The Overlooker

by Fay Sampson

  ‘Yes. What was she like? You must have been born in . . .’

  ‘In 1920.’ Tom had done the calculations first.

  ‘So she’d have been in her sixties, seventies, before you met her.’

  ‘You didn’t ask a lady’s age in them days. But she had white hair. Going deaf she was. Talked at the top of her voice. Of course, if you’ve spent your working life with hundreds of looms clattering and the steam engine going, it was either shouting your head off or learning to lip-read. Used to tell us how she worked in the mills from when she was a girl. Of course, we all did. I was a beamer. I used to spin the yarn on to rollers for the weavers. But I got to be an underlooker, first, then an overlooker.’

  ‘An underlooker?’ Tom seized on the word with relish. ‘Is that what you call someone who crawls under the machine to pick up the waste?’

  ‘No, lad. That’s a scavenger. Millie Bootle used to do that when she started. No, you’ve got your underlooker. He’s a sort of trainee foreman. And then there’s the overlooker. He’s the man that inspects every bit of cloth that comes out of the mill. And if it’s not good enough, you’ll not get paid for it. All the weavers used to fear him. He’d got your day’s wage in his power. Time was, when the overlooker used to beat the children, too, to make them work when they were falling asleep on their feet. And he’d have his underlooker helping him. You had to have an eye for it. I know good cloth when I see it. If there’s owt wrong with it, it was my job to spot it. But I’m glad to say, we didn’t have the young ’uns working in the mills when I were on the job.’

  Nick’s mind was racing with questions he would love to ask: about Uncle Martin’s work, about his parents and grandparents, and the memories Millicent Bootle carried with her into old age. Questions about life outside the mill, too: their homes, their pastimes, their food, the songs they sang. There was such achingly little time, and so much to tell.

  But he could not concentrate. His anxiety was growing. Why wasn’t Suzie here to listen to this? Had she found Millie in the shopping centre? Had she persuaded or scolded her into coming to the hospital? Thelma had said there was a bus every fifteen minutes from the town centre. Surely they should be here soon?

  He told himself he was panicking unnecessarily. They might be outside in the corridor, waiting their turn to see Uncle Martin.

  He was pushing down his worst fear. That Suzie had not been able to find their daughter. That, in the short time between lunch and their finding her note, something had happened to Millie. Millie had left the house alone. Someone had been watching. But surely Suzie would have rung?

  He felt the slight weight of his mobile phone in his leather jacket like an unexploded bomb. Of course, he had switched it off in the hospital. If Suzie was trying to get through to him, he wouldn’t know. He imagined her growing panic. Suddenly he had to get out of the ward. Somewhere where he could switch on his phone and make contact with her.

  ‘. . . Eh, they were good times.’ Uncle Martin was in animated conversation with Tom. ‘We never had much money, but you didn’t expect it. You learned to do without. Of course, there were the wars. Two of them. I was only a nipper then, but I remember Uncle Harold. He’d come back from the first one, gassed. He never could breathe properly after that. Died before he was forty. And then I got called up for Hitler’s one. Twenty-three, I was, and just married.’ His face clouded. ‘I was away four years. North Africa, mostly. I won’t tell you what I saw there. But it’s hard coming back to civvie life after that. We only ever had the one girl, Netta and me. Thelma. Still, she’s been a good daughter to me.’

  His voice was failing. Nick noticed a nurse hovering near. He started to rise.

  ‘It’s been lovely seeing you, Uncle. There’s so much more we’d like to talk to you about. But we’re tiring you. Why don’t we come back tomorrow?’

  ‘Suzie. You said she was outside. And your girl. Millie.’

  His short-term memory was not so bad, after all. Nick tried to smile. ‘I expect they’re waiting for us. I can send them in for a few minutes, if you’re sure it won’t be too much. That nurse is looking anxious.’

  ‘I’d like to see the girl. Millie. That’s a good old name. She was a bit of a character, Millie Bootle, as I remember.’

  There was no doubt his voice was fading now. Nick glanced at the nurse again. Would she let two more visitors see Uncle Martin? Supposing they were there.

  He pressed the thin old hand, feeling the knuckles through the loose skin. ‘Tomorrow. We’ll come and see you tomorrow. All of us.’

  He hoped desperately that he could make that promise good.

  NINETEEN

  Suzie and Millie were not in the corridor.

  A door led out into a gravelled garden with a fishpond. Nick’s mobile was in his hand before he stepped through it. Hungrily, he watched the little screen spring to life. He checked for messages. Nothing. No voicemail, no text. He tried to stifle his anxiety by telling himself that this must be good news. Suzie had found Millie. They were on their way. There was nothing untoward to report. At any moment they would be here.

  If Suzie arrived now, how would she find him here, in this secluded garden? Would she go straight past to the ward, or wait for him to appear in the hospital concourse?

  He was striding back towards the corridor, almost at a run, when a hand gripped his arm. His nerves were so on edge that he gasped.

  It took him a moment to realize that it was only Tom.

  His son stood looking at him with concern.

  ‘What’s up, Dad? Your nerves are shot to pieces. You’ve come all this way up here to see him, but half the time Uncle Martin was talking, you weren’t really paying attention. And what was all that about Mum and Millie not being here? You said it was a long story. Shoot.’

  It would be a relief to share it with someone else. Nick rubbed his hand over his face, trying to order his teeming thoughts.

  ‘It was our first day here. We had this queer experience. I thought I’d go over to Hugh Street, where my grandparents lived. Thelma said they had plans to demolish it, but she thought it was still there. And it was, but all the houses were empty and boarded up. At least, that’s what it looked like. Only . . . Oh, I forgot. Something happened before that. We met this woman. I guess she was from Pakistan or Bangladesh. Muslim dress. She’d collected her little boy from nursery school, and she was crying, but she wouldn’t tell us why. And then we got to Hugh Street, and I was just going to take a photograph and go away, when we saw a movement. Like there was someone inside. So I rang the bell. And the guy that answered looked at me suspiciously around the door, like he didn’t want me to see inside.’

  He could see Tom’s eyes brightening with excitement. Nick rushed on. ‘I’d been hoping he’d let us in for a last look round. But he clearly wanted to get rid of us. And then I saw another woman at the top of the stairs. Dressed like the first. The one we met in the street. And then she came along. The one who was crying. I could swear she was turning up to work because she was apologizing for being late. But the guy pretended he didn’t know her and sent her away. Then he shut the door in my face.’

  ‘Great stuff!’ Tom cried. ‘What did you think was going on there? A bomb factory?’

  ‘You watch too many thrillers. No, my guess is it’s something more prosaic. But still illegal. Probably a sweatshop, using vulnerable women on starvation wages. Unemployment’s rocketing here. That’s what the police think, anyway.’

  ‘Hang on, Dad. You’ve got a stereotype about downtrodden Asian women. They could be more proactive, couldn’t they? A terrorist cell?’

  ‘If it was, you’d expect the man at the door to be lot more subtle. And the woman we talked to didn’t look nearly as hard-bitten as that. She had a little boy. But here comes the really scary bit. Even before we had time to report it to anyone, I got this call on my mobile. A man’s voice. No number. He warned me not to go to the police. He didn’t just know my name, which I’d told to the guy at the door. The
re was a whole lot more. He’d got my mobile number, my architect’s qualifications. He was threatening not just me but my family.’

  Tom whistled. ‘But you did tell the police. Right?’

  ‘Of course I did. We went to the police station next morning. And at first the inspector seemed really interested. She had her own theory. It was a brothel, run by an international vice ring. I think she’s holding a brief for that sort of thing. You could tell she was really keen to catch them. Then, later that morning, I got a text message. All it said was “bad move”. Like he knew we’d been to the police. And there have been two more threatening messages since then.’

  He started down the corridor towards the hospital concourse. He would not be easy until he saw that Millie was safe. Tom’s long legs almost had to run to keep up with him.

  ‘So the guy knew you’d reported him?’

  ‘It looks like that. Of course, I got back to the inspector. But she’s gone cool on the whole thing. Seems they’ve got the house under covert surveillance but she’s ruled out the brothel thing. Handed it over to someone else. She didn’t think that text message meant what I thought it did. Just a follow-up to the first call. “Bad move” meaning our calling at the house, not going to the police. But I’m convinced someone’s following us.’

  ‘See? I wasn’t exaggerating. Who’s going to be that scary about a sweatshop? It’s got to be something worse.’

  ‘Millie was nervous about hospital visiting and when we came here yesterday, there were curtains round his bed. She thought he’d died. She didn’t want to come today. I thought we’d talked her round, but when it was time to leave this afternoon we found a note. She’s gone into town on her own. Mum’s gone to fetch her and bring her up here.’

  Tom gave a low whistle. ‘And they haven’t shown up?’

  They came in sight of the hospital concourse, with the reception desk and shop and the colour-coded trails to different departments.

  Nick scanned it eagerly. People were sitting near the doors, waiting for transport. Others were arriving, looking around for where to go.

  No sign of Suzie and Millie.

  Nick stopped dead. He felt the blood leave his face.

  ‘They should be here.’ He turned his troubled face to Tom, as if his teenage son could have the answer. ‘When Millie went AWOL after lunch, Suzie thought she knew where she’d be. There was a shop Millie had her eye on down in the shopping mall. Suzie said she’d find her and bring her here on the bus. That was more than an hour ago.’

  Tom tried to smile. ‘You know Millie. Perhaps she wasn’t where Mum thought. Or they’ve had a row and Millie is digging her heels in. Some people do get paranoid about hospital visiting, you know.’

  ‘But Suzie would have rung me. There’s nothing; no voicemail, no text.’

  He got his phone out again and speed-dialled her number. The wait seemed endless.

  ‘It’s switched off.’

  Tom took his elbow and steered him towards the coffee shop. ‘There’s got to be a simple explanation. This isn’t South America. People don’t snatch teenagers off the street. Mum knows you were in the ward with Uncle Martin. She’ll have guessed you’d have to switch your phone off. Why don’t we have a coffee while we wait for them? We can watch the door.’

  ‘She could have texted me.’

  ‘Probably in too much of a spin. Black coffee for you? If’s she’s chasing around town worried about Millie, she won’t be thinking too much about anybody else. She just wants to find my crack-brained sister and bring her up here to fly the family flag before visiting hours are over. Come to think of it, my sympathies for Millie are cooling. Uncle Martin was such a great old guy. Time she grew up.’

  He found seats for them at a table, facing the door. He fished his own phone out.

  ‘I just tried,’ Nick said. ‘She’s not answering.’

  ‘It’s not Mum I’m ringing. It’s Millie. I’m going to give the brat a piece of my mind.’

  Nick held his breath.

  Tom sighed and clicked his phone shut. ‘No joy. She’s switched off too.’

  Nick pushed his coffee cup aside. ‘I’ve got the car outside. I’m going down to look for them.’

  Outside the hospital, Tom stopped short when he saw the crumpled wing of his father’s car.

  ‘What happened? Had an argument with a stone wall?’

  ‘There’s a whole lot more I haven’t told you yet. I was convinced this Honda was following us. Turned out to be the local Baptist minister. But then we went out to Briershaw this morning, and there he was again. I have this nasty feeling that he’s mixed up in it somehow.’

  ‘And he tried to drive you off the road?’

  Nick flushed. ‘Not exactly. He left before we did. But I guess my nerves were shot to pieces. Let’s just say I misjudged a bend. There was this other car coming fast towards me. I didn’t quite make it.’

  He had a vision of that hooded cyclist turning to stare back at him through the windscreen. In triumph?

  He had hardly begun to tell Tom all his suspicions.

  They were halfway down the hill that led to the town centre beside the river and the canal. Nick was driving faster than he should.

  Tom glanced sideways at him. ‘Steady on, Dad. One crash a day is enough.’

  Nick’s phone rang. He snatched it out of his inner pocket. He was about to snap it open, on tenterhooks to know who was ringing.

  A car braked sharply in front of him. Nick just had the presence of mind to clamp both hands on the steering wheel and stamp on the brakes.

  Tom grabbed the phone from him. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick was aware of the look of alarm his son was giving him. For the next few moments, he tried to concentrate on the thickening traffic and remember his way to the central car park. The other half of his mind was all too alert to the conversation going on beside him.

  ‘No, it’s Tom . . . Never mind that. Where are you . . .? How long ago was that . . .? Look, stay where you are. We’re heading into the car park. We’ll be with you in a few minutes . . . Try not to worry. It’s probably nothing serious. We’ll sort it. Ciao.’

  Tom put the phone down on his knee. He looked at his father more gravely, as Nick manoeuvred into a parking space.

  ‘That was Millie.’

  ‘Millie?’ The car came to an abrupt halt. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In a café in the shopping mall. The Banana Tree? She says Mum rang her to say she was in the precinct and they agreed to meet there. That was forty minutes ago. Mum hasn’t shown up and she’s not answering her phone.’

  The two stared at each other in silence.

  At last Nick found his voice. ‘But I dropped her off here about twenty past two. Well, not actually in this car park. At the side of the road, at the other end of the precinct. She was going to check out that beauty shop where she thought Millie would be. If she was already in this area before she rang Millie, she would only have been a few minutes away from this café. How could she not turn up?’

  Tom’s voice was low, strained. ‘You’ve been worrying what might have been happening to Millie, on her own, after those threatening calls. Did neither of you think that Mum might be in just as much danger?’

  TWENTY

  The precinct seemed full of slow-moving people, with too much time and not enough money to make window shopping a real pleasure. Nick struggled to hurry through them, sometimes bumping shoulders in his haste. Tom seemed more agile, almost dancing through the shifting gaps.

  ‘Where’s this café?’ he panted, as their paths converged.

  ‘The Banana Tree. Over that shoe shop.’

  They found the narrow entrance and pounded up the stairs. Millie was sitting at a table by the window. Her head was turned away from them. The elfin face was silhouetted against the glass, with its crop of unnaturally blonde hair.

  Nick felt a rush of relief and anger. He had been so afraid for this vulnerable fourteen year old. Even now he found himself casting
around the café to see if anyone was sitting at a table alone, watching her. They looked like unremarkable shoppers, filling out the long hours over a cup of tea.

  But it was Millie’s folly that had led her mother into a trap.

  Tom got to the table first. Millie’s coffee cup was empty. She turned her head towards him with an almost wilful attempt to appear unsurprised.

  ‘Hi, there.’ She smiled at Tom. ‘How’s uni?’

  ‘Never mind the small talk. Where’s Mum? You said she told you to meet her here?’

  ‘She said she was in the precinct. She should have been here in five minutes, max.’ Her eyes went past him to her father. ‘Would somebody mind telling me what’s going on?’

  Nick slumped into the empty chair facing the window. ‘Sorry. It’s a long story. I have a nasty feeling someone’s following up on whatever was going on in that house in Hugh Street. I had a phone call warning me off.’

  ‘You never told me!’

  ‘No, well. I didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘Dad, is that true?’ Tom exploded. ‘Millie didn’t know? You let her come down here alone . . .’

  ‘I didn’t let her. She was supposed to be coming to the hospital with us.’

  Millie looked from one to the other in growing alarm. ‘You and Mum went to the police, didn’t you? You wouldn’t let me come in with you. That was it, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just that creepy man in the boarded-up house. You were going to tell them you’d had this threatening phone call. And you didn’t tell me!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. It never occurred to me you’d take off on your own.’

  Millie’s grey-blue eyes grew wider. ‘And you think Mum . . . She came here to get me and . . . she’s just, like, vanished?’ He watched the last blood leave her already pale face. ‘You think somebody’s got her, don’t you? Who?’

  ‘I wish I knew. I’ve no idea what all this is about. And I don’t believe the police do, either. They’d pretty well written Hugh Street off as some kind of illegal factory, breaking all sorts of laws, I don’t doubt, but it hardly seems to fit anything as melodramatic as kidnapping.’