest. Must keep this as business-like as possible. For his sake.
She said, “I could do with a look at Katie’s room.” She felt bad saying that because she worried she’d have to lie to him in a moment.
“Why is that?” Mr. Hague asked. “It’s not like she’s run away or anything.”
Damn. Now for the lie.
She said, “I like to get a feel for the person I’m fighting for.”
He seemed to like that. Fighting for his daughter. Yeah. Alicia would be fighting. But she didn’t really need to get a feel for her in order to operate. That was the lie. The truth was something she didn’t like to talk about, not to a victim’s parent.
“Okay,” Mr. Hague said. “Right this way.”
He carried himself well. Not too tall, but erect. Certainly, next to Mr. Hague, DI Murphy seemed positively shabby. Murphy, despite his height, tended to slump in his walk, while Hague strode.
In Katie’s room, Alicia tried to keep her face neutral. Mr. Hague stood at the door. His shoulders blocked it so Murphy couldn’t get through.
“Do you need to be alone?” Mr. Hague asked.
“No, this is fine.” Alicia sat on the bed. She lowered herself to Katie’s pillow and breathed in. Unscented. She lifted a small teddy bear from the pillow, too small to cuddle, but enough to have close by.
“Her mother’s,” Mr. Hague said.
Alicia nodded and replaced the bear. She stood and took in the dresser and its wide mirror: makeup, lipsticks, a hairbrush. There were clothes strewn on the floor, nice ones. Miss Sixty jeans, FCUK crop-top (FCUK football—what about me?), a black Donna Karen dress dangling from the bookcase, still on its hanger, a class above the other clothes.
“She was meeting a man,” Alicia said.
Mr. Hague’s hands found their way to his trouser pockets, and he slouched. It didn’t suit him. He should hold his shoulders back, like when his subconscious was flirting with Alicia.
He said, “We got on okay, but we didn’t share stuff. I guessed she had a boyfriend, but I don’t know much about him. She said she was going out with friends. That’s all.”
“Brian,” Murphy said to Alicia. “His name is Brian Dawson. We eliminated him as a suspect.”
She detected an air of one-upmanship, Murphy eager to remain in charge.
Fine. Let him have it.
She opened the closet and examined Katie’s wardrobe. Lots of jeans, a few smart tee shirts, an old England rugby shirt with WILKINSON on the back. Alicia ran her hand along the lettering. “Aww, she likes our Johnny.”
“Rugby,” Mr. Hague said. “One of the few things the two of us enjoyed together.”
His head bowed and Alicia knew—God, she got sick of “just knowing” sometimes—that he was holding back tears.
She said, “You talk in the past tense.”
“Hmm?”
“Mr. Hague, you talk in the past tense. Katie had a boyfriend. You got along fine. Has DI Murphy not told you that if this is the same person who took the other girls, he keeps them for up to a week before—”
“I told him,” Murphy said.
Alicia stepped closer. “Mr. Hague, do you understand that Katie is in all likelihood still alive?”
Richard Hague came fully into h
is daughter’s room and held Alicia’s hand. He smelled clean, without scent. Like Katie. Tears sat in his eyes, like raindrops about to fall from the branch of an oak.
He said, “Do you have children, DS Friend?”
Something bitter caught in Alicia’s throat as she replied, “No. No I don’t have any children.”
“Me neither,” Murphy said.
Mr. Hague sat beside Alicia. “It’s hard to explain. But I suppose … if I think of her as already dead, it’ll be easier for me when they find the body.”
Alicia did not want this. She needed Mr. Hague to be strong.
“I lied to you,” she told him. “When I said I needed to get a feel for Katie.”
Mr. Hague smiled without humour. “I thought there was something fishy about that line. Bit too Hollywood.”
That surprised her, but she said nothing. A prompt for someone else to fill the silence.
“And I didn’t think you needed stoking up,” Mr. Hague said. “I can see it in you, Detective Friend. You’re determined.”
“And how, exactly, do you see this?” Murphy asked.
“I used to be a salesman.”
“Ah,” Alicia said. Then to Murphy, “Best psychologists in the world. A good salesman can read a person,” she clicked her fingers, “like that.”
“I spent ten years flogging alarm systems in the States. Proper yuppie, I was. I set myself targets and met them. Every time. Made a fair bit of money, but I missed England after a while. The States were too … I don’t know … it’s not the best place to raise kids. Not with all the gun violence.”
“And that’s what you wanted? Kids?”
“Gillian and I wanted a million of ’em. We had Katie and then a couple of years later Gillian got sick. She got better again, relapsed. Went on for years. She lasted until after Katie’s fourteenth birthday, but … well, she couldn’t fight it forever.”
Alicia wanted to reach out and touch him, to reassure him that people cared, that she cared. She couldn’t allow him to lose his daughter, to experience that pain again.
“Sir, let me explain something to you.” She went to the pillow. “Katie has no real vanity. Unusual for a twenty-two year old these days. She is clean, but she doesn’t primp and preen.” Alicia gestured to the clothing and the dressing table. “She likes to look good, but isn’t really into fashion. If she hadn’t been meeting Brian she’d have worn the jeans and French Connection top. The designer dress was too over the top, so she went mid-way. That shows she’s sensible, Mr. Hague, and not given to impulse.”
He sat up straight, the slouch now tucked away.
“What’s her favourite movie?” she asked.
“Raging Bull.”
“And intelligent too. That’s a thinking person’s movie. Bet she hates Rocky films.” Alicia saw in Mr. Hague’s eyes she was correct. “Katie doesn’t go for pulpy fiction, no Mills and Boon or chick-lit. It’s Hemingway and Paulo Coelho and the like on these shelves.” She sat next to him and held one of his big hands in both hers. “Mr. Hague, I’d be willing to bet real money that she’s the type of person who, if she’s afraid of heights she climbs the Eiffel Tower or goes skydiving, right?”
Mr. Hague showed a glimmer of a smile at last. Alicia all but heard Murphy’s silent tut. Hague said, “Swimming. She’s a poor swimmer, but she’d always go in the pool. Or the sea.”
“But never without supervision?”
“Never. She’s asthmatic too, so she needs her inhaler nearby.”
“See? She’s sensible. Now in my experience, the sort of people I think we’re dealing with always talk to their…”
She nearly said “victims”.
“They talk to their captives. And if Katie is half the girl I believe her to be, she’ll last as long, if not longer, than the others.”
One corner of Mr. Hague’s mouth turned up.
“That’s it.” Alicia poked the other corner so he displayed a full smile. “Mr. Hague, to coin a cliché, it’s not over until I say it’s over. And until then, I want you to hope. Pray if you pray. But you should try to keep your spirits up no matter what. Watch DVDs, have a drink if you like—”
“I’m teetotal,” Hague said.
“Whatever. Do what you do. And besides, you know what Mr. Hague?”
“What?”
“You have a nice smile. Try and keep it.”
This time, Murphy’s tut was not silent.
Chapter Four
Richard Hague thought the grumpy bloke and the dizzy-sounding blonde would never leave. They asked question after question, about Katie, about her friends, about Brian. Brian. The lad who’d been keeping Katie out ’til all hours, sometimes all night—a pipsqueak, not now, not ever good enough for his little girl. And they asked about his own whereabouts and habits, and what he was doing to stay positive. He lied effectively enough about that last thing.
He was impressed by the man—Murphy’s—professional manner and words when they met yesterday, and although initially he was less than impressed by the sergeant with the pretty name, she’d shown a rare intelligence that gave him more hope than the bloke did.
Plus, she was really cute. Not something he noticed too often; each woman he met he compared them to Gillian and found they simply did not match up. Alicia hadn’t matched Gillian for raw passion, not that he could tell so far, but she more than competed in the intelligence department and … what was that thing he could never pin down? That don’t-give-a-shit-ness Gillian put out there. Looks-wise, Sergeant Friend was a different animal, like comparing wolves and tigers. Both prized trophies but with very different rewards.
Sexist bastard, Katie would say. If she could read his thoughts. Measuring women like property, as if you can tick boxes on a comparison site and decide which is the most worthy of attention.
He decided to stop thinking about this.
With Katie missing he should be concentrating on her, not his confused feelings for women who were not his dead wife. He made it through lunch without eating, and the rest of the afternoon, snacking, drinking coffee, checking his phone for missed calls from the police. He even considered taking them up on the offer of a FLO—a family liaison officer—if only to know for sure he’d hear of new developments as soon as they were confirmed.
He paced a lot.
He tried to watch TV, but drama, documentaries, some dark movie … all drifted before him without sinking in.
The only phone calls he received were from family members and friends he’d contacted the previous day, all asking politely if Katie had shown, with Richard only able to reply with lies.
She’ll be okay.
I’m sure she’s fine.
Just blowing off steam somewhere.
By the time the sun disappeared behind the neighbours’ houses, Richard’s need to do something—anything—made his hands clench and unclench over and over. And he paced some more.
A drive.
Yes, probably a good idea, to clear his head, occupy his thoughts.
He put on a jacket and went through his kitchen and into his two-car garage. His silver Merc stood next to Katie’s blue Corsa, not quite touching, but close.
Katie couldn’t park properly for toffee.
He changed his mind about the drive.
Instead, he popped the boot and lifted the spare tyre and took out a small pouch manufactured in smooth black leather, about A4-sized with a zip down one side, like you might use to carry an iPad or compact laptop. He slipped it under his arm, replaced the tyre, and closed the boot.
Outside, walking in the chill evening, he considered his situation: a father and husband, his wife dead of cancer, an unstoppable killer if ever there was one, and his daughter, his only child, snatched off the street and held by a man with some sort of control issue. Doing things Richard could barely think about.
No sexual assault.
That’s what Alicia said, what Sergeant Friend told him before she left. But he couldn’t be sure that was true.
He brought a younger Katie here for the Rugby World cup final, the year England won it Down Under, and the landlord hadn’t cared. What age was she? Ten? Eleven? Her mom was still alive, but tired, too tired for a trip to the pub. But Richard wanted Katie to experience a big-game atmosphere outside of their living room, and he still pictured her goofy smile, eyes wide, as Johnny Wilkinson kicked the winning drop-goal and her screams at the final whistle, bouncing on the seats along with the drunks and her sober father. A sober father who wanted to drink so much back then; a celebration, a quick lager, nothing much … but he resisted.
It was his toughest one-day-at-a-time since his first one.
Now, entering the bar of the Red Lion, he felt that urge again. Football streamed on the big screen, a game in which this lower-league supporting pub held no real interest, except one group of young lads who thought following a team meant picking the most successful one. So the regulars, those round-of-belly / thin-of-hair blokes drinking Black Sheep bitter, analysed the racing pages and avoided eye contact with Richard—a stranger who entered their domain.
“Glenmorangie,” Richard said to the barman. “And a diet Coke on the side, please.”
The barman delivered and Richard sat at the end of the bar. He sipped his Coke. The barman watched the match. And Richard wondered what he would do if one of the men here slapped a hand on his shoulder and told him he’d release Katie for a small fortune. Or in exchange for Richard’s own life. He’d thought many times over the past hours that he would gladly swap places with her—what father wouldn’t?—but it was never going to be an option. All he could do was sit and wait, and maybe…
He lifted the single malt to his lips and sniffed. The ten-year-old whiskey burned gently in his nose and the back of his throat, mere vapours reawakening memories of America, of his time on the road, of loneliness and drinking himself to sleep so many nights. And he remembered the one thing more pleasurable than drinking.