“Her mother’s telephone number’s on the same piece of paper. Margie has a mobile as well. I bought it for her so she could call me if she had any difficulties when she took the children out. Her surname’s Pocklington.”
“Thank you. Presumably you’ve tried to call the mobile?”
“Yes, several times. I think she’s switched it off.”
“Mrs Yates tells me you suspect that Mrs Pocklington’s got a drink problem.”
“I more than suspect! The woman’s off her face most of the time.”
“Have you met her?”
“No, but I’ve spoken to her on the phone a few times. Or rather tried to make sense of what she’s been saying. Margie’s embarrassed by her. She tries to keep her out of her life as much as she can.”
“I see. What about Mr Pocklington?”
“He walked out last year. I think it was just before Margie came to work here. That was the reason she took the job: to pay her way, because her father won’t and her mother can’t support her. She’d hoped to go to university this year. She’ll have to wait now.”
“Have you ever seen any marks on Margie?”
“Marks? What do you mean? She isn’t the sort of girl to have tattoos.”
“I mean bruises. The sort of marks she might have got if someone had hit her.”
“No, nothing like that. The only thing that’s unusual about her is that she’s very slim. Far too thin, in fact, and I’m sure she’s lost weight since she first came here, though she denies it.”
“She was here at work yesterday?”
“Yes. She came around eight, as usual in time to have some breakfast. She left a bit later than usual. I suppose it must have been five-thirtyish, perhaps closer to six.”
“Did you notice anything different about her behaviour? Did she seem more subdued about anything, or upset? Or the opposite, more giggly and talkative than usual?”
“No, I don’t think so. She does get upset sometimes, either because her mother’s been drunker than normal or because she’s seen her father, but she didn’t mention either of them yesterday. She’s never giggly or talkative. She’s a solemn little lass.”
“Have you tried calling either of her parents?”
“I’ve called her mother. I can’t get a reply. I don’t have contact details for her father, but I’m sure she wouldn’t go there. She’s not welcome. Her father’s new woman doesn’t like her. I think the feeling’s mutual: Margie would have more pride than to visit her.”
“Do you know her parents’ first names?”
“The mother’s name is Liz.”
“She shouldn’t be hard to track down,” said Juliet. “There can’t be more than one Liz Pocklington living in Chestnut Avenue. I’m going back to the station. I’ll get on to it straight away.”
She stands up abruptly. “I’ll let myself out.”
Juliet strides out of the room and has reached the front door before I can pass Sophia to Mrs Sims. I race to catch up with her.
“Juliet, what’s the matter?”
Her face is a mask.
“Nothing’s the matter. You’re worried about this girl, aren’t you? You’ve told me you think her disappearance should be treated as an emergency. Well, I’m treating it as one. Satisfied?”
She turns the catch on the door.
“You’ll keep me informed, won’t you, as you make progress?”
She sighs.
“Yes, I’ll keep you informed. You and Tim and Andy and Ricky and Superintendent Thornton and the policewoman Tim’s bringing back with him from London and anyone else who wants to know. You can all share a piece of the credit if we find this girl alive; and I have no doubt that someone will expect me to shoulder the blame if we don’t, and I’ll probably accept it. How’s that for being flexible?”
“Juliet, you know that’s not . . .”
She’s halfway through the door, but she looks back over her shoulder.
“Not fair?” She says. “Is that what you were going to say? No, it isn’t, is it? It isn’t bloody fair at all.”
The door closes smartly behind her. I see Mrs Sims hovering at the end of the short hall, her eyes alive with curiosity.
Chapter 35
The small man had a shopping list in his pocket. It was the client’s list, not his own. Now he was pacing the streets of London, thinking best how to service it.
Railway stations were always a good bet. King’s Cross was his favourite. There was a touching naïveté about travellers from the North. From the eastern side of the North, he corrected himself. No flies on people from the North-West, his own homeland.
The digital clock at the station gave the time as 14.30. He scanned the arrivals board and saw that a train from Peterborough was due in at 14.42. He leaned against the barrier, waiting for it to arrive. His head was throbbing and his face felt raw. He hoped that his appearance would not frighten off his prospects. Glancing down at his shoes, he saw that the toecap of one had been so badly scuffed that the leather had almost worn through. He felt desperately sorry for himself. He needed a drink, but his attackers had given him only £20 to ‘do the business’ and he doubted that’d be enough even if he didn’t make unnecessary inroads into it. He resolved never to get himself into this mess again. He should have stuck with picking off individuals like Hedley Atkins and that City wanker, Jennings. They played better to his talents than the Khans. He should not have tried to better himself by mixing himself up with an organisation whose endless tentacles stretched everywhere. Ambition could be a terrible thing: he knew he had no hiding place. He might even have to opt for another stretch inside. He shuddered at the thought, but it might be the lesser of two evils.
A woman walked past him, rattling a collecting bucket. She paused for a moment, looked him up and down and moved on. She thought he looked more like a recipient of charity than a donor, he realised with a sudden access of rage. How dare they reduce him to this!
An announcement rang out over the tannoy. He hadn’t been listening, but he guessed that the train he’d been waiting for had arrived. Giving himself a mental shake, he turned to the job in hand. He knew that doing the work he’d been assigned was the first step towards breaking free.
He spotted her almost immediately when the passengers on the train disembarked and streamed out on to the concourse. He knew his prayers had been answered. She was exactly what he was looking for; she fitted the bill to a ‘t’. Gamine, gauche, slender, fragile, with just a hint of spirit. And dark-haired. And, even more important, he thought she must be ‘eighteen years old or less’. Who would have thought it?
He watched as she approached the barrier. She didn’t have much luggage - just a rucksack and a large zipped bag - but he could tell that she hadn’t come to London as a tourist. He could always spot them, the runaways. Usually they were escaping from some vile relative, or perhaps they’d committed a minor crime and it had blown up out of all proportion in their minds. The odd one was pregnant. He made it his business to sniff that out and ditch them like red-hot irons if they were. He could usually distinguish them, though. There was a pathos, a sense of betrayal, of loss, about the ones who were up the duff. This girl wasn’t like that. He saw a muted defiance in her, a willingness to take on the world. Good, because she’d need it.
She was almost level with him now, but she seemed not to have noticed him. She frowned as she took the ticket from her bag and held it against the barrier as if it was an Oyster card. Nothing happened, of course. He glanced around him. There should have been a railway official on duty at the barrier, but there wasn’t a uniform in sight. He blessed the inefficiencies of British railways and stepped forward.
“Are you all right, my dear? You’re looking a little bit lost.” He put on his blandest, most charming voice, ever the friendly old gentleman trying to help. Noblesse oblige, and all that.
&n
bsp; She looked up, startled, and recoiled slightly as she met his eye, glinting clear and black as usual, but encased in a puffy mess of swollen flesh. His lip was hideously swollen, too.
“Oh, don’t be alarmed,” he drawled. “I’m terribly short-sighted and I had an argument with a plate glass door this morning. Nothing serious, I assure you, so please don’t worry.” He congratulated himself that he’d neatly turned her concern to himself. That usually worked. “Now, what’s the problem? Don’t you have the right ticket?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. She was very pale and seemed close to tears. All the better.
“Let me see.”
She handed over the pink ticket, slightly damp and dog-eared from the sweat on her anxious fingers. He smoothed it out, saw that it had been purchased using a student railcard. He looked at her face again. She didn’t look old enough to be a student, but appearances could be deceptive.
“This is a valid ticket,” he said. “You need to feed it into that slot in the barrier. It’s quite simple.”
She did as he suggested. The barrier swung open and she managed a wan smile as she passed through. He realised that she felt foolish. He needed to think quickly, find a reason for detaining her before she disappeared into the crowds.
“You look tired,” he said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
She stood and stared at him, undecided.
“Oh, I understand,” he said. “You can’t be too careful. But I’m quite safe, I promise you. And we don’t need to go very far. There’s a Pret-a-Manger just over there.” He gestured towards the concourse café. “Perhaps I can help you with a bit more advice before you venture out into the city? London can be quite daunting if this is your first visit. Is it your first?” he added, regarding her beadily from beneath the swollen eye.
She nodded.
He took her lightly by the elbow and steered her across towards the tables.
“You sit here and I’ll get you something to drink. Would you prefer tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please. A cappuccino?” she added hopefully.
The small man shuddered inwardly. He might have guessed that she would order something vulgar – ‘trendy’, he believed the word was – but he’d expected a little better from her. Still, it would help him to harden his heart. She’d seemed almost too much of a waif at the barrier. She’d had a quick tug at his heart strings but he banished it now.
He queued at the counter, returning with a frothing cappuccino and a tall glass cup containing a muslin net filled with green leaves. He fished the latter out and inspected it.
“An apology for a cup of tea,” he observed. “But the best on offer.”
She was uncertain whether to laugh. She thought from the tone of his voice that he was joking, but it was hard to tell.
“Thank you,” she said, removing the coffee from the tray.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, making a batting-away gesture. “Where do you come from?”
“From Spalding,” she said. “You probably haven’t heard of it. It’s in . . .”
“Oh, believe me, my dear, I’ve heard of it,” he said, incredulous of his good luck. He had some slight misgivings about the coincidence, but it couldn’t have been anything else. “I lived there for a short time, some years ago. You’d have been very young then: still at primary school, probably.”
“That’s amazing!” she said, her eyes widening. “How long ago was it, exactly?”
“Oh, let me see – five years, I think, or was it six?”
“I’d have left primary school by then, but only a year or two before. I’ve left school altogether now.”
“Really? How old are you, then?”
“I’m seventeen, eighteen next week. I passed the eleven plus early, so I’m younger than most of my year.”
“Well, I’d never have guessed. You look even younger than that.”
She smiled ruefully.
“That’s not necessarily a good thing, when you’re looking for a job.”
“Oh, you’re looking for a job, are you? I’d thought perhaps you were on holiday, here to do a bit of sight-seeing.”
“I wish. I need to find some work pretty quickly. And somewhere to live.”
“I see. Fallen out with your parents, have you?”
“Not exactly. But they’ve split up, and I don’t really belong with either of them anymore. And I need to save some money so that I can go to university.”
“Is that so? Well, I’m not making any promises, my dear, but I think I know someone who may be able to help you. There’s a job he needs to fill at the moment which would just suit you. If you get it, your accommodation will be provided for as well. How does that sound?”
Chapter 36
Juliet had found an address for Mrs Elizabeth Pocklington. She’d also tried calling the number that Mrs Sims had given her, but couldn’t get a reply. She was on her way out of the police station when she met Tim coming through the door. He was accompanied by a short, thick-set woman who had jet black hair and was wearing Doc Martens.
“Juliet! Just the person I want to see,” said Tim effusively.
“Hi, Tim.” She was studiedly off-hand. “I’m sorry, I need to go out right away, to see the mother of the girl that’s disappeared.”
“Somefing come up, ’as it?” said the short woman.
Juliet looked at her without responding.
“This is DC Chappell, Juliet,” said Tim. “Nancy, you’ll have guessed that Juliet is DC Armstrong. I’ve mentioned her to you already. She’s been working on the Ayesha Verma case.”
Nancy Chappell nodded, evidently unfazed by Juliet’s hauteur. Tim, on the other hand, was astonished by her hostility: Juliet was usually so eager to please, to co-operate with everyone.
“So, what’s ’appening?” Nancy Chappell pursued. “Some kind of breakfrough?”
Juliet realised her mistake.
“No. Nothing, as far as I know. I’m going to talk to the mother of another girl who’s disappeared. Nothing to do with Ayesha Verma. DI Yates knows about it: he discussed it with his . . . with another colleague earlier. But perhaps you’ve forgotten?” She raised a satirical eyebrow. Tim decided she’d gone far enough.
“No, Juliet, I haven’t forgotten. I’d hoped you’d have time to talk to DC Chappell now, while I’m still here, but, if you’ve got more important things to do, that’s fine. Nancy’ll be here tomorrow. She’ll be able to get some rest this evening now.”
His tone wasn’t lost on Juliet. She immediately felt uncomfortable: creating difficulties wasn’t her style. She flushed and held out her hand.
“Sorry if I seem a bit distracted,” she said. “I’m worried about this girl, that’s all.”
Nancy Chappell took her hand and squeezed it in a vice-like grip.
“That’s all right. See you tomorrow.”
“And I’ll see you next week, Juliet.”
“Yes. Take care. And good luck, Tim.”
“She doesn’t like me,” said Nancy Chappell, after Juliet had disappeared. “Not surprising, really. I wouldn’t like it if DI ’acker plonked someone down on my patch.”
“That’s too bad. I’m not in the business of massaging Juliet’s ego. We need to find out what’s happened to Ayesha Verma as quickly as we can. You’ve got the experience, Juliet hasn’t. End of story.”
“And you think that beetlin’ off to India will help?”
Tim hesitated. “Yes. The fiancé cousin’s the most likely suspect and he’s offered to answer questions, but only if I can get there before the end of the week. What do you think?”
“I’m not sure . . .”
“Ah, Yates.” A voice came booming down the stairwell. “I’m glad you’ve got here at last. There are several things I want to go through with you before you set off on your little jaunt.”
Tim and Nancy Chappell looked up simultaneously. Superintendent Thornton was peering over the banister.
“Can someone else deal with that good lady?” he asked.
Tim was embarrassed. Obviously Thornton thought that Nancy Chappell was a member of the public. He shot her a sideways glance and was even more disconcerted to see that she was grinning from ear to ear.
Chapter 37
Juliet knew Chestnut Avenue well: her flat was in Rowan Avenue, the adjoining street. Chestnut Avenue was the road nearest the river on the St Paul’s Estate, a large social housing development built in the post-war years partly to accommodate Spalding’s burgeoning population, partly to provide decent accommodation for people who’d been living in ancient sub-standard cottages or buildings damaged by bombs. Most of the houses and flats on the estate were well cared-for; many, like her own flat, were now owner-occupied.
There were exceptions, however. Juliet had a hunch which house Number 131 was going to be and once she arrived there she was proved right. The house, a fairly substantial semi, stood in a wilderness of garden strewn with old cardboard boxes and bits of bicycle. The lawn was choked with weeds and two standard roses set in a small circle in the middle of it were struggling to survive. The paint was peeling from the front door and the windows at the front of the house, one of which had been half boarded up. It couldn’t have been one of the houses still owned by the council: they would never have let it get into such a state.
Juliet shoved open the rusty gate and picked her way gingerly along the path leading to the porch. She stepped inside it, avoiding a pool of something viscous that was leaking from the doorstep to the paving stones below it. The door had no doorbell, but the letterbox was fitted with a doorknocker, both spotted with verdigris. Juliet lifted it gingerly, sickening as something sticky smeared itself on to her hand, and rapped it several times. There was no reply, but, peering through the thick net curtains, she could see a light shining deep inside the house. She rapped the doorknocker again and waited, listening. She thought that she heard some movement from behind the door, but she couldn’t be certain. She banged on the door with her fist.
Rooted in Dishonour Page 15
