Chloe- Lost Girl

by Dan Laughey

  The only place for him to go had been his parents’ home. He spent four claustrophobic months there, caring for his sick father while keeping as much distance as possible between him and his uptight mother, but when he couldn’t stand the child treatment any longer, he upped sticks and left.

  The custody agreement allowed him to see his sons once a week. They came to the city for a sleepover at his apartment every other Saturday night. The rest of the time, without them, he fought the sense of loss. He wanted to be a good father, yet couldn’t shake off that depressing note of failure ringing in his ears every time he thought of them.

  He cleared his throat, blinking. Returned to the file doing battle with the other paperwork on his crowded desk. His face inched closer to the photo of Chloe on the front page. She was staring back at him, a haunting look of innocence. She was tall – close to six feet – and her long slender figure served her well. Bright, serious eyes were as black as her hair, shining locks framing a slightly upturned nose with an elegant silver nose ring. Sant cared little for piercings, but on Chloe the jewel appeared seamless, rounding out the vitality of her face without flaw. He had no doubt she’d attract attention wherever she went.

  This same photo had been published by newspapers and media outlets, not to mention social media of all persuasions. Sant and his colleagues had started to sift through countless tip-offs supplied by a willing but dizzy-headed public, almost all of which only served to waste valuable time.

  The complexity of the case was further compounded by human rights and data protection laws which made the task of locating a missing adult much harder than a minor. If adults wished to be lost and to stay lost, well now, it was their human right – no matter how much human sadness and worry and police legwork their enduring absence prolonged.

  One of the few clues to cling onto was Chloe’s phone. Its signal had been tracked, via base-station data, to a McDonald’s a stone’s throw from London King’s Cross station. The Met police had been alerted to the possibility Chloe was residing somewhere in London. But Sant was doubtful. Any sensible assailant wanting to throw the investigation off track might well take a trip to the capital in order to safely dispose of Chloe’s fingerprint-free phone at a fittingly unremarkable location, before hopping on the next train north.

  His thoughts returned to Dryden. How had he, Sant, approached the job all those years ago? He remembered an immense feeling of inferiority; of being a minnow in a pool full of sharks. And yet that same inferiority complex had driven him to go the extra mile and show the sharks what he was capable of. Often ambition had kicked him in the face, making him the butt of everyone’s jokes, but now and then he’d land on a discovery or tie up a fruitful lead, and the buzz it gave off would make his day – even his week.

  Surely Dryden craved that same deep desire to succeed; to not be sneered at by high-ranking types counting the stars on their shoulder insignia. In which case, Sant realised, the obvious investigation for Dryden to showcase his talents was the Chloe Lee one. Equally important cases had come their way since the summer months, but Sant knew that nothing captured an officer’s imagination – or a news editor’s thirst for sagas – like a missing girl.

  A little girl lost. The eternal song of innocence.

  A call came through. Hardaker.

  The Chiefman kept it short and sweet. ‘Interview suite in five, Carl. The Andrewses are ready.’

  The husband offered a limp hand to Sant and Hardaker before guiding his unsteady wife to the designated ‘comfort couch’. Mr Andrews had that numb look, as if all the people he met were cardboard cut-outs; reconstructions of an imagined tale. Mrs Andrews, in marked contrast, was extremely tearful, the make-up she’d splashed on earlier diluted by sorrow.

  ‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ Hardaker began.

  ‘Who did it?’ Mr Andrews spoke abruptly, his voice shaking in tandem with his knees.

  Hardaker inhaled sharply. ‘The honest answer is we don’t know. We are searching high and low, believe me.’

  ‘Why did it have to be Kate?’ Mrs Andrews wept. Her husband held her close, though he didn’t look comfortable with the outpouring of emotion or where to put his arms. He settled for a hand on her shoulder.

  Hardaker paced himself, calming his vocals in tune with the trauma-counselling training he’d recently passed with flying colours. ‘I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Mr Andrews said coolly.

  Sant peered across at Mrs Andrews. She seemed far from ready for questioning. Hardarker wasn’t waiting for a second opinion though.

  ‘Your daughter was travelling with a friend called Callum Willis. Does that name mean anything?’

  Sant detected a slight grimace on both parents’ faces.

  Mrs Andrews wiped away more tears. ‘Callum was Kate’s girlfriend.’

  ‘Had they been together long?’

  Mr Andrews cut in. ‘Not really. How is this relevant?’

  The Chiefman gave a template response. ‘It’s a routine query. We don’t believe your daughter or her boyfriend had anything to do with the incident. They were hostages to fortune, in the wrong place at the wrong time. We just have to keep an open mind.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Mr Andrews half-heartedly.

  ‘Do you know Callum’s mother?’

  Mrs Andrews lifted her head and choked a barely audible response. ‘I’ve met the woman on occasions, but we’re not close.’

  ‘And his father?’

  ‘We’ve never met him. Callum’s mum and dad broke up a long time ago.’

  Hardaker scribbled a few random notes. Sant knew the Chiefman was buying time, preparing for the more awkward questions.

  ‘Has Kate got into any sort of trouble recently, at home or elsewhere?’

  Mr Andrews, who’d been part-leaning on his wife in a sort of disinclined embrace, sat up straight. ‘I’m not sure what you mean by trouble. Let me make this clear. My wife and I brought up Kate with a firm emphasis on discipline and maturity of behaviour. We have every reason to believe she did us proud. Her friends, regrettably, let the side down, but Kate was turning into a fine, fully-fledged adult… until a greater authority chose to take her away.’

  Hardaker went for softly-softly. ‘I understand, Mr Andrews, and I’m not questioning your daughter’s upbringing. It’s just we need all the background you can provide so we can follow every avenue of enquiry.’

  The frown on Mr Andrews’ face lifted a fraction.

  Then silence. Sant looked over at Hardaker. For once, the Chiefman was hesitating over what to say next. The inspector chose that moment for an impromptu request.

  ‘Can you tell us where Kate and her boyfriend were travelling to?’

  Mr Andrews shrugged and turned to his wife, who was clearly in no fit state to answer. Reluctantly, he replied: ‘The clubs in town, I should imagine. We did urge them not to party all night, but what can you do? Sometimes you feel you’re hampering their social life.’

  ‘And where were they travelling from?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Sant reached for something in his inside pocket before kneeling and spreading out a map of Leeds bus routes over the bare coffee table in front of him. ‘This was the route taken by Kate and Callum. It’s odd, don’t you think, that they would be travelling in this direction.’ He traced the 33 bus route with a ballpoint pen. ‘The way I understand it, your daughter still lives with you in Gipton, which is over here to the north and east of the city.’ He marked a cross on the map. ‘And Callum lives close by with his mother here’ – penning another cross adjacent to the first one – ‘in Crossgates. Which means neither Kate nor Callum were journeying from their normal places of residence.’

  Mrs Andrews bent forward and stared at the map, brushing wet strands of hair from her face before speaking. ‘Kate had no friends living in that area of Leeds. Not any we knew of, anyway.’

  Mr Andrews nodded coldly in agreement.

  ‘So Kate
didn’t tell you where she was going or who she was visiting yesterday evening?’ asked Hardaker.

  Mrs Andrews turned to face her questioners. ‘The truth is we’d not seen her for a few days. She said she was staying with friends.’

  ‘A few days? Can you give us a precise figure?’

  Mr Andrews was trying his best to avoid eye contact. ‘Two, three, four at most.’

  ‘It must’ve been last Sunday,’ Mrs Andrews added. She turned to her husband. ‘You wanted her to attend church with you but she’d… made other plans.’

  Mr Andrews licked his lips and looked up, tears welling up in spite of his best efforts.

  ‘Last Sunday was a week ago,’ said Sant. ‘Did she often spend a week away from home?’

  ‘Not if we could help it,’ Mr Andrews muttered. ‘But you can’t keep your children on a leash indefinitely, try as you might.’

  ‘Did you phone her while she was gone?’

  ‘I texted her,’ said Mrs Andrew, ‘and she said she was fine. Told me she’d be… back home soon.’ Those last few words rose in crescendo as the sobs took over.

  Hardaker gestured that it was time for a break, but Sant had something on his mind that couldn’t wait.

  ‘We won’t keep you any longer. One final question – and we’d rather this remain confidential.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Andrews.

  ‘Did your daughter know Chloe Lee?’

  Hardaker turned on the spot, his eyes fixed on Sant, uncertain of where this line of questioning was heading.

  ‘You mean the lost girl?’ asked Mr Andrews.

  ‘I do. No doubt you’ve seen the news.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t see where Kate fits in. She never talked about it. I’m sure she didn’t know the girl.’

  Sant nodded and allowed Hardaker to bring the interview to a close. No need to probe further. Something peculiar about the way Mrs Andrews had reacted to the name told the inspector that a connection between her daughter and Chloe Lee, however tenuous, existed beyond doubt.

  5

  She sang all the time. It was a wonder the radio in the kitchette still worked after sustaining daily hits of soapy water from her singing.

  A bit of a music buff, she kept pace with the top songs and artists in the charts. Pub music quizzes were her speciality, though she couldn’t enter a pub these days. Too small, too social. Large public gatherings where no-one cared to know you – they were her sole domain.

  Halfway through the chorus of A-ha’s ‘Take On Me’ she thought she heard a knock on the door. Lowered the volume and listened. Heard nothing and twisted the volume knob, belting out a high note, shaking her shoulders, suds plopping onto the old radio.

  The knocking came again. No mistaking it this time.

  ‘Postman – parcel for you!’

  She’d ordered nothing. Suspicions darted around her head. Was he really a postman? Spinning away from the sink, she grabbed a towel off the stove, wiped her hands while looking towards the door. Squared her shoulders, fast thinking, pinching her brow.

  ‘Thank you, leave it outside the door please.’

  A slight pause before: ‘It needs signing for, madam.’

  A pang of guilt warmed her. If this was a genuine postman, with a genuine parcel, it would be daft not to open up. She walked closer, stopped, hand hovering over the safety chain. It was shiny new, wood and paint behind it marred from the last time…

  Her hand fell to her side. She found herself stepping back. ‘I can’t come to the door right now. Pass it through the letterbox.’

  Another pause, this time a little longer. She thought she could hear whispering. Suddenly the man coughed a response: ‘No problem, madam. Here it is.’

  Keeping her right hand as far from the flap as possible, she reached out and grabbed the electronic pad. It looked genuine enough. Didn’t most couriers use these devices nowadays? She scrawled her name, replaced the pen, extended fingertips to the flap. Swiftly deposited the pad into a grip like a mouth clasping shut.

  ‘Thank you, madam. I’ll place the parcel right outside your door. Don’t forget it’s here. Lots of unscrupulous types round these parts.’

  ‘Thank you. I won’t forget.’

  She put an ear to the door and heard footsteps fading down the corridor. Then she realised she was sweating. Trying to shrug off the uncertainty, she scorned herself for imagining wolf-like eyes watching her every move.

  Yet try as she might, she couldn’t convince herself all was normal that afternoon.

  Sunday afternoon!

  What kind of postman worked a Sunday afternoon shift?

  Answer: a shifty postman. She didn’t like this. Not one bit.

  She wouldn’t open that door, not for love or money.

  She got the vac out instead and went back to her trusty companion: the telly. The news was on, the voices muffled by the whistling Hoover. She glimpsed images of buildings and streets she recognised. She put down the Hoover and turned up the volume; saw the same buildings and streets she’d passed yesterday. Then came helicopter shots looking down on a double-decker bus, or what was left of it, crushed into a tangled array of shop-fronts like a giant cigarette stub.

  BUS TRAGEDY was the caption. The words rolled across the screen: Seven Dead in Bus Attack Including Police Officer. She began to panic. Was this some sick coincidence?

  It couldn’t be him… Could it?

  A still of the dead officer’s face flashed up, wearing the proud grin of the new recruit who sacrifices everything – peace of mind, well-being, liberty – for the spotless uniform they adorn.

  This was the man she’d confided in less than twenty-four hours ago.

  Her eyes glued to the TV, the pictures of the disaster zoomed out as live feed of a press conference took centre screen. A detective with a red beard was telling reporters the investigation was in its early stages and no details could be made public at this time. Anyone with information was urged to contact the police.

  The information they sought… she had it. She didn’t need to speculate. She knew the details. The crucial detail.

  This was murder.

  And who was next?

  She put a hand to her forehead and caught her reflection on the screen. Her arm shot out, fumbled on the wall behind her, slapped the light switch off.

  Darkness was descending fast as Sant grabbed two sausage rolls from a convenience store. No substitute for his mother’s hotpot, but needs must. He ate on the move as he walked back to the office, still pondering the imponderables; the sheer incredulity of it all.

  And then he remembered. The bus shootings had taken such a grip on his thoughts that he’d forgotten everything he’d arranged before the shit hit the fan.

  The calendar on his phone showed he was due to visit Darren Lee half an hour ago. He was late. Very late. He wanted Capstick with him too, but got no response to his call.

  The choice was simple: go alone or rearrange.

  He tossed a coin. Heads meant go.

  Forty minutes later, after negotiating the sluggish A64 shopper exodus, he parked his tired Ford Fiesta outside Darren Lee’s York residence. The council estate looked well-to-do, many of the properties privately owned and several sporting SOLD signs.

  The semi seemed fine from a distance, but as he approached the driveway he was greeted by a volley of howling. A weather-worn BEWARE OF DOG sticker was peeling off the side of an overflowing wheelie bin. Creases spread from his eyes, mouth turning up.

  Bring relevant supplies. Sant’s Rule Number One. He returned to the boot of his car, took out a plastic bag full of juicy bones and hurled the lot, bag and all, over the fence. The barking stopped dead.

  He walked through the heavy oak gate and knocked on the door. The wait was longer than usual. He sensed someone inside, moving around, frantic. Eventually the door opened.

  ‘Mr Lee?’

  ‘If it’s about the loan, I’ve spoken to – ’

  Sant raised his hand. ‘I’m a de
tective, not a loan shark. We had an appointment. I’m Detective Inspector Sant. It’s about your daughter. Chloe. May I come in?’

  The house was like a jumble sale. Clothes, empty boxes and toys lay strewn over the floor and furniture. Sant followed the occupant to a side kitchen, an ounce freer of space than elsewhere.

  Lee was a beanpole of a man, tall, unhealthily thin, with stringy blond hair clinging to either side of his mounting baldness. The stench of tobacco on his breath and the acutely wrinkled face added years to his appearance. On paper he’d just turned forty, but strangers would age him ten years minimum.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’

  Sant peered over a sink that hadn’t seen cleaning fluid for a decade or two. ‘No thanks. Water’s good.’

  Lee grabbed a glass from the clutter next to the sink and started rinsing it, elbowing a pile of plates en route to the tap. The soles of his shoes stuck to the floor with every step.

  ‘It’s a mystery,’ he said, ‘her going off like that. Sums Chloe up, I suppose.’ Sant affected a puzzled look. ‘You see, Chloe always wanted to be different. An individual. But she’s got her head screwed on. She isn’t ditzy like some lasses. She’s single-minded. A smart cookie. Teachers praised her no end.’

  The inspector stared at the glass he’d been offered, decided to just hold it until he left.

  ‘You’ve got a nice place here, Mr Lee.’

  He looked at Sant for a moment, unblinking. ‘Scrubs up well enough,’ he remarked, straining tea into rusty-coloured china.

  ‘Rest of the family at home?’

  ‘Wife and kids are away.’

  ‘Somewhere warm and sunny?’

  Lee snorted. ‘If you count Selby as warm and sunny, then yes. They’re staying with the out-laws.’ He paused as if searching for an excuse. ‘Made themselves scarce while me and a mate do a spot of DIY. What’s that fancy term they talk of on the TV?’

  ‘Property development?’

  ‘Aye, that’s the thing.’

  Sant couldn’t see much development from where he was standing. It was time to cut to the jugular.