The Girl in the Empty Room

by Neil Randall

  “And she lived here alone, right?” asked Hepworth, “– single mum, twenty-six, not in a serious relationship.”

  “That’s right.”

  Hepworth walked through to the kitchen and looked out of the window, at the small concreted area which constituted the back garden. Directly outside the back door was what looked like a rabbit hutch, empty, all the wires rusted and broken, a plastic water bottle, mildewed and brown, indicating that a pet hadn’t been housed there for some time.

  “From the preliminary report,” he said over his shoulder, “I understand there were no fingerprints found, that the house had been, quite incredibly, wiped clean, suggesting this wasn’t the work of mindless vandals, local kids on the rampage, that whoever smashed this place up knew exactly what they were doing, that it was planned.”

  “Must’ve been,” said Priestly. “But at this early stage we don’t have any real motive.” She scrolled to her phone’s notepad function. “Only one half interesting lead. One of the missing woman’s friends mentioned something about a young man. Apparently he and Miss Franklin had a brief liaison, as it were. When she called things off he wasn’t very happy about it. The friend gave a name and likely place of employment.” She scrolled to the next page. “An Aaron, works at a local turkey farm, shouldn’t be too hard to track him down.”

  “Okay. We’ll check him out later this morning. Maybe he’s the missing link, because there was something spray-painted on one of the walls upstairs, wasn’t there?”

  “Yes – see how you like it.”

  “See how you like it,” Hepworth repeated. “What could that mean? That our single mum had a habit of breaking into people’s houses and wrecking their belongings? Unlikely. But what could she have done to provoke this kind of reaction?”

  “That remains to be seen. Until we start digging around, talking to people that knew her best. Although there was one bit of good news. We found a laptop wedged down the back of the settee. Somehow it went unnoticed, and survived undamaged.”

  “Really?”

  Priestly took the laptop from her shoulder-bag and handed it to Hepworth.

  “Right.” He placed it on the kitchen table and sat down. “Let’s have a little look at you. Let’s see if you’re hiding any secrets.”

  Fortunately, there was no password required to open the laptop itself, and when Hepworth accessed the internet and the more popular social media sites like Facebook and Twitter, Jacqueline’s passwords had all been saved, too, allowing him direct access to her accounts. On her Facebook page, he scrolled up and down the newsfeed, but bar photographs of cats and dogs and links to different websites, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Clicking onto her profile, he accessed her photo albums finding literally hundreds of what he could only have called selfies, mostly head shots, soft focus, in agreeable light, Jacqueline Franklin looking straight at the camera, dreamy-eyed, a sexy smile playing upon heavily made-up lips, the kinds of pictures people take to attract the opposite sex, the kinds of pictures found on dating websites.

  “A very pretty girl. And she certainly liked taking pictures of herself. Look at these.” He scrolled down screen after screen, image after image. “Strange. There’s not one picture of her children here.”

  Priestly leaned closer, peering over his shoulder. “Not one?”

  “No.” He clicked back onto her profile. Her status was set to single. There was no mention of her being the mother to two children. “Perhaps she used the site exclusively to meet potential boyfriends. Perhaps she didn’t want to scare men off. Perhaps she wanted to get to know someone first, before telling them that she was a single mum.”

  “Makes sense,” said Priestly. “Nothing out of the ordinary in that, I suppose.”

  Two knocks sounded against the front door.

  “Sorry to disturb you.” Henry Franklin shuffled through to the kitchen, his ex-wife not far behind him. “We’re Jacqueline’s parents. We were told to meet you here, to talk about her disappearance.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Now we’ve established a chain of events,” said Hepworth, “I’m going to have to ask you some personal questions about your daughter. Please don’t be offended. At this stage, I really do have to be rather direct regarding her private life.”

  “Okay,” said Henry. “Ask away.”

  “Thank you. Now, we understand that your daughter wasn’t involved with anyone romantically, but what was her relationship like with her previous partner, the father of her children? Did they, as far as you know, get on? Were there any arguments regarding the children, access, anything like that? Moreover, is he a violent or aggressive man, someone capable of breaking into the house, smashing all your daughter’s belongings? Is he capable of harming her in any way?”

  “No, no,” Jane answered emphatically. “While they may have had their differences, Ryan’s not that type of person. He’s a very quiet, gentle sort, not in any way violent, probably due to all the marijuana he’s smoked over the years.”

  “Marijuana?” said Hepworth. “A drug user? If that’s the case, then does your daughter, to the best of your knowledge, also take recreational drugs?”

  Henry and Jane exchanged a quick, nervous, worried look.

  “You may as well tell him,” Jane said to Henry. “There’s no point holding anything back, the police need to know everything there is to know. That way they’ll have a better chance of finding out what has happened.”

  “Yes,” Henry told Hepworth. “Over the years, ever since she was about fifteen or sixteen, ever since we divorced, Jacqueline has regularly used drugs. At first just cannabis or marijuana or whatever you want to call it. But later on we’re pretty sure she used harder substances. What, we’re not certain? Ecstasy? Cocaine? Heroin?”

  Hepworth took a moment to digest this.

  “And did her drug-taking ever become a problem? Did it ever affect her ability to look after her children? Did it lead to any police action or visits from the social services?”

  “From time to time,” said Jane. “Not problems with the authorities as such. But she suffered from terrible post-natal depression, was never quite the same afterwards, and when she and Ryan split up she went off the rails, sometimes didn’t pick the children up from school.”

  “Just like yesterday?”

  “Yes, just like yesterday. And she’s had terrible money problems of late. We’ve been forever bailing her out. One time I sat down and tried to work out her finances, and couldn’t for the life of me understand how she’d got into such a mess. But I suppose she must’ve been spending it on drugs.”

  “And do you have any idea where she might’ve been getting the drugs from? More to the point, considering yesterday’s events, do you think she may’ve got into debt with drug dealers? Were you aware of any problems of this kind?”

  “No, no,” said Henry. “She never discussed such things. Although, like Jane just said, she was forever asking to borrow money – twenty-pounds here, fifty pounds there – but it had gone on for so long, we’d both lost patience with her, she’d cried wolf once too often, and if she ever asked for a loan, we turned her down, point-blank.”

  “That’s understandable,” said Hepworth. “We’ll speak to local police, find out who supplies drugs to young people in the area, see if we can’t establish some kind of link. Perhaps your daughter had been receiving threats and decided to disappear, to lie low for a while.”

  “You really think so?”

  “It’s a possibility,” said Hepworth. “Are there any family members or close friends, people she trusts, people she might’ve contacted, where she might be hiding out?”

  “No,” said Jane. “Not that I can think of. Both Henry and I come from small families. We stay in touch with relatives but are not particularly close. Most of Jacqueline’s friends live in town, are young mothers just like her. There aren’t many other people I can think of, apart from that awful tattooist.”

  “Tattooist?”

  “Y
es,” she replied. “Jacqueline has, how can one put it? – dozens of tattoos, up and down her arms mostly, hideous things. And well, she got some of them before her eighteenth birthday – which was illegal. As you can imagine, we went berserk, wanted to know exactly where she’d had them done. In the end, after much haranguing, we finally managed to get it out of her, the name of the chap she’d gone to see. And you couldn’t have dreamt up a more unsavoury character –Bogus or The Boge is what the youngsters call him, although I think his real name is Bogdanovic. We tracked him down to a dilapidated caravan on a strip of wasteland just outside of town, near some woods. Couldn’t believe it, the place was like a rundown gypsy camp, stunk like an open sewer, dogs on chains, burnt-out cars. And the man himself, well! Impossibly tall, thin as a rake, covered from head to toe in tattoos, long straggly hair down his back, all these tribal beads around his neck, eyes like flying saucers. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s the one supplying drugs around here, from the look of him. What a sight! He was like some sort of shambling shaman, had a shaved monkey perched on his shoulder, for pity’s sake. And when we confronted him, he started rambling about God being his only judge, and that if Jacqueline really was under-age he’d take any punishment we saw fit. He urged us to call the police. By then we were more concerned about her health, whether the needles he used were properly sterilised, and rushed her to the local hospital for blood tests, which, thankfully, all came back clear.”

  “And you say your daughter has had several more tattoos?” Both parents nodded. “By the same man?”

  “That we don’t know,” said Henry. “She never told us, and our relationship, how we communicate, has deteriorated over the years. “

  “Okay,” said Hepworth. “For the time being, we’ll start speaking to people in town, your daughter’s friends, those closest to her, and a couple of other locals who’ve come to our attention. If nothing is heard from her by tonight, we’ll make the information public, contacting the local press and news stations, which will probably culminate in a televised appeal. Are you comfortable with appearing in front of the press?”

  “Yes, yes,” Jane answered for them both.

  “Finally” said Hepworth, “there’s no one you know of who’s got a grudge against Jacqueline, anyone who may’ve wanted to get back at her for some reason?”

  Jane and Henry exchanged another sideways glance.

  “No,” he said. “Not to our knowledge. She may’ve knocked around with some, erm…shady characters from time to time, but no-one who would want to harm her in any way, of that I’m certain.”

  Chapter Ten

  Five Days Earlier: The Wednesday Evening

  There was something about Jonathan Reynolds, a ridiculously well-groomed estate agent, that seriously aggravated Jacqueline. Perhaps it was his self-assuredness, how he displayed no apparent nerves, the way he sat on a leather sofa in a cosy corner of the busy pub, one leg crossed over the other, an arm draped over a cushion, like he was relaxing at home. Or perhaps it was the way he kept asking all the textbook first date questions, focusing the conversation solely on her, paying the occasional compliment. It was far too polished. It made her feel nervous, like this man was always going to be one step ahead of her.

  “Have you been active on dating websites, then, Jacqueline? Or is this your first time?”

  “I’ve met a few people on-line – nothing serious, though. What about you?”

  “Well, I lead a very busy life, with work and my various hobbies, so internet dating makes good sense. I’m a bit of a fitness nut, you see, lots of running and cycling, marathons and iron man challenges.”

  “Iron man?” she said, trying not to laugh. While he clearly looked after himself, he was quite short, maybe five foot six (shorter than Jacqueline, in fact) and of slight build – not exactly the image the words iron man brought to mind.

  “Yes,” he went on, not noticing the mocking smile curling her lips. “I try and compete in half a dozen or so triathlons a year, mainly in the summer months when the weather’s a bit better.”

  “Triathlons? Is that like cycling and swimming and running? I remember watching the Olympics in London.” Very deliberately she looked him up and down. “I don’t think I’ve been out with an iron man before.” She ran her tongue over her top lip and gave him her best sultry stare. “You must be quite a specimen. May I?” She reached over and squeezed one of his biceps – which clearly massaged his ego. It was pathetic, she thought to herself, one simple compliment and men lose all composure, all sense of superiority.

  “Very impressive,” she said, shifting closer. “And I bet you’ve got a six-pack, haven’t you?”

  “Well…” He almost blushed.

  “I think I’d like to see that sometime.”

  “I bet you would.”

  ***

  “Thanks for the drink.” Karen guzzled back pear cider from a pint glass crammed with ice-cubes. “Can’t tell you how excited I’ve been today, had my hair and nails done and everything.”

  “Oh right,” said Aaron, struggling to remember all the things Jacqueline had told him to say. “Very nice – your hair and nails, I mean.”

  “Ah, thanks, Aaron.” She smiled at him, her fleshy cheeks already flushed with good-feeling. “And it’s certainly busy in here tonight, for midweek, for the end of October.”

  “Yeah.” He turned and looked at the waiting staff ferrying plates to and from nearby tables.

  “You used to go out with that Jade girl, didn’t you?” Karen didn’t give him a chance to answer. “She’s very pretty. My sister said you were together for ages.”

  “Yeah we were,” he said, suddenly struck by the fact. “I’ve, erm…not really had a proper relationship since.” He lowered his eyes. “S’pose I just want to settle down, to meet someone special. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I know exactly what you mean, Aaron.” She reached across the table and put a hand over one of his. “And maybe that someone special could be me.”

  ***

  “Yeah, most weekends,” Jonathan slurred, sounding half-drunk already, “I usually run ten k along the beach. Good for the quads, especially (hiccup) on the dry sand. You can’t beat a good rush of endorphins…”

  Jacqueline had stopped listening, a voice at the bar; a man with a grating south London accent, just out of sight, capturing her full attention.

  “Nah, come on, mate, what you need behind the bar is a fit-looking bird, blonde, big tits. Only way to bring the facking punters in. Yeah. Bit of talent, bit of eye facking candy.”

  Everything he was saying encapsulated everything Jacqueline hated most about men, how they stereotyped women, making degrading comments, talking as if every female was put on the planet purely for their pleasure.

  “Are you all right?” said Jonathan, sensing that her attention was elsewhere.

  “No, I’m not! Are you listening to this prick?”

  “Prick? What prick?”

  “That idiot at the bar, going on about barmaids, how they only work in pubs so men can ogle them. I’ve got a good mind to go over there and tell him to shut the fuck up.”

  “What?” said Jonathan. “I –”

  But Jacqueline had already shot to her feet and stormed through to the main part of the bar, where she found a runtish, balding man waving a jerky finger at a spotty, bewildered-looking barman.

  “Hey!” She prodded him in the back. “Why don’t you shut your mouth? You’re talking a load of bullshit. No-one wants to hear your sexist bollocks.”

  “You – You what?” He was so shocked he could barely form his words.

  “Yeah,” said the barman, encouraged by Jacqueline taking a stand. “You’ve finished your drink.” He whipped the empty pint glass off the counter. “So why don’t you go home? You’re not the kind of person we want drinking here.”

  “But I –”

  “Go!” shouted Jacqueline. “You’re pissed. And you’ve made a right dick of yourself.”

  Sheepish
now, he looked from Jacqueline to the barman, mumbled a few words under his breath, turned and stumbled over to the door.

  When Jacqueline returned to the sofa, Jonathan appeared to have sobered up a bit.

  “I don’t know why you just did that. It was stupid, unnecessary. Why question someone you don’t want any answers from?”

  “What?”

  “Pubs are full of idiots like him, regurgitating the same sexist nonsense. By calling him out you’re only showing that a dinosaur like him can still get to you.”

  “I’m just sick of having to listen to that shit, to muppets like him putting women down, talking about us like we’re nothing more than slabs of meat. All my life I’ve had to suffer twats like that. And I’m not having it. If something pisses me off, I won’t just sit there like a good little girl, nodding my head politely.”

  “Whoa!” He raised his hands defensively. “I couldn’t agree more. Only I don’t see there being much benefit in such a confrontation. You know that old saying – Don’t argue with idiots. They’ll bring you down to their level then beat you with experience.”

  Jacqueline couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

  “Ha! I suppose. Look. Do you want to come back to mine?”

  ***

  “Well, I don’t know.” Karen bit into her bottom lip. “Do you think it’s a good idea, going back to my flat? We don’t want to rush things.”

  “It’s only a late drink,” Aaron said as casually as possible. “And we’ll be able to carry on talking, getting to know each other.”

  “Okay, then.” She picked up her glass and drained her cider so quickly, the ice-cubes rattled and clunked, thudding against her top lip. Placing the glass back on the table, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “But – But we best not get too carried away, not on the first night. I mean, you can stay if you want to, you can sleep in my bed but…”