The Disappearance of Katie Wren

by Cross,Amy

  “You said they pulled some half-dude, half-goat thing out of the river,” she mutters, turning to a fresh page in her notebook. “How does that work?”

  “I just told you what I saw,” I reply. “Listen, please, I need -”

  “I need to get a photo of that,” she says, interrupting me as she makes a note. “Sounds wild. Poor guy. Poor goat too.”

  “It was -”

  “So where are the other parts?” she continues, interrupting me again. “Is there a dude's head sewn to a goat's body somewhere? That doesn't seem as freaky. It seems more... funny. Am I a bad person for thinking that? Am I going to hell?”

  “Nothing about this is amusing!”

  “Sure, sure.” She makes some more notes. “I'm still sending out feelers about all of that. It's not the first time something dodgy has been fished out of the river, and it won't be the last. I have a guy, a source who -”

  “Of course you do,” I mutter under my breath.

  “A guy who knows about stuff like this.” She taps at her phone. “I'm trying to track him down this morning so I can go get his opinion. Most secrets sink in the river, but occasionally you get one that doesn't get stuck in the mud and ends up bobbing back up to the surface. It's usually 'cause of a failed weighting attempt, coupled with gas in the stomach.”

  Suddenly she leans back and pushes her belly out.

  “Have you ever seen a really bloated corpse?” she asks, running her hands over her stomach. “You wouldn't believe how the gas builds and builds in the -”

  “I really don't need to know that,” I tell her through gritted teeth.

  “If there's no natural vent,” she continues, “the pressure becomes enormous. Obviously it has to get out some time, and when it does, basically it sounds like the corpse is farting. I know that's an awful thing to say, but whatever. And sometimes the pressure literally forces flesh and meat off the bone, de-gloving the entire -”

  “I don't need to know that!” I say firmly. “Please!”

  “Sorry.” She sits normally again. “I guess the most important thing is to determine how long the goat guy had been dead.”

  “I called you because you told me you can get things done,” I tell her. “You gave a rather theatrical speech yesterday about how ineffective the police are, and about how I need someone like you if I'm going to find my daughter. Well, here I am.”

  “Scraping the bottom of the barrel, huh?”

  “I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, but so far you don't seem to know anything at all. You're just asking me questions and making occasional vague, non-specific statements. You barely seem more engaged than the officers at the police station.”

  She stares at her notes, before glancing at me. “Huh? Sorry, I zoned out. Your voice has that kinda bedtime-story quality. What did you say?”

  “Forget it,” I mutter, getting to my feet. “This was a mistake.”

  “Hold your horses!” she replies, pointing at the chair as if she wants me to sit down again. “I'm already onto Royas and Bresson, don't worry about that! I've dug up more dirt on those two assholes than the cops could gather in a month of Sundays. Believe me, Fernando Royas and Agnes Bresson ain't saints! They're into some dark shit, and if you wanna know what I know and what I find out later, then you're gonna have to sit down and listen! 'Cause even if the cops ever catch up to where I am right now, by then I'll be even further ahead. I know what I'm doing!”

  I hesitate for a moment, wanting nothing more than to get out of here, but finally I sit back down.

  “It's that fucking river every time,” she continues.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, it's that fucking -”

  “I heard you, but -”

  “Then why'd you interrupt?”

  “Can you moderate your language a little?”

  “Huh?”

  “The swearing and cursing are a little unnecessary,” I point out. “I'd greatly appreciate it if you could limit them to the absolute minimum.”

  “You don't like how I talk?”

  “I think it's lazy to use such words.”

  “Lazy?”

  I can't help sighing. “Fine. Whatever. Can you please tell me what's wrong with the river, and what any of this has to do with my daughter? And try not to use the f-word in the process. Thank you!”

  She stares at me. “You're weird.”

  I sigh again. There's really no point arguing with her. “Can you -”

  “Fine, fine.” She flips back to a previous page in her notebook. “Fernando Royas has a long history of getting mixed up in dark sh -” She catches herself just in time. “In dark stuff,” she continues with a smile. “Is that better?”

  “What kind of dark stuff?”

  “He hung with a couple of satanic groups in Spain and Portugal,” she replies, checking her notes again. “That was back in 2004, 2005. Nothing super-serious, but he definitely ran with the wrong crowd for a good chunk of time and got himself noticed by the local rozzers. After that, I think he was involved with some freaks and weirdos in Paris in 2008, but I'm not totally sure about the details. Could be something, could be nothing. Then he disappeared for a while, probably up to no good somewhere, before he washed up in London four years ago.”

  “Satanic groups?” I reply, feeling a knot of fear in my chest. “As in...”

  “Oh yeah,” she continues. “Serious, serious doo-doo. And he seems to have a habit of picking up impressionable girls every few years, girls who are easily impressed by his brooding garbage. I guess Agnes Bresson is the latest little bitch he's leading around. I don't have much on her so far, other than that she was expelled from a couple of private schools in the Marseilles area back in the late 2000s. She just seems like a stray rat, the kinda girl who follows junkies and idiots around, hoping for scraps from their tables. Now, none of that means she isn't dangerous, but Fernando definitely seems to be the more proactive of the pair. If one of them's leading the way, it'll be him.”

  “And what does this have to do with Katie?” I ask.

  “That's something I'm still working on. From what I can tell, Katie's a nice girl, not the kind to get involved with a pair of idiots, which begs the question of why she struck up a friendship with two of the biggest losers in the whole of London.”

  “My daughter is no fool!” I point out.

  “Sure she's not.” She flicks back earlier in her notebook and takes a moment to read something. “I just think maybe Fernando and Agnes got involved with her for some specific reason. Like they sought her out.” She pauses, reading one of the pages for a moment. “Did you know your daughter was a virgin?”

  “I beg your -”

  “She'd never indulged in the pleasures of the flesh,” she continues. “Pleasures of the battery, maybe, but not the flesh. I checked.”

  “And how did you do that?”

  “I got into her messages. Social media, email, all that guff.”

  “I never gave you permission to do such an awful thing!” I tell her.

  She rolls her eyes. “You never gave me permission to go into yours, either. I did anyway.”

  “I beg your -”

  “You order from that online wine store a lot, Winnie. Can I call you Winnie?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “And yet according to Google Maps, you live three doors down from a wine shop. What's wrong, are you embarrassed to be seen buying so much wine? Figure it's more socially acceptable to schedule late-night deliveries, so the neighbors won't notice? You must be on a bottle and a half, even two bottles a night.”

  “This is an outrage!” I splutter. “How did you get into my email?”

  She smiles. “Not all dark arts are satanic in nature.”

  “I consider this to be a gross violation of my privacy!”

  “Of course it is. I checked Katie's phone, too. She hasn't accessed it or even turned it on since Monday evening, just before midnight.”

  I pause for a moment.
“So does that mean you can't track its location?”

  “Not until she turns it on again. If she turns it on. I have a tracker set up, so I'll know within thirty seconds if that happens.”

  “Maybe she ran out of battery.”

  “Maybe. Is her charger still in her apartment?”

  “I -”

  Suddenly I remember seeing a phone charger plugged into the wall next to Katie's bed.

  “I also managed to see her search history,” Annabelle continues, “and she was definitely a virgin. Turns out, she was one of those girls who wanna wait for the perfect guy to sweep them off their feet. She wanted her first time to be special, with a guy who loves her, on a bed of roses, nowhere near an alley outside a nightclub in Finchley when she's sixteen and just tried Jager-bombs for the first time.” She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Anyway, according to some messages she exchanged with a friend named Anna last year, Katie was starting to have doubts. She was thinking that maybe she should just jump into bed with some guy, any guy, and get it over with. Better late than never, if you ask me. Virginity's like a band-aid, you wanna rip it right off!”

  “Absolutely not,” I reply, shaking my head. “Katie would never contemplate such a thing.”

  “Do you want me to show you the messages?”

  I hesitate for a moment. “What else did you find out? Anything that's actually relevant?”

  “I'm pursuing multiple avenues of investigation. These things take time.” She checks her phone again. “If my buddy at the museum would just get back to me, that'd help.”

  “It can't be that difficult,” I tell her. “Exactly how many satanists are there in London?”

  “I know of eighteen separate groups,” she replies matter-of-factly, “but the real number is more likely double that.”

  “In London?” I reply, shocked.

  “The world is a dark place,” she continues. “In the cities, at least. People get desperate, and they start looking for answers at the margins. Maybe Katie -”

  “My daughter would never get involved with such things!” I snap, offended by the suggestion. “She's a good, honest, optimistic young lady!”

  “Sure she is. I mean, this Fernando guy has never been linked to any of the really serious satanic groups. He's just a dabbler, a kid. I doubt he believes in any of it. Then again, I guess it's possible that he might have inadvertently gotten himself mixed up in something a little more serious.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as I'm not entirely sure yet. I have feelers out, and I'm waiting to hear back.”

  “Feelers?”

  “Discussions with my sources. I'm sorry, I can't be any more specific than that. I'm sure you're aware that a good reporter never reveals her -”

  “Oh, what would you know about being a good reporter?” I ask, getting to my feet again. This time, I feel I really should leave. “My daughter is missing, Ms. Churchill, and as far as I can tell you're just wasting my time here. This might be amusing for you, it might give you something to laugh about with your friends -”

  She reaches into her pocket.

  “- but I don't have time to fuel your ego,” I continue. “The police might not have been much use so far, but they're a damn sight better than -”

  I stop suddenly, as I see that she's holding a necklace.

  Katie's necklace.

  “Where did you get that?” I ask, snatching the necklace from her hands.

  “Recognize it?”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I found it. In the alley behind the building where she lived. Now, what does that tell us?”

  “She never went anywhere without this necklace,” I whisper, turning it over in my hands as I slowly sit back down. I feel utterly numb. “Her father gave it to her, years ago before he died. It was her most treasured possession.”

  “It tells us three things,” Annabelle continues. “First, it tells us that she left the apartment and went along the alley, which seems like an odd route for a girl who's got her head screwed on straight. Second, it tells us that whatever was happening to her, it caused the necklace to fall off. And third, it tells us that the police don't give a flying crap about your daughter's disappearance, because otherwise they'd have at least taken a cursory glance down the alley, and then they'd have found the necklace long before I showed up.”

  I stare at the necklace for a moment longer, before realizing that the clasp is broken. I run a fingertip against the twisted metal.

  “Exactly,” Annabelle says, as if she's read my mind. “Looks to me like it was torn off her. Or, more likely, it was ripped away by accident. That, or she tore it away and left it in the alley so it'd be found. Maybe she wanted to let us know which way she went.”

  Her phone buzzes briefly, and she taps the screen.

  “My poor girl,” I whisper, as tears well once more in my eyes. “Who could have taken her?”

  I turn to Annabelle as she gets to her feet.

  “I don't know yet,” she tells me, “but I'm already doing a damn sight better than the police. So if you don't mind, I'll get back to work and see what else I can find out. I'm assuming my original terms are acceptable to you?”

  “Terms?”

  “I get the exclusive rights to your story. And to Katie's, if and when she comes back. I'll make it sympathetic and all that crap, but it's my story and I -”

  “Fine,” I reply, “whatever, it's all yours. I'll give you anything. Just help me find my daughter!”

  She pauses, before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a crumpled A4 sheet. She uses the cuff of her jacket to wipe the table, and then she sets the sheet in front of me.

  “What's this?” I ask.

  “It's our deal, dummy. Just one page. I like to keep these things nice and simple.”

  “What deal?”

  “The deal whereby I help you, in exchange for exclusive rights to the story.”

  She takes a pen from her pocket and places it next to the sheet of paper.

  “I'm worth it,” she continues. “I'll find Katie. I can't promise what state she'll be in, but I will find her. And that's more than those goddamn cops can say. I'll find her, and I'll find whoever's taken her, and all I ask in return is that you let me be the one to tell your story. If you think about it, that's not a bad deal at all. In fact, it's a bloody great deal. Pardon my French.”

  “I'm not sure -”

  “Take it or leave it! I'm not a charity!”

  I hesitate for a moment, staring at the spot on the contract where I'm expected to sign. As I scan the text, I see that this is a pretty straightforward deal, even if it's also one that somehow formalizes the fact that Katie is in serious trouble.

  Sighing, Annabelle suddenly reaches out to grab the paper.

  “No!” I stammer, sliding it away from her and then quickly signing my name. “Fine. I'll give you whatever you want. Just find my daughter!”

  “That's a good choice,” she replies, taking the paper and pen from me. She checks the signature, before sliding the paper back into her pocket. “I need to figure out some more details about Fernando Royas and Agnes Bresson, but I don't want to focus the entire investigation on them. They might just be a distraction, or at best a pair of useful idiots. Whatever's going on here, I think it runs deeper than those two morons.”

  Still stunned by the sight of the necklace, I feel a shudder pass through my chest as Annabelle heads to the door.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” she adds, turning back to me. “Did your daughter ever mention a place by the name of Knott's Court?”

  I stare at her for a moment.

  “No,” I stammer, “I don't think so, but... No. No, I think I'd remember. I'm sure I would.”

  “Good,” she continues, and I see a hint of relief in her eyes. “That's real good. Means we've actually got a chance of finding her alive. I'll start shaking some bigger trees and see what falls out.”

  As she leaves the diner, I continue to stare at the
necklace. This is the first real sign I've encountered of Katie's disappearance, and I can't help thinking that something must really be wrong. She'd never leave this necklace behind, so the only possible explanation is that for some reason she can't come back. Sitting down again, I realize my hands are starting to tremble.

  Katie must be in real trouble. And I think I just made a deal with the devil to get her back.

  “Hey!”

  Glancing at the door, I see that Annabelle has reappeared, and that she's gesturing for me to go with her.

  “Are you coming or not?” she continues. “My source got in touch and I think maybe it'd be good for you to tag along. It'd be... What's the word?” She pauses, before grinning. “Oh yeah. It'll be educational! Winnie, I'm about to tear your goddamn eyes wide open!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Bowels

  “What is this place?” I ask cautiously, as I follow Annabelle along the cavernous, high-ceilinged corridor. “It smells fusty.”

  “It's part of the university's cultural studies department.”

  “Oh?” I turn to her, feeling a little relieved. “A university? Well, that's reassuring, I suppose...”

  “My friend Bob works here,” she continues, stopping at a squat metal door and knocking. “I think mainly because they've forgotten about him. He's the lowest-paid member of staff in the lowest-budgeted department of the lowest-paying university in the country. But he's a great guy, and he really knows his stuff. Trust me, you're gonna love him. Just try to ignore the smell, 'cause it can get a little foul. And don't stand too close, 'cause he sprays a little when he talks.”

  With that, she pushes the door open and steps inside, leaving me with little choice but to follow.

  ***

  “I've tracked him down to one of three Ethiopian villages,” the short, scruffy man mutters as he wanders across the lab to join us. He's looking down at several photographs in his hands, and after a moment he turns them for me to see. “I analyzed his stomach contents and found two seed fragments from a very unusual type of berry. As soon as I saw that berry, lights went off in my head!”