All That Is Buried

by Robert Scragg

  Ally had changed since he’d seen her at her flat, now wearing jeans and a baggy plum-coloured jumper. Same eyes, though, heavy with worry, like clouds ready to burst.

  ‘Here’s the info you asked for, boss,’ said DC Kelly, handing a folder to Porter. He flicked through it quickly as he took a seat. The contents of Libby Hallforth’s phone: call log, texts, photos, browser history. A couple of items caught his eye, and he filed it as something to ask about, along with the other questions he’d composed in his mind on the drive over.

  ‘Mrs Hallforth, sorry you had to wait. Can I get you another drink?’ he said, gesturing at the almost empty water beside her.

  ‘No, I’m alright, thanks. I’d just like to get this done, so I can go and pick Chloe up from my mum’s.’

  ‘Of course,’ Porter said with a reassuring smile. ‘Won’t keep you any longer than we need to. We just need to finish walking through what you remember, then I’ve got a few extra questions. After that you’ll be free to go. How does that sound?’

  She nodded, looking down at her hands clasped in her lap. ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Good, OK, we’ll make a start then,’ he said, starting the recording, calling out the date and time, then identifying the people in the room.

  ‘So, Mrs Hallforth, you said earlier that you saw her next to the stall that ran horse races. She was there when you went to get a coffee, and when you came back, she was gone.’

  She nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘How long would you say you were gone for?’

  She frowned. ‘Only a couple of minutes. Two or three, maybe.’

  ‘But before that you were standing at the stall with her?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘How long would you say you were with her for at that stall?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘Why is that important?’

  ‘I just want to build up a picture of the events leading up to her disappearing.’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe another couple of minutes. I can’t remember exactly.’

  ‘Where was your husband when you and Libby were at that stall? Did he have Chloe on one of the other rides?’

  ‘No, she was with me. He kept wandering off then coming back,’ she said. ‘He kept moaning that Libby was wasting her time, that she should try some rides.’

  ‘But he wasn’t with you all of the time?’

  ‘Why do you keep asking about us?’ she said, a hint of anger creeping around the edges. ‘Aren’t you meant to be working out where she went?’

  Porter gave a patient smile, the kind that said he’d done this a hundred times before, that he knew what he was doing.

  ‘Like I said, Mrs Hallforth, the more we know the better. We weren’t there, you were.’ He left it there for a few seconds, giving her time to wind back in. ‘How far away was the place you got your coffee? I’m just wondering how big a window she had to wander off in.’

  ‘Over towards the cars,’ she said. ‘Can’t remember the name, but it wasn’t that far. Fifty metres away, maybe.’

  The fair had been sandwiched between two roads, a hundred metres or so apart at their widest. Stalls and rides were arranged in four rows at that end, narrowing to just two near the point of the grassy triangle. He had made a beeline for the horse race stall earlier. Made a point of mapping out what was around it, the line of sight to and from other parts of the fair.

  ‘Really?’ he asked, sounding surprised. ‘You went all that way for a cuppa? Why not just get one from the place next to the stall where Libby was?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, looking wary, unsure of herself.

  ‘I mean there was a place right next door. You even had to walk past it to get to the one you went to. Why go that far away when you could have stayed a few feet away?’

  Her mouth opened, closed, and she started to blink her confusion like Morse code. ‘I, ah, I don’t remember … I didn’t see that other one. The place you said.’ A tremor in her voice, barely audible, but there nonetheless. ‘I must have just been looking the other way.’

  Her shoulders, tense and squared, eased a touch, happy that she’d batted back his question.

  Porter nodded and leant back in his chair. ‘OK, yeah, that makes sense.’ He looked over at DC Kelly for the first time since he’d started with his questions. Saw it in her face that she wasn’t sure he was fishing in the right direction, but she knew better than to interrupt.

  ‘I went out there to look around. Bumped into one of my colleagues, who spoke to the owner of that stall. He remembers seeing Libby. Funny thing is, he doesn’t remember anyone being with her.’

  ‘Well, he’s wrong then, isn’t he?’ she said, and Porter fancied he saw a flash of fear in her eyes, glinting like gold in a pan.

  ‘Mmm, could be,’ Porter said, rubbing a hand over the first prickles of stubble. ‘Here’s the thing, though – I don’t think he is, and I’ll tell you why. I asked him about her, and he could describe her to a T. What she wore, the bobble in her hair, the lot. Wish all my witnesses were that good. But what he remembers thinking in particular is that no one was with her. She only paid for one race that he remembers. On her own the whole time though. Stood out because of it. Not many kids that age get left on their own.’

  She was shaking her head now, creased ridge between eyebrows. Small movements, like watching the world’s smallest game of tennis.

  ‘She was there, at that stall. I definitely saw her there,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Saw her but weren’t right next to her?’ he asked. ‘Possibly standing off to one side?’

  ‘I might not have stood next to her at the stall,’ she admitted in a quiet voice. ‘We were walking past, and she ran over to it. I remember Simon saying something about it being a mug’s game. How the man could fix the winner depending on how the punters bet.’

  ‘So, Simon was with you at that point?’

  ‘At that point, yeah.’

  Something about the way she said it, all the emphasis on the second word, make Porter pause a beat.

  ‘But not all afternoon?’

  She looked down at her hands again. Started worrying away at the edges of a nail. What was she not telling him?

  ‘What about after you left her at the stall?’ he asked. ‘Did Simon go with you for the coffee?’

  ‘No, he can’t stand the stuff. He went off to get a beer, I think.’

  Porter felt heat in his cheeks. He wouldn’t wish their situation on his worst enemy, but the pair of them had left a seven-year-old girl to her own devices, with no regard for who might be lurking around.

  ‘And remind me, Mrs Hallforth, this happened just after one this afternoon?’

  She nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘Can I ask you why you waited as long as you did to report her missing?’ he asked, a little more steel in his voice.

  ‘Pardon me?’ she said, looking startled by the question.

  ‘The stall owner saw her around one this afternoon, but you didn’t report her missing until just after three.’

  ‘We, um, I just thought she was messing around. She couldn’t have gone far. You just never think … I wanted to call it in sooner, but …’

  She stopped mid-sentence, and Porter saw something flash across her face; a split second, then it was gone. Not the same fear he saw there when she talked about Libby being missing, but not far off.

  ‘But what?’ he prompted.

  ‘I tried, but … I just …’

  Porter glanced down at the printouts DC Kelly had prepared for him, spun one around and slid it towards her.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘That is a call log from 999 earlier today. This’ – he tapped – ‘is the call we took from you a little after three, and this’– he slid his finger down to the next line – ‘is a 999 call made from your mobile at quarter past one, not long after you last saw her.’

  He saw colour seep from her cheeks, lips drawn in a tight line, eyes flitting across
the page.

  ‘Now what I’m hoping you can help me understand, Mrs Hallforth, is if you were worried enough to call us at one-fifteen, why you hung up and waited another two hours to actually tell us your daughter was missing?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ally Hallforth looked from Porter to DC Kelly, then down to the sheet of paper. When she picked it up, he could see a tremor around the edges. She chewed nervously on her bottom lip, staring with such intensity at the page, as if doing it could make it read differently.

  ‘Mrs Hallforth?’ Porter prompted. ‘Anything you can share could make a difference in finding out where Libby is. Why did you end that first call?’

  She swallowed hard, coming to a decision. ‘I didn’t.’

  Porter shook his head. ‘Why you did, only you can say, but this’ – he reached over and tapped the top of the page – ‘proves that you did.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s not what I mean, Detective. The call was ended, but not by me.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  She nodded. ‘He said she was just messing around, overexcited. She’d probably turn up any minute, and he didn’t want us looking stupid by panicking and calling the police over something as silly as that.’

  The instant dislike Porter had taken to Simon Hallforth grew, morphing into outright anger. His own stubbornness might well have put his daughter in danger, but hey, as long as it didn’t make him look stupid.

  ‘You were obviously worried enough to have tried that first call. Why didn’t you call back?’

  ‘He took it.’

  ‘Your phone?’ Porter asked, incredulous.

  ‘Mm-hm. I called you as soon as he gave it back.’

  ‘He kept your phone for two hours?’ said Porter, careful not to let any anger at her husband seep through into this conversation. ‘Seems an extreme thing to do. The controlling type, is he?’

  ‘I know what you must think,’ she said, ‘but he does what he thinks is best.’

  ‘And what about you, Mrs Hallforth? Do you think it was a better idea for us to start searching when she went missing, or wait a few hours?’

  He knew he was close to crossing the line now, that he should rein it back in. He could practically see the complaint on Milburn’s desk already. That last question hit home, and he watched as her eyes filled, tears streaking their way down her face. DC Kelly reached over, put an arm around Ally Hallforth’s shoulder and looked over at Porter.

  ‘Maybe a good time for a break, boss?’

  Porter nodded. Good time to switch rooms and speak to her husband.

  ‘We’ll do everything we can,’ he assured her, ‘but I need you both to be honest with me. Libby needs you to be honest with me.’

  He left her dabbing at her tears with an already grubby hankie, and headed along the corridor to where Simon Hallforth waited. He wasn’t quite the cornered rat that Porter had expected, having checked for prior arrests and seen form for minor offences. Nothing huge in the grand scheme of things: arrested fifteen years ago for possession of cannabis, picked up a few times drunken and disorderly, and one arrest for assault, but charges were dropped.

  Hallforth was early forties, but it was unlikely that anyone would peg him for that. Scores of frown lines criss-crossed his forehead. Dark hair and darker eyes. Definite contender for little man syndrome.

  ‘Why are we in separate rooms?’ he asked as Porter sat down.

  ‘Helps with the statements,’ he said. ‘Avoids one person filling in the other’s blanks with things they might remember differently.’

  ‘I dunno what more you think we can tell you,’ said Hallforth. ‘Like I said before, you’d be better out there looking for my daughter.’

  ‘And the more we know, the better we can direct the search. Now why don’t we start with why you stopped your wife calling us two hours earlier?’

  Straight in, no messing around, Porter slipped it in under his defences like a punch to the liver.

  ‘You what? What the bloody hell are you trying to say?’ Hallforth stammered, volume rising, folding his arms like a shield across his chest.

  ‘I’m not trying to say anything,’ Porter said, keeping his tone level. ‘I know for a fact there was a call from your wife’s phone to 999 around quarter past one. It was terminated pretty much as soon as it was answered, and nobody picked up when they called back. Why would you not want us looking for her sooner?’

  ‘Cos she’s a bloody liability that one,’ he said, angry at being put on the spot. ‘Working herself, hiding around the house, hiding my packet of fags. That’s just what she does.’

  ‘Seems your wife thought differently. She wanted to call us. Why did you stop her?’

  ‘Didn’t want to get in trouble for wasting police time,’ he said, with a smug smile like he’d just won a battle of wits.

  ‘It’s Libby’s time you’re wasting, Mr Hallforth,’ Porter said. ‘Every minute she’s out there, we’re a tiny bit further away from finding her. Who else knew you were at the fairground?’

  ‘What? You think someone was stalking her?’

  ‘Please, sir, if you can just answer the question.’

  ‘I dunno, it’s not like I took out an ad in the paper,’ he said, with a forced grin again, like the whole thing was one big joke.

  Porter had already strayed far from his usual approach with parents of a missing child, but between the two of them they seemed to be holding back for whatever reason, answering his questions with ones of their own.

  ‘How about friends, family, neighbours? Anyone who might have taken a particular interest in Libby?’

  ‘Nope,’ he said; short, to the point, as if Porter was an inconvenience.

  ‘And how are things at home?’

  That got a rise from him, more than Porter expected. ‘No, no, no. You don’t try and turn this round on me.’ Simon Hallforth wagged a finger at him, like telling off a naughty schoolboy, eyes wide with indignation.

  ‘If she has run away, these things tend to be linked to home or school. That’s not to say you or your wife have done anything wrong, but right now, I need to rule things in or out as quickly as possible. So, I’ll ask again, how are things at home? Could she have seen anything that would upset her enough to run away?’

  Hallforth huffed out a loud breath. ‘Gets upset at anything, just like her mother. Pair of ’em can barely watch a Disney film without tearing up.’

  ‘What about her older brother, does she see much of him?’

  ‘Hmph, comes round when it suits him.’

  ‘Quite young to move out. Nineteen, isn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right yeah.’

  ‘Is he at college, university?’

  ‘Got himself an internship at some software company. Always been too clever for his own good.’

  ‘Have you got his contact details? I’d like to speak to him too.’

  Hallforth copied out a number from his own phone, and scribbled an address beside it. ‘Waste of time speaking to him anyway,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t even there. Libby had texted him yesterday, but he said he had to work.’

  ‘Still,’ said Porter, ‘I always try and speak to everyone in the family. Have you let him know what’s happening?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hallforth, almost begrudgingly, ‘his mum called him on the way here.’

  Porter made a mental note to forward the details to Styles for him to follow up tomorrow, and moved on to the matter of Libby’s phone, watching Hallforth’s reaction closely as he did.

  ‘We’re still examining it, but there’s a few things we need to talk about,’ he said, taking the heat from his tone. As much as he’d taken a dislike to Simon Hallforth, the man’s daughter was missing, even if Hallforth himself had a funny way of coping with it. That, and he had to be careful he didn’t come across as too confrontational for the sake of the recording.

  ‘I need to let you know that we found some photographs on there that I’d like you to take a look at.’

 
Hallforth’s cocky I-don’t-give-a-toss mask dropped away, eyes slowly closing as he leant forward, resting elbows on the table.

  ‘What kind of photos? Of her, d’you mean? Have you found her?’ he asked quietly. ‘Is she …’ He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

  No disagreement there. Porter went to reply, but guilt hit him like a slap in the face. He’d been preoccupied with Ally Hallforth, so fixated on the notion of her husband controlling the situation, and why he might do that. So much so that he’d switched rooms to get his answers without mentioning the photos. He’d have to go back in and get her to look at them too. Couldn’t leave it to Simon to tell her about them; he looked like he had the tact and compassion of a spoilt child. Porter tuned back in at the tail end of a rant from Simon.

  ‘… those bloody fairground lot. I bet you any money one of them has got form.’

  ‘We’re speaking to everyone that was there, Mr Hallforth, I promise you that. Now, we’re nearly done for this evening. DC Kelly will arrange for someone to take you home. Before we finish, though, I need you to take a look at these pictures we found on her phone.’

  Hallforth’s forehead crinkled as he watched Porter delve into the folder he’d brought with him, unsure what to expect. The photograph Porter pushed across the table made Hallforth suck in a deep breath, hold it for a three count. Libby’s expression in the picture reminded Porter of his nephews, twin boys, forever being told by his mum that their faces would stay that way if the wind changed. Tongue out, eyes crossed. An arm’s length selfie, a slight tilt to the camera.

  For a second, seeing him stare at the picture of his daughter, it was as if Simon Hallforth had forgotten she was missing, where he was, why he was here. The corners of his mouth tugged up, hinting at a smile.