The Stolen Girls

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘If she’s related to Frank Phillips.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Lynch.

  ‘The criminal. He fled to Spain a number of years ago.’

  Lynch wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘I hope she’s not related to that scumbag.’

  ‘Give me the address and I’ll go talk to the mother. Where’s Boyd?’

  ‘At your service.’ He walked into the office. Slung his jacket over the back of his chair, rolled up his shirtsleeves and sat.

  ‘What’s up?’ Lottie asked, raising an eyebrow. Boyd was never late. Ever.

  ‘Nothing. Couldn’t sleep in the heat. Then I couldn’t wake up after I eventually nodded off sometime around five.’

  ‘You need a woman,’ Lynch said.

  ‘You could be right,’ Boyd said.

  ‘Shut up, the pair of you,’ Lottie said. Stuffing the missing person report in her bag, she grabbed him by the elbow. ‘I think you need fresh air.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Mimoza’s eyelids fluttered open. She had no idea where she was. Her body ached and pain thumped through her head. She lay naked on a sheeted mattress, staring at the ceiling.

  Drawing her legs to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and rested her chin on her knees, like Milot did when he was sulking. Then the memories swamped her consciousness and despair threatened to overwhelm her. Diverting herself from her inner distress, she scanned the room. A locker, a red-shaded lamp and a teddy bear with a blue bow tie sitting forlornly on the glossed wooden surface. Washbasin with a dark towel on a rail attached to a wall. Heavy flowery curtains drawn closed, blanketing a window. The embossed velvet roses on the wallpaper appeared to be struggling to escape their thorny prison.

  She eased her aching limbs from the bed and investigated what might be behind the door of the wardrobe to her right. The only items it held were red and black sheer nylon negligees.

  Slumping back on the bed, she wondered what they had done with Milot. How could she survive without her son? If only she was sure he was safe, perhaps she could endure the life to which she had been condemned. Reality attacked her as brutally as the boots that had kicked her. She hoped Sara could care for Milot until she escaped from this hole.

  The room was hot but her skin prickled with goose bumps. This was not the first time she had been in a brothel, and hadn’t she been subjected to violent sex attacks in the centre? She’d endured such torture in Pristina, too, before she had been rescued, and then, when she’d thought she was safe and secure, she’d been abandoned, pregnant. Sighing, she tried to shut out the memory.

  She had thought about trying to report the abuse she’d suffered in the centre, but Kaltrina had warned her that things like that always got covered up and no one would believe her. Her only hope was the cryptic letter she’d given to the policewoman.

  She lay on the lumpy pillow and listened to the sounds of everyday life beyond her confined space. A train trundling along tracks in the distance, the joyful screeches of children in a playground far beneath her, and the slow drone of traffic. Was she still in Ragmullin? She didn’t know and didn’t care. She only cared about Milot. She thought again of the tall policewoman and prayed she hadn’t thrown her letter in the bin. But she knew she probably had.

  With trembling hands covering her eyes, willing strength into her body, Mimoza braced herself for what lay beyond the door, for who would walk through it, for what they were about to subject her to. Yes, she was ready for all that. But first she had to know her son was safe.

  A key rattled in the lock and the door shifted open.

  ‘Get up,’ said the woman from last night.

  ‘Where is my son?’

  ‘To you he is dead. To us he is an asset. Maybe someone like him as a bum boy? Now you shower.’

  Mimoza allowed herself to be led to a bathroom down a narrow hallway. As the water drummed against her bruised ribs, she vowed she would escape the clutches of the elephantine woman who stood sentry outside. Was she spying through a crack in the door?

  ‘Look all you want,’ Mimoza shouted, though she supposed her voice was drowned out by the water gushing from the shower.

  When a flabby arm grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to the ground, she still continued her internal mantra. I will be strong.

  Andri Petrovci woke up late. It was twenty minutes past nine. He’d forgotten to set the alarm. His boss, Jack Dermody, would have plenty to say. Slowly he rolled out of bed, his brain drumming a beat against his skull. He rubbed his shaved head with a trembling hand. Another night of turbulent nightmares.

  Turning on the tap, he heard the glug, glug of water slowly releasing before it flowed freely, splashing up against his naked torso.

  He washed his face free of the night and brushed his teeth. He dressed in his work clothes and left with a backward glance at his neat living space, quietly closing the door on his private world.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Lottie was familiar with Mellow Grove. Her last case had brought her to the estate a couple of times. Looking around, she concluded that someone in the council must have had an odd sense of humour when they named it.

  The Phillips house stood at the end of a terraced row, near a football pitch, the only abode in need of a coat of paint. The pebble-dash, probably once cream in colour, was now a weather-beaten brown. The curtains were closed.

  She pushed the rusted gate inward. The rectangle of lawn looked like a meadow awaiting harvest.

  ‘Could do with a bit of a clean-up,’ Boyd said. Lottie rang the doorbell. ‘It’s open,’ he added.

  She was about to reply when she noticed the door was indeed slightly ajar. Tentatively she pushed it inwards. Speckled green and grey linoleum covered the floor, faded white down the middle; the stairs were squeezed to the right, a multitude of coats overloading the banisters. The light was on. Probably from the night before.

  She ushered Boyd in and called, ‘Anyone home? Hello?’

  Hearing a cough from behind a door at the end of the short hallway, Lottie knocked and entered.

  ‘Mrs Phillips? I’m Detective Inspector Parker and this is Detective Sergeant Boyd. Can we have a word, please?’ She flashed her ID.

  The woman sitting at the table nodded and with a cigarette between tar-stained fingers beckoned for them to sit down.

  On the short drive over, Lottie had tried to imagine what type of mother could wait almost five days to report her teenage daughter missing. Now the answer sat in front of her.

  Clearing crumbs from a chair, Lottie sat, glancing quickly at her surroundings. Boyd remained standing. The kitchen was dim despite the fluorescent tube flickering overhead. Flies sizzled in the plastic shade. Oppressive heat accentuated the smell of rotting vegetables emanating from a cupboard below the sink – itself piled high with dishes caked in dried food. A swarm of fruit flies rose towards the light. Lottie couldn’t see any fruit.

  ‘So have you found the little wagon yet?’ Mrs Phillips poured a liberal amount of vodka into a pint glass. Without adding any mixer, she took a large gulp, burped, and sipped. She put down the glass, the shake in her hand clearly visible.

  ‘You only reported your daughter’s disappearance last night.’ Lottie counted to three, keeping her anger in check. ‘Why the delay? Can you fill me in on the details, Mrs Phillips?’

  ‘Call me Tracy. Details? Wha’ details?’ Her words slurred into each other.

  ‘When did you last see Maeve?’ Lottie fought off an urge to find a cloth and wipe down the table. She kept her arms firmly folded, away from the dirt.

  ‘My husband, the bastard…’

  ‘What about him? Is Maeve with him?’ Lottie hoped so, then the case could be stamped closed without the need to enter this hovel again. She was sure she heard something rustling around the bread bin on the counter.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Tracy said, ‘but everything is his fault. Left me when Maeve was seven years old, he did. Ten years I’ve been on my own with her. Did my best. Honest to God. Slaved
to bring that girl up well and how does she repay me?’ Her eyes glazed over as she gulped more alcohol. ‘She’s gone. Run away. Ungrateful little bitch…’ Hiccups obliterated the remainder of her words.

  ‘Where can I find your husband?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Some whorehouse in Malaga, I’d say.’

  So the girl’s father was the criminal who had fled the country. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  Struggling to remain focused on Tracy Phillips, Lottie’s eyes were constantly drawn to the chaos surrounding them. A pot, congealed beans on the rim, stuck out obliquely from the overcrowded sink. And the bottles… She counted eleven empties on the grey granite-type counter. Five half-full pasta sauce jars, one brimming with cigarette butts, within the menagerie of clutter on the table. Bolognese and cigarettes definitely didn’t mix, she decided. Wrinkling her nose at the acidic odour, she dragged her gaze back to the thin-jawed woman.

  As she watched Tracy through the smoky haze, a jolt shook Lottie. It was like looking through a skewed mirror at an image of what she herself had almost become in the months following Adam’s death. Drunk by midday, operating in a vacuum, normality disintegrating around her like the ash falling from Tracy’s cigarette.

  She had been pulled back from the brink, but she knew Tracy was precariously perched on the lowest rung of existence. Who was going to save her? Not Maeve, if she had indeed run away from this crumbling lifestyle.

  ‘She’s never been away this long before,’ Tracy said, lighting another cigarette from the one in her hand. She doused the first in the pasta jar. ‘Sometimes she stays with friends. Anywhere is better than here. That’s what she says.’ She swept her hand around the kitchen, trailing ash everywhere. ‘She was supposed to be back by now.’

  ‘When exactly did you last see her?’ Lottie felt her patience disappearing as quickly as her sympathy.

  ‘Friday morning. She went to school. She’s in transition year. Said she was staying the night with… Emily or someone. Sometimes she stays away longer, so I wasn’t really worried.’

  Too drunk to care, thought Lottie. This was like extracting teeth, but the molars visible in Tracy’s mouth convinced her the woman hadn’t seen a dentist in decades.

  ‘Today is Wednesday, for God’s sake! Why wait until last night to report it?’

  ‘I needed groceries.’ Tracy lowered her eyes, looking down at her shaking hands.

  ‘What?’ Boyd exclaimed.

  Tracy rose with a wobble and opened a cupboard. Empty. Lottie noticed the woman wore cheap cotton pyjamas and two-euro plastic flip-flops. She looked sixty but was probably closer to forty. Her dark hair was a tangled mass of grease, ragged unintentional dreadlocks, like Amy Winehouse without the eyeliner.

  ‘Your daughter normally shopped for you?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Yeah. I was out of… things.’

  Vodka probably, Lottie thought. Someone must have bought her the half-litre that stood on the table; she doubted Tracy Phillips had the energy to dress herself to go to the shops. Then again, she most likely ventured out in her nightclothes.

  ‘Vodka?’ Boyd sneered.

  Lottie glared at him.

  Turning her head away, Tracy sat down.

  ‘Did you ring Maeve?’ Boyd snapped. ‘I’m presuming she has a mobile phone.’

  Tracy doused her cigarette in the clogged jar, lit yet another and gulped her vodka, eyeing Boyd over the rim.

  ‘You think I’m a good-for-nothing drunk, don’t you? You’re right. But I do my best for that girl and now I’m reduced to this… this mess.’ She drank some more and looked up. ‘Anyway, the school rang me yesterday evening. That’s how I knew something was up. No matter what happens at home, my Maeve goes to school.’ Another deep inhalation and a cloud of smoke encircled them. ‘I’m ringing her every five minutes. Nothing. Her phone’s dead. I don’t know where she is.’

  Lottie had expected lots of tears. There were none. Tracy Phillips had probably used up her quota long ago.

  ‘Do you have a photo of Maeve?’

  Tracy handed over her phone. Lottie took in the pale face framed with long black hair on the cracked home screen. A tiny diamond stud adorned her nose. It could possibly be the dead girl. She showed it to Boyd. He nodded.

  Lottie said, ‘Can I send this to my phone?’

  ‘Fire ahead.’

  ‘Did Maeve ever have a kidney removed?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Jaysus! Why would you ask me that? No, of course not.’

  ‘We’re building a profile,’ Lottie said quickly, checking she had received the photo. ‘Another thing,’ she said. ‘I have to ask this. Could Maeve be pregnant?’

  Tracy’s eyes shifted upwards through the haze of cigarette smoke. ‘You bitch! Just ’cause I’m way below your class, you think my girl opens her legs for anyone. You can fuck off with your dirty questions.’

  Lottie said, ‘I’m not passing judgement. I just need to know everything about her.’

  Tracy slurped her drink and gave a resigned nod. ‘To answer your question, I don’t know.’

  ‘Her room, can I see it?’ Lottie hoped the girl was neater than Tracy. ‘Has she a computer?’

  ‘A laptop,’ Tracy said, pointing to the stairs. ‘Her door says “Keep Out”. Not too original, my Maeve.’

  ‘Does she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘If she does, she didn’t tell me.’

  ‘So you’re not sure?’

  ‘I can’t be sure, can I? What mother can be?’

  Indeed, thought Lottie, following Boyd out of the depressing kitchen and up the stairs.

  * * *

  Unlike the kitchen, Maeve’s room was clean but untidy. Like any normal teenager’s bedroom, Lottie thought. Tracksuit bottoms turned inside out, along with a collection of underwear, crowded the floor. A single bed, plain cream duvet thrown back as if the girl had just rolled out. Dressing table overflowing with perfume bottles and tubs. Make-up, every shade of eyeshadow and eyeliner.

  ‘Twenty-seven,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Twenty-seven what?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Bottles of nail polish. This girl likes her nails.’ She continued counting. Five perfumes and six body sprays. A flowery scent hung in the air. Lottie inspected a tin. Impulse, Forest Flowers. She sprayed it.

  Boyd said. ‘Spray a little around the kitchen, will you?’

  Jackets hung from the back of the door, jeans jumbled up on the floor. Lottie flicked through the hangers in the wardrobe. School shirts, skirts and a few blouses. Right at the end, a dress, hanging in a clear zipped cover, appeared out of place. Extracting it, she held it up.

  ‘Bit fancy for a seventeen-year-old.’ Boyd raised an eyebrow at the garment swinging in Lottie’s hand.

  ‘Seventeen-year-olds have unusual tastes,’ she said, thinking of her own girls’ multicoloured clothes. She unzipped the plastic.

  ‘Wow,’ Boyd said, stepping closer.

  The fabric flowed out of the wrapping, blue silk, bling-studded bodice, halter neck.

  ‘One hundred and fifty euros,’ Lottie said, inspecting the label swinging from the waist.

  ‘How could she afford that?’ Boyd flicked through the remainder of the clothes.

  ‘Perhaps someone bought it for her.’

  ‘Or she stole it.’

  ‘Boyd, you don’t even know the girl. How can you make such an assertion?’

  ‘I’ve seen the mother.’

  Lottie shook her head. ‘Maeve might have a part-time job. I’ll ask when we go downstairs.’ She hung the dress back in the wardrobe, but first she plucked off the label, put it in a small plastic evidence bag and popped it in her pocket.

  She found the laptop under a pillow on the bed. It was a cheap model, charging.

  ‘Dangerous,’ she said, unplugging it from the socket. She put the small computer into her bag.

  ‘You can’t take that,’ Boyd said.

  ‘I’ll ask the mother.’

  A chair piled high with clothing reveal
ed a stack of paperbacks beneath. Wedged halfway down, Lottie noticed a card sticking out. A birthday card. To Maeve, love Dad.

  ‘Her father’s still in contact with her,’ she said.

  ‘I reckon she’s with him,’ Boyd said, shutting a drawer noisily. ‘I’d fly the coop to escape this hellhole too.’

  ‘This hellhole, as you call it, is her home and is probably preferable to a life of crime with her dad.’ Why was she defending Tracy?

  ‘Come on,’ she said, placing the card in a plastic evidence bag. Just in case. ‘I want to ask Tracy about that dress.’

  * * *

  Lottie nudged Tracy Phillips.

  ‘Wha’? What d’ya want?’ Tracy squinted. ‘Oh. It’s you. Still here?’

  ‘Can I take Maeve’s laptop to have a look at it?’

  ‘Why’d you want it?’

  ‘Just to run a check on it. Might tell us where Maeve is.’

  ‘Suppose it’s okay so.’

  ‘There’s a new dress in her wardrobe. Any idea where it came from?’

  Tracy sat up straight, looking from Lottie to Boyd. ‘Dress? She must’ve bought it.’

  ‘It’s expensive. Where would she get the money? Her father? Has she a part-time job?’

  Tracy seemed to struggle with what Lottie was saying. Too many questions at once?

  ‘She hasn’t got a job, but maybe I don’t know my girl very well.’

  ‘I’ll need to talk to her friends.’

  ‘What friends?’

  ‘Maeve’s friends. Do you have any names?’

  ‘Emily… something. Works in the Parkway Hotel after school.’

  ‘Do you want me to assign a family liaison officer to stay with you?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘I’m fine on my own.’ Tracy rested her head on her folded arms on top of the greasy table and promptly fell asleep.

  Shutting the door behind them, Lottie wondered how long it would take for Tracy Phillips to self-destruct.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Lottie dropped off Maeve’s laptop at the station for analysis and instructed a trace to be put on the girl’s phone. She wasn’t sure if Maeve was actually missing, but at least they could put a report out on social media. Someone might know where she was. She printed the photo from her phone and enlarged it on the photocopier. Holding it up to the death-mask photo of the murder victim, she squinted to see if there were any similarities.