Miss No One

by Mark Ayre

  He ignored her. “I’m an honest cop. Police officers I’ve looked up to have turned out to be corrupt, and it breaks my heart. Corruption makes me sick. It isn’t me.”

  Abbie didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Seconds after his comments, Ndidi’s eyes flicked to his feet, where lay the falsified statements. Whether he believed himself corrupt or not, at his feet lay evidence of a corrupt action he had taken.

  Leaning down, he grabbed the file. Slapped it to the desk and poked the cover as though ready to discipline it.

  “This isn’t what I want," he said. "I hate myself for this, but it turns out I’m weak, and I never would have guessed. Isn't that funny? I'm thirty-nine. You reach a certain age and think you've learned everything there is to learn about yourself. You must have; you stopped growing a long time ago. But there's always more—nasty secrets lurking in the background. Sometimes, one or two of your biggest character traits are concealed even from yourself. They hide, remaining dormant until, one day, something triggers them, and you realise something about yourself you never wanted to know. You know?"

  After examining the front of the file, Abbie turned her gaze to Ndidi.

  "One evening, a few years ago, I turned on the telly," she said. "First thing to come up was one of those crap reality shows that bring together a bunch of awful nobodies to complete some asinine, inconsequential task. This lot had to build a bridge, or a boat, or something. The task isn't important. They shove these people together so they can bicker and argue and screw each other over. Sometimes just screw each other. You know the kind of show I mean?"

  “Yeah," said Ndidi. "Not sure how it relates, but—"

  Abbie raised a hand. Cut him off. Wait, I'm getting to it, the gesture said.

  "I knew of such shows, but I'd never watched one. Why would I? They sound frightful. So the moment it comes on, I pick up the remote. I'm going to change the channel or turn the damn box off. I'm not much of a TV person, anyway. I'll work out, or read, or something else. So I take the remote, and I point it at the box and..."

  Abbie shook her head as though overcome by the memory. She was holding her hand up from the table as if clasping an invisible remote.

  "You're taking the mick," said Ndidi.

  Abbie pretended to be shocked. "No. I couldn't turn it off. I watched four episodes in a row. That day I learned I'm a reality TV addict. An unattractive personality trait, much like your desire to murder lanky people named Gary."

  "I was not—"

  Ndidi stopped himself. For a moment, Abbie had thought he was going to release an animal roar and toss the table across the room. Maybe he would have tried to murder her, even though she wasn't called Gary.

  He got ahold of himself. Placed his palms on the table and took a calming breath, but it had been close. Abbie had almost pushed him too far. She had to remember not to work against herself. Had to notice when harmless fun was becoming something that might lead to her being trapped behind bars for the next couple of days.

  Too long, in other words.

  Having calmed himself, Ndidi said, in a flat, measured tone, "I was never going to murder Gary. I understand why you’ve drawn the conclusions you have, but I’m not who you think I am. I lost my temper and made a mistake and these—“ he jabbed the file again, “—are not because I want a second chance to attack Gary. They’re because I can’t go to jail.”

  “Understandable,” said Abbie. “Cops don’t fair well behind bars for obvious reasons.”

  “It has nothing to do with me,” said Ndidi. “It’s all about her.”

  Opening his wallet, Ndidi ripped free a picture and slammed it onto the table, shoving it towards Abbie.

  “A couple of weeks ago, my wife of seventeen years walked out on me. No note, no warning, no nothing. One day she was there; the next; gone.”

  Before she knew what was happening, Abbie had lain a single finger on Ndidi's picture. Half expecting the detective to snatch it back, she slid the photo towards her. Ndidi did nothing.

  “This is your daughter?” said Abbie.

  “My beautiful little girl,” Ndidi confirmed. “Seven-years-old and motherless. So I’m not framing you and forcing you out of town because I’m scared for myself. I’m doing it because I can’t risk leaving my Isabella without a parent. I won’t. For that little girl, I would do anything.”

  Her heart rate climbing, her throat constricting, Abbie could do nothing but nod. At least at first. All her focus went into keeping her face blank—into showing nothing of what she felt beneath the surface.

  With a cough and a nod, Abbie managed to snap herself from paralysis and push the photo back to Ndidi.

  "She's beautiful," Abbie said. "You must be very proud."

  Nodding, Ndidi said, "She's the best thing I ever did. The best thing I'll ever do. I am proud, and I want to make her proud of me, too."

  "She will be.” Abbie paused. “Idrissa..." and stopped herself. Ndidi had been replacing the photo in his wallet. At Abbie's word, wrought with emotion—she had lost control for a moment—he paused, looked at her.

  "Yes?"

  Abbie didn't know what to do for the best. She'd let the fear slip in, which was stupid. Idiotic. Now her startled cry was out there she had to support it with something, but she didn't know whether it was best to tell Ndidi the truth.

  In the end, she couldn't stop herself.

  "I think your daughter might be in grave danger."

  There. It was in the world now—an unsubstantiated claim. And the worse thing was, Abbie couldn't substantiate it. Telling Ndidi she had dreamed of little Isabella was not likely to produce the result Abbie wanted. She had to think of something else. That shouldn't be too difficult. She'd been here many times before.

  "Ndidi," she began. The photograph of Isabella had disappeared. Detective Ndidi slipped his wallet back into his jacket.

  "You need to listen," said Abbie. Then someone knocked at the door.

  Ndidi didn't pause to ask Abbie to explain herself and fast. He didn't tell her he'd be back in a moment. Without a word, he rose, walked to the end of the interview room, and threw open the door.

  Another detective stood outside.

  “Moore. What is it?" said Ndidi.

  Abbie welcomed the distraction. It gave her time to consider how she was going to explain herself. How she could get Ndidi to trust her. Whether he was good or bad, his daughter would almost certainly be innocent, and Abbie needed to act.

  "We've been looking for you," said Detective Moore. "Forty-five minutes ago, we received a call from a residential property. They'd heard an altercation taking place at their next-door neighbour's. There were raised voices followed by something the caller believes to have been a gunshot. Then a speeding car. The caller missed the number plate."

  Abbie looked up. She had an idea of what she could say as soon as Ndidi returned to the table.

  "What do you need me for?" said Ndidi.

  "When the police arrived, they broke down the door and found no one inside except a girl in her late teens or early twenties. Currently unidentified, she'd taken a single bullet to the head. She must have died instantly."

  "I still don't understand what this has to do..." Ndidi couldn't continue. His throat was dry, his voice had been hoarse. In some way, he already knew.

  "The caller was your neighbour, Idrissa," said Moore. "We believe the deceased is your au pair."

  Abbie closed her eyes. Put a hand to her heart. She knew what was coming.

  "Your daughter..." said Moore. "Id, we believe the killers have taken your daughter."

  Nine

  Okay, so Abbie had made a mistake.

  There was utter silence in the room for several seconds. The detective at the door looked concerned, afraid. Abbie placed her palms on the table and planted her feet. She had the feeling she might need to move. Fast.

  For those first few seconds, Ndidi was statue still. Then, as though the words had been floating lazily through the air but had bee
n spurred on at the final second and smashed into their target, he staggered backwards.

  "Idrissa," said Detective Moore. "If we can just—"

  Mid-sentence, Idrissa Ndidi turned from his colleague, spinning towards Abbie, who didn't speak. Who sensed nothing she said would make this any better.

  Ndidi stared at her. A look of despair and confusion on his face. Abbie could almost see the two pieces of information in his mind, like hanging vines. Vine one was Abbie's warning; vine two the devastating news delivered by Ndidi's colleague. They hung there, but Ndidi was in shock. It took a few moments for him to realise these two vines tied together quite well.

  Then he did.

  Abbie saw the moment everything snapped into place. A serene calm draped Ndidi's face the instant he connected the dots.

  The serenity lasted less than a second.

  White-hot rage replaced it.

  Fury caught Ndidi as a flame will catch a firework. It burnt his fuse and sent him firing at Abbie like a rocket.

  There was a table between them. The table turned out to be no obstacle.

  Abbie had time to slide back her chair, still sitting, then Ndidi's hands were on her top. He was yanking her from the ground and dragging her towards the wall.

  "Id, what are you doing?" Moore stepped into the room, coming after the devastated father.

  Ndidi slammed Abbie against the wall.

  She said nothing. Did nothing. As Ndidi had approached, Abbie had noted the awkward way he moved. When he had lifted her, she had observed the way his arms struggled. When he had slammed her against the wall, she had recognised he wasn't holding back. She was in no pain because he didn't have the strength to smash her as hard as he would have liked.

  Conclusion: even when charged by rage, Ndidi was slower, less limber, weaker than Abbie. Had she wanted, she could have knocked his hands from her top and downed him in a second. Maybe two.

  She did nothing. She was in a police station and in enough trouble without assaulting the detective a second time.

  Ndidi pulled Abbie from the wall and shoved her back, squeezing her against the brick which lay beneath the paintwork and plaster. He did it again.

  It still didn't hurt.

  "Where is she? Where's Isabella?"

  The words were a desperate scream. Ndidi's fury was fire, but his fear for his daughter was rain, and it was coming down hard.

  "I don't know," said Abbie. Which was true.

  "Who's taken her?"

  "I don't know. I wish I knew."

  "Liar."

  Ndidi continued to slam Abbie against the wall, and it continued not to hurt. Though his sheer persistence was beginning to cause a slight ache around the shoulders and neck. As fear continued to dampen and put out his fury, Ndidi was becoming even weaker. Soon, Abbie wouldn't need to retaliate. Ndidi's hands would slip away. He would collapse.

  Moore arrived. He put a hand on Ndidi's shoulder and tried to remove his colleague from Abbie.

  "That's enough," he said. "Leave her alone."

  "She did this," said Ndidi. "She stole my daughter."

  "That can't be true," said the colleague. "How long has she been here? Your daughter was taken within the last hour. It can't have been her."

  "She threatened me," said Ndidi. "She threatened to harm my daughter."

  Detective Moore glanced at Abbie. She shook her head but didn't speak. Moore wasn’t sure what to think.

  "She threatened Isabella," Ndidi said, repeating his assertion in different words. "She's responsible."

  Moore still looked lost. And he hadn't looked at the table. Given her freedom was on the line, Abbie realised she would have to step in.

  "I didn't threaten anyone," she said. "We discussed Isabella a couple of minutes ago. If someone can review the tape.”

  Ndidi's eyes widened. "You bitch."

  Moore turned. At once, he saw the file on the floor and noted the table was bare.

  "Id," he said. "Where's the tape?"

  "You bitch," Ndidi repeated. "You vile, evil—"

  "That's enough," said Moore.

  "I didn't threaten Isabella,” said Abbie. "I didn’t even know you had a daughter until you showed me her picture."

  "Liar," said Ndidi. "Liar liar liar."

  Rage once more overwhelmed fear, and he once more came for Abbie. Once more, she did nothing. This time, Moore acted faster, jumping between the two and shoving Ndidi.

  "That's enough," he said. "That is enough."

  "She—"

  "No," said Moore. "You need to go. Your daughter's in danger. We're doing everything we can to find her, so I suggest you take a breath, take some time. If you go and wait in the canteen, I—"

  "Fuck you," Ndidi cut in. “I outrank you. Why don’t you piss off and I’ll call you if I need you?”

  In the face of this rage, Moore held up well. Keeping between Abbie and the furious father, he didn’t respond, nor quake in his boots. He waited for Ndidi to react.

  At last, Ndidi did. He took three slow steps back, watching Abbie and his colleague all the time. Then he reached Abbie's chair and almost tripped. Grabbed the table to steady himself.

  It was the jolt he needed.

  Jabbing a finger at Abbie, he said, "I don't find my daughter, I kill you."

  Abbie said nothing. Moore opened his mouth to respond, but Ndidi was already turning, rushing away. He vanished from the room to pursue his missing daughter, leaving Abbie and Moore alone.

  Moore escorted Abbie back to her cell.

  They didn't talk on the way. Both were turning over Ndidi’s reactions, brooding on what they should do next.

  When she was on one side of her cell's door and he was on the other, Moore forced himself to meet Abbie's eye.

  "Someone will come for you soon."

  Because she doubted Moore had any way of knowing this but didn't want to call him a liar, Abbie chose not to respond. She stepped back and watched the door swing shut, then returned to the lumpy bunk on which she had earlier grabbed a couple of hours sleep.

  Once lying down, shifting every few seconds, trying for a state that was impossible to come by in such a bed: comfort, Abbie attempted to imagine a worse ending to her interview with Ndidi.

  It wasn't easy. Abbie had been doing this a while. Had turned up in over fifty new places to warn a stranger they were in danger and to save them. That conversation was tough when the person you were trying to save was an adult. Near impossible when you were speaking with a parent whose child was in trouble.

  Twice before, Abbie's dreams had sent her to save the life of a pre-adolescent. Both times, Abbie had struggled against parents who did not want to believe their son or daughter was in danger. The second time, a young boy's father had grown so agitated he had tried to attack Abbie. Acting on instinct, Abbie had dodged his blow, tripped him, and watched as the father smashed his head on a kitchen counter. He might have died. Luckily, they were dealing with only a slight concussion. Nothing a trip to the hospital couldn't fix.

  But it had made Abbie's job 50x harder. Possibly 100x.

  Abbie had come close to failing that particular mission. The little boy was four, the youngest she had ever tried to save, and Abbie had been five seconds from failing him when it ended.

  Walking away from that incident, Abbie had been shaking, had been violently ill on the road. She had won but could not stop herself thinking about what might have been. How she might have failed that sweet, innocent boy.

  That night, lying in bed, unable to sleep. She told herself it was okay to feel that way and that she should look on the bright side. That had been tough, but could it ever be so difficult again?

  Probably not.

  Then came Isabella.

  Abbie had warned Ndidi his daughter was in danger. What followed was not the father's near braining on a hard surface, but something worse. The news that someone had kidnapped Isabella. Abbie was still locked up, and now, not only was she on the hook for assaulting a police officer,
but she had put herself in the frame for orchestrating the kidnapping of that same officer's daughter.

  The questions were inescapable.

  You attack a police officer, and then, the next morning, his daughter goes missing. What are we supposed to think?

  Right. What were they supposed to think?

  And wait until they found the dead bodies at the dealership. Killings which happened shortly before Abbie had allegedly attacked Gary and Ndidi, only a mile away, and hours before Isabella was kidnapped.

  Yep. Things were about to get interesting.

  The question was: could they get any worse?

  "Call for you. Get up."

  If Ndidi had been armed, Abbie was musing when the cell door opened, he might have withdrawn his gun and shot Abbie in the head. That would have been a worse way to end the interview.

  "Come on. I've not got all day."

  This was not a selfish thought. Abbie wasn't implying that interview ending would be worse because it included her demise. Far from it. She thought of Bobby, who would feel let down, betrayed, when Abbie didn't return home safely to him, as he had requested. And she was thinking of Isabella. She was not so arrogant as to believe she alone could save the young girl. Still, the child's chances definitely improved so long as Abbie was around, trying to save her, rather than in a morgue, a bullet between her eyes.

  The police officer knocked his knuckles against the metal door.

  "Yeah, yeah," said Abbie. "I'm coming, I'm coming."

  Of course, as it stood, Abbie wasn't around trying to find and save Isabella. A little after eight am on day one of two, Abbie was still behind bars, twiddling her thumbs and wasting time on pointless hypotheticals.

  And time was running out.

  The officer escorted Abbie to a room with a phone. He watched her sit down and pick up the phone, then stepped outside.

  "I'll be right out here. Don't take too long."

  Abbie waved a hand and put the phone to her ear. She was not surprised to hear the old, crisp voice of her employer's representative.

  She called him Ben.

  "Oh, dear. You've got yourself in a spot of bother, then?"