Badger forgot to mention she wasn’t the girl’s mother. Lily’s mother died when she was three-years-old. Her father remarried when she was seven, it appears she and the new Mrs Probisher didn’t get on. I’m surprised no one from the girl’s school flagged this up. She said she couldn’t be of more help then put the phone down.’ Sam looked across at her. ‘So, it looks like our first question for Veronica when she wakes up is where is the real Lily Probisher? Here’s hoping there’s not another dead body hidden somewhere.’
Mel nods her head as she chews the last bite of the sandwich.
‘It’s hard to believe the father never tried to find her. Surely…’ She shakes her head. ‘I sometimes wonder why some people have kids. What about the brother? She might have kept in touch with him. Where’s he?
‘Apparently, he lives in New York. I got his number off her though she complained like hell. I wonder if he wanted to get away from mummy and daddy, too.’
‘I’d like you to get yourself down south to see the Probishers. Afterwards, give the brother a ring and see what he can tell us about his sister.’
‘Do I have any choice?’ He’d arranged to take his wife out for dinner.
She smiles, shakes her head. ‘Not really, take this one, it’s faster,’ she hands him the keys. ‘Make sure you talk to Mr Probisher. Don’t come back without his side of the story.’
‘Yes, Boss. There is one thing, I can’t see him disowning his daughter, surely, she’s the one thing he’s got that reminds him of his wife. It’s not like they divorced, she died.’
‘I’m wondering whether the new Mrs Probisher actually told her husband what was happening. Maybe the girl was a bit of a shit, caused too much trouble, maybe they thought they were better off without her in their lives. Addicts can make life very difficult.’
‘Well, I thought I’d check it out, nevertheless. Thought I’d see if I could find any friends of Lily’s whilst I am down there.’
‘Good thinking, Batman,’ a wide grin spreads across Mel’s face. ‘Don’t forget to liaise with the local team while you’re there. Just in case.’
She gets out of the car, runs across the car park, disappears into the building just as Sam catches the crotch of his trousers on the handbrake as he slides over into her seat.
40
My head hurts, at the back. It’s sore. I try to move it, just a little. I can’t.
They’ve changed the stinky stuff. What’s the name for it? Disinfectant, that’s the word for it. It smells of oranges.
I can hear voices. This near one sounds foreign. I wonder what my voice sounds like? There’s someone singing. This little piggy… am I small?
The phone jangles. I hear that voice again. The foreign one, she’s mumbling. They’re going to bring her out of the coma, soon. That’s what she’s saying.
Is it me? Have I been in a coma? No, I haven’t, I’ve been awake. It can’t be me.
I can’t move, I’m strapped down. Just like before. I wanted everything to be over. Why isn’t it? She promised me it would be. That nasty bitch who fried me. My eyes won’t open. They always open without me thinking. Why won’t they do that?
Maybe I’m dead and this is hell.
‘Still asleep then ma girl,’
That voice again. A northern accent. Lancashire, Yorkshire, maybe some Caribbean.
‘Yer poor girl, that bang on yer head must have hurt, don’t yer worry though, they’ll catch that man that did it.’
What man? The memories tangle, untangle, then tangle again. Are you talking to me?
‘And that policewoman, she’ll be back to talk to you.’
The woman is touching me, I try to pull away. My brain’s not working, nothing moves, the woman strokes my hand.
‘She’ll find that bad man that ran yer down, she will. She’s that sort. I like her.’
I don’t remember being knocked down, I don’t remember any man. The woman runs her fingers across my cheeks, I smell patchouli oil on her skin. I don’t like it.
Grab her hand, push it away, grab it! Why the hell won’t my body do what I want it to?
Everything hurts, I can’t move my legs. Why did he run me down? What did I do to him?
I’ve done something wrong. I can feel it inside of me. I’m sorry! I’m sorry!
Whatever it is, I’m sorry!
‘Anyway, ma darling, that nice physio is going to come and see you later, she’ll get yer muscles moving.’ She shuffles away, her shoes flip-flop.
‘Hello, ma love, it’s Carmela. How are yer my sleeping beauty? I’ve just come on duty and thought I’d come and say hello to ma girls first.’
His footsteps, I can hear his footsteps.
He’s found me again.
41
Thomasine jabs at the buttons; the burglar alarm makes a dah duh sound then goes silent. Her back against the front door, she rubs her forehead with her fingers. A rabble of press had been outside; she’d pushed her way through.
She’d left Rosie at the hospital, eyes half closed, slumped in a chair.
‘I’ll be alright,’ she’d stretched her neck. ‘Honestly. Go home, get some sleep.’
The letterbox rattles against her hips, a card drops down onto the pile of mail by her feet.
‘Thomasine, Amanda Palmer,’ the rasping voice peppered with the stink of cigarettes. ‘Sunday Record… I just want to give you my condolences.’
Thomasine raises her foot, kicks back at the door, someone lets out a cry, she hears the scuff of heels on the doorstep. A hard smile crosses her face. She looks down at the floor. Sympathy cards, utility bills, a reminder that her car tax is due, business cards with notes scribbled on them. She kicks them away from the door, leaves them where they landed.
The hallway is airless, cold, the other downstairs rooms aren’t much better. She switches on the gas fire in the living room, overrides the central heating system so it comes on. She does all the things she normally does when she gets home. Except for the curtains, she leaves them drawn. She fills the kettle, goes through the routine of making a drink, opens the fridge door, pulls out a carton of milk, checks the date. It’s okay. Every now and then a voice shouts through the letterbox. Her phone pings with messages and voicemails. She ignores them all.
She has the feeling that she’s forgotten something, it niggles away at her – just out of sight. The last weeks have been a miasma of emotions, wanting to remember the best of her sister, yet only the worst bubbling up. There were good times, they did get on, it’s as though those memories have been washed out by a flood of negativity. The diary threw her into a tailspin, and then Veronica. Alive. She hadn’t expected that, none of them had expected that. Especially in the state that she’s in. An accident—that feels all too convenient. Had she tried to kill herself? Her sister’s case had been on the news, so that was possible. They’ve not caught the driver yet. The questions won’t leave her alone. Was it Karen’s killer? Was Veronica a witness? Had the killer managed to trace her? Was it a gang of them? Was Veronica in the gang? Was it a prank that went wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened. Adrenalin pumps around her heart, the muscles in her chest tensed. She needs to relax, to get rid of the stress.
She takes her mug upstairs, runs a bath, throws in some salts. She sits on the toilet seat drinking her coffee, waits for the bath to fill, that bothersome forgotten thing still worrying her.
She shrugs off her mother’s cardigan, casts off her clothes. The hot water steams the air, she sinks down into the bath, lies back, closes her eyes and falls asleep. Dreams.
Her head breaks the water, an all-nighter! She grabs a towel, wraps it around her, forgets to drain the bath. She scrambles downstairs, grabs hold of her phone. A rush of energy pulses through her as she flicks through the photographs. She lets out a hoarse laugh, bingo! There you are, she emails herself the photograph.
I should have remembered this days ago, I’m going crazy. Thomasine takes the stairs up to her office.
She unlocks the door, this room is her enclave, her place of secrets. There’s a hint of apples – air freshener. Everywhere is covered in a fine layer of dust, the result of weeks of inactivity. She switches on her PC. It makes a chundering noise as it loads up.
There’s a whiteboard to the right of the door, covered in newspaper articles, pictures, post-it notes, anything and everything to do with her sister’s case. Three rows of large white storage cubes line the wall to the left of her, laden with sky blue storage boxes, all bought from Ikea and assembled by herself.
Hidden from sight behind the locked doors of a large metal filing cabinet are four files. One for each missing girl. Karen Albright (aged 15) disappeared 7/1/1973, Veronica Lightfoot (aged 18) – disappeared 7/1/1973, Candy Wharton (aged 15) – disappeared 30/5/1980 and the final box was Charlie Arnold (aged 14) – disappeared 23/8/1987. Except for Veronica, each girl shared physical characteristics – long auburn hair, brown or hazel eyes, slender and around 5’7” in height, Charlie had been a few inches shorter, all had outgoing confident personalities. All of them disappeared into thin air. Thomasine shakes her head; they never simply disappear. It’s far more complex than that. All classed as runaways by their initial investigating officers.
Each box contains a complete copy of the set of the documentation currently held by her team. No one but her knows that these files exist. One of the joys of being on the Missing Persons Unit – an almost unbridled access to information. She can’t remember the exact point when she decided to set up her own incident room. Not on a whim, she’s sure of that. Probably when she kept getting the runaway story from the people who should have cared. Usually men, old coppers long retired but who still hung out in the local pub, downing whisky and regaling the good old days when political correctness didn’t apply.
She’d borrow documents, photocopy them at home, then take them back the following day. No one noticed the drip feed out of the door, certainly not the upper echelons, the higher-ups, the ones that had the big offices up on the top floor. It had taken her years to compile all that information, but for what? She’d never turned anything up in the intervening years. She cast her gaze around the room. All of this was for now.
She sits down at the desk, tries to clear her head. I’ll be right up shit creek if they decide to search this place. If they do she’ll have to call in some favours. A wry smile crosses her face. Mel Phillips owes her a few.
A sudden sense of urgency spurs her on. She logs on to her computer, accesses her private email account. Prints off a copy of the photograph she took of the nightclub flier – the one she found in Veronica’s teenage magazines, lays it down to the right of the keyboard. She flips her notepad open at a clean page. At least now she has a new place to start. Mindfully, she types in the words Golden Torch 1970s, then presses enter.
Her heart sinks. There are over hundred and forty thousand hits. She limits herself to the first twenty pages, screen-dumps page after page of website addresses. Ticks them off as she works her way through them. There are specific websites that advertise reunions, all-nighters in Manchester, Leeds, all over the northwest and as far down as Bristol. There are chat rooms, Facebook pages, Twitter accounts. Her stomach growls; she checks her watch. Three and half hours have gone by. She goes down to the kitchen, pings herself a readymade macaroni and cheese in the microwave. Washes it down with strong black coffee.
Then she’s back on the job again. The muscles of her back tight from hunching over the computer for hours, sifting through pages and pages of information, much of it completely useless. Back then it would have just been good old police work. No internet then, no national police database, no DNA, no HOLMES, no social media, no Missing People page on Facebook. She sits in envy for a moment, considers the resources that Mel Philips will have at her disposal. The resources she’d have if only they’d let her back in the office.
The muscles in her eyes ache from staring at the screen, from analysing each photograph, crowd scenes mainly. The Golden Torch, The Wheel, Wigan Casino, Blackpool Mecca.
Arms stretched out, heads flung back, spines flexing as they flung themselves up into the air. People looking on. Teenagers, most of them. Thomasine scrutinises every single human being, side on, in the shade, half hidden by someone’s hand, an eye peering out between two heads, a half-averted smile, the curve of a back.
Her mobile bursts into life just as she clicks the cursor to move onto the next image. It takes her completely by surprise. The photograph. She’s wearing false eyelashes, looks older, at least eighteen. He’s wavy-haired, the man behind her. his hands on her shoulders; an intimate gesture. Neither of them are smiling.
It’s Karen. She’d know her anywhere, even with all the makeup.
There in the centre of the dance floor, looking up at the photographer or at the DJ or whoever it was.
Her hand goes to switch off her mobile. She clicks on the website, it’s a chatroom. Her hands tremble with excitement. The photograph was posted six months earlier. The Golden Torch, October 1972. Jacky2422. Email me at jackymail2422.
42
Mr and Mrs Probisher sit together on the settee. She, in particular, hadn’t been pleased when Sam turned up on their doorstep unannounced.
The couple live in a leafy suburb, a double-fronted 1980s detached house – a soft top, silver Saab convertible on the drive. The colour had drained from her wan-coloured olive skin as he’d held up his badge in front of her. A short woman, she almost fell off her six-inch stiletto heels. Her eyes blinked in the harsh glare of the morning sun.
‘I’d like to have a word about your daughter, Lily Probisher.’
‘I’ve not—’
Her husband joins her on the step, Sam speaks over the woman’s shoulder.
‘Your daughter, Mr Probisher.’
‘What about my daughter?’ A flash of anxiety crosses his face.
‘My name’s DS Sam Ingleby. I spoke to your wife yesterday.’
A pinched look freezes on the woman’s face, she crosses her arms across her chest. The man’s voice hardens. ‘Move out of the way, Ingrid. DS Ingleby has travelled a long way, let him in.’ He steps back from the doorway and offers his hand as Sam noisily wipes his feet on the doormat. ‘Ralph Probisher. Did you say you were here to talk about Lily?’
Sam nods. ‘I did, your wife tells me that you’ve not seen or heard from her for many years.’ Sam found, in general, unexpected visits created unexpected results. And this was proving the case. His intuition tells him that Ingrid Probisher would have sent him on his way with a denial if her husband had not been stood directly behind her.
Ralph Probisher offers a weak smile, clearly shaken by Sam’s presence. ‘Tea?’
‘Thanks, long journey, that would be great.’
‘You’d best come through here.’ There is no warmth in Ingrid Probisher’s tone.
Sam follows her through to a large, heavily decorated room, dominated by an L-shaped white leather settee and marble fireplace. ‘Take a seat.’ She gestures towards the only single chair in the room. It matches the settee and, like the settee, is laden with black scatter cushions covered in silver sequined hearts. He takes the cushions off the chair and places them on the floor in an untidy pile. Ingrid Probisher gives him a look of disdain.
‘Bad back,’ he explains, easing his large bulk down in the chair. This isn’t true. He just wants to wind her up, unsettle her a bit. Sam glances around the room before taking out his notepad.
Ingrid Probisher seats herself in the corner of the settee, her dark red lips, painted in a cupid’s bow, purse like a prune, she crosses her legs one over the other, one high-heel pointing towards him like a weapon. She has deep lines running down either side of her cheeks. She keeps sniffing, as though there is something off in the room. Sam feels ill at ease; he’s met her type before, the aspirational middle class. Either that or she’s got a serious coke habit. Part of him wishes it were the latter, perhaps then he could arrest her. Now that would be fun, he thinks
to himself.
Ralph Probisher reappears moments later, a wooden tray between his hands, three cups of tea along with a plate of Jaffa cakes.
‘Thanks,’ says Sam as he takes a cup and saucer. He declines the Jaffa cakes, a small nod towards keeping diabetes at bay.
Ralph Probisher takes a seat next to his wife, the cup and saucer waver in his hand. He remains silent, a grey man, thinks Sam. A dark grey cardigan covers a pale grey shirt, open at the neck. Thick, grey, wavy hair is brushed back off his face, a shallowness of skin gives him the look of a man with the life sucked out of him. Dark grey eyes nestle under thick eyebrows. He is colourless, in contrast to his wife, dressed like a peacock in a bright turquoise knee-length dress. Something more suited to a cocktail party than knocking around the house. Sam balances the cup and saucer on his knee, a look of horror crosses Ingrid Probisher’s face. She rises to her feet, briskly crosses the room, picks up a small black lacquered side table and places it next to the chair in which Sam is sitting.
‘Oh, thanks,’ says Sam, placing the cup and saucer on top of it. He’s tempted to let his hand tremble a little just for the hell of it.
‘Lily was a bad influence, the drugs.’ She returns to her seat, her eyes focus in on him, she clears her throat. ‘Heroin—she hid it here in the house. Our son found it, he was only five-years-old at the time. God knows what could have happened if he’d swallowed it.’
She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller Page 18