Chloe- Lost Girl

by Dan Laughey

  She closed her eyes, prayed for the girl she loved, and dropped asleep in an instant.

  He flung himself through the door of his office and was delighted to see Capstick and Holdsworth at their desks.

  ‘Halloween!’ His colleagues looked up in bewilderment. ‘He was marking out a date. I’m sure of it. Bring up Dryden’s numbers on the screen.’

  Capstick said nothing, tapped a few keys, projector humming as it warmed up, and then the image appeared.

  ‘Look!’ Sant cried. ‘3-1-8! The first two numbers mean the last day of the month – the 31st.'

  Capstick pressed his specs against the bridge of his nose. ‘Yes, but the eight would indicate the eighth month of the year, which is August, not October.’

  ‘Possibly, Capstick, and possibly not.’

  ‘What else could it mean?’

  Holdsworth chewed the end of her pencil before answering: ‘If my shorthand training is worth its salt, the eight may indicate the first number of a particular year, not month.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly!’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Capstick faced her.

  ‘You’re clearly not blessed with old skool note-taking technique, Brad. If you need to take down a date in a hurry,’ Holdsworth mimed writing on a tablet, ‘the shorthand method is to record the day and year only. The month, if forgotten, is retrievable as one of only twelve possibilities. Whereas there are as many as thirty-one possible days and even more potential years.’

  ‘And if Dryden was using the same shorthand,’ added Sant, ‘it follows he was marking down a much older date.’

  Capstick thought this through carefully. ‘You mean, the thirty-first of a month, during some year of the 1980s?’

  ‘You took the words right out of my mouth, Capstick.’

  ‘Meat Loaf, sir.’

  ‘Meat Loaf’s song was a seventies hit,’ Holdsworth asserted. ‘But why a date in the eighties?’

  ‘That’s the question a little delving into the archives may answer.’ Sant spoke with zeal. ‘You’ll both be keen to get started.’

  Holdsworth pointed to her watch. ‘A bit late now, Carl. Can it wait till morning?’

  ‘Anything better to do?’ he muttered, absorbed with the task.

  She reddened. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, yes. Me and Brad were just on our way out for a spot of downtime. And if you can mix business with pleasure, then we can too.’

  ‘Can’t it wait? We’re at a crucial stage in this investigation for heaven’s sake.’

  Stood, grabbed her coat. Heels clicking with intent. ‘Brad and I will be back as soon as we’ve fed and watered ourselves. And rested, since we’ve had none in the last forty-eight hours. Oh, and maybe we’ll have a bit of fun along the way. It’s no fun working with a moody boots like you.’

  The inspector’s wide-eyed look at his colleagues was helpless.

  Capstick wore a look of sympathy as he put on his leather jacket. ‘Sorry to disappoint, sir, but we do have a prior engagement.’

  Sant took a deep breath and shrugged. ‘Okay, I understand. Don’t mind me. Go and enjoy yourselves.’

  ‘See you in the morning, sir.’

  Holdsworth offered no farewell. The damage had already been done as far as she was concerned.

  Alone in the office, he got set for his meditation ritual, tension in the limbs easing as he sank into his chair with a long, slow exhale. Breathing in the stuffy litter of papers strewn over his desk, he channelled his focus on the whirring of air from the ceiling grills.

  So Capstick and Holdsworth were growing friendlier by degrees, and it struck Sant that he’d been blind to the chemistry between his closest colleagues. Now he came to think of it, yes – there was definitely a mutual affection.

  Why hadn’t he cottoned on earlier? He supposed the age gap would probably rule out a serious relationship. Holdsworth was ten years older than Capstick. Then again, some blokes preferred a woman of experience. Maybe Capstick was that type of bloke.

  Capstick and Holdsworth… seeing each other outside working hours. The revelation brought home another truth. Deep down, if he was being honest with himself, he knew little or nothing about his colleagues’ lives. Not that he wasn’t interested; rather, his interest was detached. Living on his own brought with it a phase of life in which he’d blanked out any potential friendship or intimacy with others.

  Perhaps the aging process was ostracising him. Unlike Holdsworth, who looked good for her age and took everything in stride, Sant was reminded by the second of his ticking body clock, and as each day passed the second half of his life turned bleaker than he cared to admit. There was nothing else to it.

  He, Carl Sant, fortysomething fast approaching the big five-o, was a miserable loner.

  Gradually releasing himself from his reflective state, he worked his brain back in time. The date, the numbers, the scores. Thank heavens for Tom and Sam. Their scores and his pathetic total may have gone some way to unlocking Dryden’s last-stand enigma.

  He pondered his next move. The obvious thing was to do the job rejected by his lovebird colleagues: search the files stored in the basement archives. But he wasn’t a great lover of dust and, instead, had another idea.

  If the date Dryden had fingered on the bus window was so important, it stood to reason that some major incident could have occurred then. An incident that may have found its way into the news...

  And if the date referred to a 31st of the month in the 1980s, he thought, running a finger along the side of his nose… I can get hold of a newspaper archive and search through each possible month and year.

  It seemed an impossible task. He didn’t even know where to start. No doubt most news was stored online these days, but at this late hour it would take time to find a tech savvy person willing to show him the ropes. And, besides, news stories from that decade were distinctly historical by today’s standards and untouched by internet archiving.

  He looked up, finger paused.

  Recalled a recent visit to the university. In connection with Chloe’s disappearance. He’d picked up a few leaflets from an information desk, one of which detailed the holdings of the library and showed the location of backdated newspapers stored on microfiche.

  The information in his head told Sant it was a fruitless undertaking. It also told him it was worth a shot.

  Inconveniently, it turned out, Leeds University’s Brotherton Library had opening times – and closing ones. No sooner had he arrived than an accomplished voice on the tannoy announced the closure of the library in one hour. Hardly enough time to get through the microfiche. Sant needed assistance, and judging by the deserted enquiries desk, none was forthcoming.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said to himself, glaring at another ‘Microfilm Store’ sign, now hating the Brotherton’s design that had him walking around in circles.

  Why build a goddamn circular library?

  Eventually he gave up hope and followed the ‘Way Out’ signs, culminating in a few more aimless circles. The optimist in him appreciated the exercise. The rest of him continued to curse the place and its pretentious polished décor.

  He was climbing spiral stairs on his way to the exit when his instincts burned a flash of danger: an object falling from above. He tried to dodge out of the way, arms covering his head, but only succeeded in crossing paths with a hardback that crashed on top of him. The blow knocked him sideways onto his knees. Books poured down. Volumes of learned knowledge were tumbling over the edifice like bricks crumbling off a wall, hammering on the stone steps below. He was still recovering from the shock, his forehead and neck coated in sweat, when someone came rushing into his vision.

  ‘Oh, so sorry. You okay?’

  The voice was Dorothy’s from The Wizard of Oz.

  ‘I’ll live,’ he croaked.

  ‘How silly of me,’ the woman went on. ‘There I was, holding a pile in one hand and my phone in the other, and what do you know? The damn things slithered out of my grasp and took flight. Here,
let me help you up.’

  She held out her slender arm like a handle and Sant was impressed at how much of his weight she could withstand. He hauled himself up and brushed off the white dust-marks on the knees of his black trousers.

  ‘You sure you’re okay?’ Her probing green eyes swept over him.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m used to people hurling things at me.’

  She brushed the dust off his sleeve. ‘How so?’

  ‘I’m a policeman.’

  The woman laughed. ‘Now you’re kidding me. What’s a policeman doing in a library? Arresting borrowers for fines overdue?’

  Sant smiled. ‘Actually, I came here to do some newspaper research, but I’ve left it a bit late. Umm, I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘I didn’t offer it,’ she replied. ‘But since you ask, I’m Mia.’

  She offered her hand to him and he accepted, though the force of her conviction made him somewhat reluctant to dwell further. He enjoyed talking to strangers – and sometimes felt more comfortable with people he didn’t know than those he did – but this encounter felt all wrong. It was strangely familiar. Yet there was nothing familiar about a clout to the head from Dorothy’s flying book.

  ‘I’m Carl. Nice to have met you.’

  He tore his gaze away and climbed the stairs, overcome by an inexplicable urge to look back at the woman. Staring down at her petite frame he called out a question.

  ‘Do you know where I can find the microfilm store?’

  She smiled up at him. ‘I know this library inside out.’

  ‘Do you work here?’

  ‘Do I look like I work here?’

  He shrugged. ‘I was just asking.’

  ‘I’m a student, actually.’

  ‘You don’t look like a student.’

  ‘Nor you a policeman,’ she countered with a grin. ‘Follow me, Officer Carl.’

  Mia led him back down the stone stairs and into the circular room he’d already paraded around. The stairwell had been poorly lit and only now could he make out the woman’s appearance.

  On closer inspection he realised he was wrong. She did look like a student. She was no longer especially young, but she was youthful in face and manner. Her tight-fitting jeans with patches of cloth sewn on were nice to look at. Over a salmon t-shirt hung a long woolly cardigan, white with black dots that looked like full-stops harping for sentences. Burgundy Doc Martens with thin wool socks heightened the curve of her ankles.

  It didn’t take long for Mia to locate a blue door that served as the entrance to the storeroom. ‘You know what you’re looking for?’

  Sant hesitated. He wanted to appear intelligent – an adept library user – but he couldn’t hide the fact he was a novice; a man lost in a world of books and archives and storerooms he knew nothing about.

  ‘Well, yes, let me see. I think I can manage.’ He opened the door and strode forward with an air of confidence into… pitch black darkness. Before he could think of an excuse the door slammed shut.

  What the hell? There must be a light switch somewhere.

  He put his hands out in front of him and tried to trace along the nearest shelf, back to the door. He knocked over a case of microfilche. Crash! A common theme was emerging.

  His crunching steps over the film echoed his dark mood. He paced the void, trying not to bump into more shelves and boxes. He would just have to wait for someone to discover him.

  The arrogance! As if I knew fuck-all about academic territory!

  The door opened behind him, letting in a stream of brightness. Mia reached for the light cord and every nook and cranny of the storeroom was bathed in glorious light.

  ‘Carl?’

  ‘Over here.’ He blinked, shoved his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Why didn’t you turn on the lights?’

  ‘I was… meditating.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  He stepped towards her. ‘Actually, I couldn’t find the cord.’

  Mia fixed him a baffled look before bringing her hand to her mouth. She burst into laughter, uncontrollable, wicked glee. It was infectious. Sant went from mortified to tears of hilarity in seconds.

  For the second time in a matter of minutes Mia helped him to his feet. She took her arm in his and they strolled out of the storeroom, the laughter unabating as they wiped tears from their eyes.

  Sant was reminded of Holdsworth wanting a bit of fun on her night out with Capstick. She’d been right. He’d forgotten what fun was. It was worth all the gold in Oz.

  ‘Well, so much for research,’ he sighed. ‘Next time I’ll stay off the yellow brick road and phone a friend.’ His shoulders rose and fell. ‘One who knows about libraries.’

  ‘You have a friend in me,’ said Mia. ‘What are you looking for anyway?’

  A minute later Mia located a filing cabinet marked Yorkshire Post, nowhere near the storeroom it turned out, and picked out cases containing reels from 1980 to 1989. Reels for The Times and The Guardian were also there, but Sant passed these ones over. After all, if Dryden was marking out the date of a crime in Leeds or the wider Yorkshire region, it would definitely feature in the Yorkshire Post. But not necessarily in the national press.

  They found the microfiche readers and Mia showed him how to fix the reel of tape onto the spool and then thread the tape through the machine. The first time he tried, the reel turned out to be upside down and he didn’t fancy the idea of standing – and reading – on his head. After that, he got the knack and worked out the right buttons to press in order to speed up the microfiche as it shrieked through the mechanism, the smell of plastic growing stronger as the internal bulb heated.

  Speed, or lack of it, was the only hindrance. Because he was searching for the last day of the month, he had to wind through the whole of the tape to find the newspaper issue for that date. He fiddled with the knob, trying to give it some throttle like a motorcyclist. Once he’d found the end date, the whole of the film needed to be re-wound before he could pack away that reel and begin on the next.

  Sant was enjoying himself by now, relaying the news of his youth to the young stranger beside him, reflecting on how the world had changed since the days of citizen-band radios and Crossroads on TV. He flitted through reports of CND marches in London, IRA bombings, the miners’ strike in Yorkshire, computers crashing at the stock exchange, and, by 1989, the Berlin Wall crumbling as a new Hungarian Republic hailed the end of communism.

  Some things hadn’t changed though: poverty and unemployment, celebrity sex scandals, footballers having affairs and Prince Charles slating British architects.

  ‘Can I ask at all what you’re researching?’ Mia asked.

  ‘Top secret. I could get you clearance, but that would mean becoming my partner. You’d be stuck with me.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ She slapped his hand playfully. ‘How can it be top secret when you’re searching for it in a library?’

  His lips pushed out. ‘Okay, I’ll let you in on it as long as you swear not to tell anyone.’

  ‘I swear to Elizabeth the Second and all who serve under Her,’ she declared with a military salute. It reminded him of his ex – an unpleasant feeling that thankfully faded fast.

  ‘You’re a monarchist?’

  ‘Only when it pays to be one,’ she chuckled.

  ‘Well, here’s the secret. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I know roughly where to look.’

  ‘Now you’re talking in riddles, partner.’

  ‘I know it sounds absurd, but it’s true. Someone has provided me with an approximate range of dates, and I’m looking for serious offences reported on those dates.’

  Her green eyes wondered to the microfiche cases. ‘Local crimes reported in the 1980s?’

  ‘Full marks,’ he said, stopping himself from saying Dorothy.

  ‘Did this someone give you specific dates?’

  ‘The 31st of the month, but I don’t know which month.’

  ‘And you’re planning to go through all newspapers
dated the 31st?’

  He nodded. ‘A tall order, I know.’

  ‘It’s also a flawed order. You are a detective?’ He nodded again. ‘Then if you don’t mind my saying, I think your detection could do with some amateur input.’

  He crossed his arms. ‘I’m doing something wrong?’

  ‘Eureka! Think about the speed of newsprint. Take today, for example. Let’s say a murder occurred in Leeds ten hours ago. When would you expect to read about it?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  He slapped his head theatrically. ‘I should be looking for the first of each month.’ He turned to her. ‘I have to admit I’d be lost without you.’

  ‘Can I offer some further advice?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘There are one hundred and twenty months in a decade, which means one hundred and twenty firsts of each month. But guess what? You can narrow down possible dates by half.’

  Sant looked bemused. ‘How so?’

  ‘Only focus on February, April, June, August, September and November.’

  ‘Why those months?’

  ‘Because those are the only ones that follow a month containing thirty-one days.’

  ‘Ever thought of joining CID?’

  An hour and a half past – Mia scanning the local news headlines for sixty Yorkshire Post issues as Sant took down notes – before they were done. He looked over his jottings. Only a handful of stories were serious enough to warrant attention:

  August 1980 (reporting events of previous day)… on-going trial of couple alleged to have murdered two of their children; police and social workers accuse them of inventing “adoption story” about giving the children to a foster family.

  Nov 82… PC Reginald Walton seriously injured following missile attack during Leeds United’s home fixture against Newcastle United; referee stopped the game; Elland Road facing closure for second time in recent years.

  Also Nov 82… solicitors representing six police officers acquitted of drugs charges file complaints to the Chief Constable of Humberside, claiming undercover investigation was flawed.