Abduction in Dalgety Bay

by Ramsay Sinclair

  Mrs Carling was more than grateful to sit down, but her husband refused as a grey colouring had spread across his neck, the pallor of a ghost. Shamefully intrigued, we were all invested in this tale and were on tenterhooks to hear the rest.

  “Where were you when this happened?” McCall asked Mr Carling concernedly. She had a certain, innate way of dealing with them compassionately that nobody else here possessed.

  The elderly father paced the floor, obviously unsettled. “I was working at home. My wife phoned me and was crying her heart out. I could hear screaming on the street through the receiver and went to help, but I wasn’t quick enough.” Mr Carling probably wasn’t that old, but the haggard expression pinned him years above his real age. “You’ll find her, won’t you? Please tell me you’ll find our daughter.”

  We could physically feel the pain emanating from them, a scene of grief and trauma displayed in the centre of our office.

  “Yes. We’ll try our best,” Rebecca and DC Taylor interjected in unison whilst handing over two mugs of steaming coffee. Hopefully, these were stronger than her usually weak drinks.

  “What time did this take place?” I longed to know all the pressing details so that we could begin to search the Bay immediately. There wasn’t a moment to waste with crimes of this nature, for nobody knew if their daughter was in immediate harm’s way. “How did they take her? By car or foot? If it was by car, what was the registration number? Did you see the people at all?” I bombarded the poor couple by accident and overwhelmed them with all of my burning queries.

  “DI Cooper,” McCall warned me to tread with caution. I didn’t know whether it was for my sake or for the couple’s. Waving her concerns away, we waited for an answer.

  Mrs Carling stuttered whilst recalling the order of events. “It was just after I picked Sarah up from school. About, uh, I don’t know. Three o'clock?”

  “Three-twenty,” Mr Carling clarified as he absentmindedly twisted the gilt ring on his left finger.

  “It was a van, a white one, that took her on the same road as the primary school.” Mrs Carling scratched her permed style hairdo and squeezed both weeping eyes shut. “I didn’t see the number plate. I was too busy running after Sarah.” She was clearly traumatized by the incident, as any sane person would be.

  “She said the person was wearing a balaclava. That the bastard covered their face,” Mr Carling fumed. His balding scalp shone in the dim station lights. “Shouldn’t you be sending more cars out there by now or something? It feels useless to sit here and talk whilst our daughter’s out there. God only knows who could have her or what they’re doing.”

  “Once we’ve got all the necessary details, we can start searching for your daughter, Mr Carling,” McCall leant him a reassuring nod, and he balled both fists in helplessness.

  “Those cowards. When I find them, I’ll--”

  “Violence never helps these sorts of situations,” Tony leant a calm word of advice to the disturbed father, and it was truthful. The constables all began to chime in with their alternative words of advice.

  “Actually, if you punched them where it hurts a few times, I’m sure they’d never mess with your daughter again.” Cillian eagerly demonstrated a few awful punches, bobbing in the same direction as his throws. Frankly, it looked utterly ridiculous, let alone provocative, at the wrong time.

  Tony choked nervously on his untimely bout of laughter, twirling at a forty-five-degree angle on his chair and watched the whole interaction unfold. “Not now, DC Murphy.” He pointedly stopped our colleague from punching the thin air and switched his attention to the disgruntled couple. “You saw just one person? Is there anyone with a reason for taking your daughter--?”

  “Sarah,” Mrs Carling informed us again and clutched a rectangular bag between her hands. “She’s only seven. She can’t fend for herself.”

  “Sarah,” Tony corrected himself, burly shoulders hanging loose. He had children at home, so I’m sure he could only imagine how the couple were coping with this. Mr Carling rubbed his cheeks frustratedly. He had a sort of giant mole on his upper lip, which wriggled whenever he talked.

  “Is there ever an excuse for this kind of thing? We haven’t provoked anyone if that’s what you’re suggesting.” Mr Carling tapped his leg habitually, a sign of his increasing jitters.

  “I wasn’t.” Tony kept himself composed and managed to keep his approach soft and understanding. He itched his skewiff eyebrows in thought. “But there are hundreds of kids on the school run, so why would someone actively go through the trouble to take Sarah?”

  McCall voiced her agreement as DC Taylor scribbled a few notes helpfully onto a personal pad full of deductive writing. Their shoulders rubbed together, the only bit of fondness they could really share during these work hours.

  The poky office was beginning to overflow from the sheer amount of people crammed into the space. It was small, originally intended to be built for a few officers, that was about it. We were bundled up like a game of sardines, threatening to burst at the scenes if anyone else came in here.

  “I-I don’t know,” Mrs Carling squeaked, her curls sticking up frantically in a manner of random directions. She stroked the bag she held in a comforting cuddle and rocked on the chair. “We had a business. Have,” she corrected, black drips of mascara creating a panda effect around both eyes from each fresh tear. “There was a letter we received a few months ago. Well, my husband did.”

  Mr Carling put a protective hand onto her shoulder, massaging small circles in a slow rhythm. They were disjointed, seemingly thinking it was the right thing to do at a time like this.

  “The letter came to our business offices a few months ago. We’ve closed our offices since. We used to be a company that gave other companies a loan to help out with their own company startups--”

  “Lots of enemies then,” Rebecca noted.

  “Quite,” Mr Carling agreed. “Unfortunately, there aren’t many people starting to trade around Dalgety Bay, as trade is slow around these parts. Most people don’t have enough customers nor enough trade, apart from those that deal with seasoned tourists. That had a knock-on effect, hence the closing down of our company too.” He stooped tiredly, and I assumed the pressure of owning their own business is where his heavy set frown had originated from. “I walked into my office all those months ago and found a handwritten note on my desk. I assumed it was a weird, twisted joke or an elaborate threat to con me out of the money.”

  “What did the note say?” McCall paused.

  “It threatened to kidnap Sarah in exchange for £20,000,” he admitted, and I choked. Boy, that was a large sum.

  “You didn’t come to the police straight away?” McCall wondered.

  “It all seemed ridiculous at the time and highly unlikely to be carried out. We didn’t want to be time-wasters. There had been rumours of kids stealing from businesses around this time, and we presumed they were trying their luck. Anyway, nothing happened for three months, until today. I thought they’d moved on to another target, whoever wrote us the letter,” he finished sheepishly.

  “I can’t say I would’ve done the same in your shoes, but I suppose I can see where you’re coming from,” I said dryly. “However, as concerned parents, you should've come to us right away in the hopes of protecting your child. But what’s done is done, and these are the consequences we’ll have to deal with throughout the case.”

  The parents bowed and shrank back at my harsh reprimand. Mrs Carling’s lips only wobbled more at the rebuke. If it made them think twice about their action or lack thereof, they needed to hear what I had to say. A lot of crimes would be avoided if the public weren’t so hesitant to come forward sooner. We wouldn’t bite them if they had a genuine reason for concern. Well, Skipper might bite, but she was the anomaly.

  “What about your employees? Did you have any?” DC Taylor wondered, circling another note on his paper in blue ink. His tongue poked out in concentration, and his overgrown mane fell over his forehea
d.

  “A couple of people. We’ve struggled to pay their full wages because of all our struggles. They were all very understanding, and none of them would do such a spiteful thing as taking Sarah to get even,” he assured us wholeheartedly. The unwavering faith in their employees was evident.

  “To your faces, maybe, but behind closed doors, I’m willing to bet that they’ve held a grudge. I would have,” Cillian joined in and brushed at his caramel coloured suit to rid some pencil shavings from the material.

  “We ideally need to see the note ourselves. Do you also happen to have a copy of your employee records whilst we’re on that topic?” McCall gently prized the finished drinks from the couple’s shaking hands. Concern was etched into her porcelain features.

  “They’re all at our offices. What’s this got to do with finding Sarah?” Mr Carling got wound up whilst his wife had finally calmed the hiccuping sobs down.

  “We have to search each possible avenue,” McCall explained. “It’s near impossible to drive around town willy-nilly in hopes of finding Sarah now. The kidnapper will be hidden by now if they’ve got any sense. I’ll get our DCI to send out a few of the local police just in case, whilst we have a chance to look deeper into your lives and to find out who could’ve possibly done such a thing. To see if it’s definitely a targeted attack, and usually, targeted attacks are committed by people we know personally. People with a reason behind the drastic action taken.” Her blue eyes washed over with a sort of fire, one I immediately recognised as dangerous determination. “Rebecca will look after you whilst we start searching.”

  The leggy brunette bowed in agreement.

  “The rest of you, I want to find me any witness reports or any similar crimes that have happened around the bay recently,” McCall ordered. “We’ll look to see if there are any patterns to do with this kidnapping or a specific MO used here.”

  Soon, a frantic cacophony of computer keyboards filled the crowded room. DC Taylor muttered to himself, re-reading all the notes he had taken during the past few minutes.

  “McCall, I am perfectly capable of helping here--” I strode closer, on a mission to fight for my position.

  “DCI Harvey’s word is final,” she asserted, no doubt guessing that I’d want to get involved, rummaging through her belongings with intention. “I’m fronting the case.”

  “But--”

  “No buts.” Her steely tone silenced me. Dipping lower, the ginger woman muttered, “This isn't about us. We’ve got more important things to think about.” She raised one brow towards Mr and Mrs Carling. I heard the telltale clink of her car keys and noticed she’d bundled her coat over her arm.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To get DCI Harvey caught up to speed, and then I want to take a visit to the Carling’s private offices. I’ll search for the employee records and pick up the letter. Then I’ll come straight back here, of that, I can promise you.” She glanced at the couple who were asking Rebecca a million questions in panicked tones.

  “Okay.” I nodded and grabbed my coat too, which hung on a coat hook in my own office.

  “What are you doing?” McCall hissed, her flaming locks blowing from the sudden movement.

  “I’m coming with you, as always. We’re still partners.” I frowned as I stated the obvious.

  “Uh, uh. I refuse. I’m sorry, but DCI Harvey said that you were supposed to rest and take it easy. You’d be better off filling in some paperwork for a few weeks.” She directed me back towards my own office. Neither one of us wanted to fold first. “It’s nothing personal. You know how it goes.”

  “Please don’t condescend me,” I gently pushed her firm grip away. “You’re fronting the case, but that doesn't mean I have to be useless. I’m pulling rank as detective inspector.” I pulled the last trick left up my sleeve with a flourish. “And I insist on assisting you to the Carling’s offices. That being said, I’ll meet you in the car.”

  With those words, I left a gaping McCall standing amidst the general chaos.

  7

  “Urgh. This is disgusting.”

  We waded through a bunch of piled up letters and dirt alike. It seemed like years since anyone had stepped foot inside of the Carlings’ business offices, where they specialised in providing loans for other startup businesses around the bay. Bit ironic, really, that they’d caved under in their own venture that was supposed to help others with their own.

  The main entrance was a heaping pile for junk mail. The postmen must have simply shoved leftover pamphlets through the letterbox at every opportunity they were given. Circles of black mould contaminated the ceilings, threatening to destroy the building’s structure for good. Around the edges, green infiltrated the bleak damp, and that was definitely where the putrid scents arose from.

  Clumps of mud had stuck to the once pristine carpets, where stains now littered each corner of the floor and nobody had cleaned in a while, for thick layers of dust resided upon any bare surface and proceeded to be disrupted by our sweeping movements. Whenever a piece of dust was dislodged, McCall would end up sneezing as a direct result of the sooty particles. A grey fuzz coated the pad of my thumb after wiping down a bookshelf that stored books purely based on finance. They weren’t the most invigorating of reads, and surely none of their previous employees picked them up for the fun of it?

  Interior design had swung past many fad trends since the Carlings had decorated this place. Long gone were the days of light wood panelling and shag carpets, for a sensible reason too. Clearly, the upkeep was too hard to maintain and barely anyone had enough time to keep a shag carpet spotless. The battery for the smoke detector beeped deafeningly, and it would fail to protect anyone if there was a real fire involved here.

  “I’m surprised that the health and safety haven’t demanded a raid here yet. I’m sure they’d love something like this.” I nearly retched in distaste. “Come to think of it, so would forensics. They’d love sticking their fingers around here, the dirty buggers.”

  “That’s probably true,” McCall squealed at the sight of a creature scuttling nearby. “There are rats crawling all over this damned place. If I see any mice, you’re on your own.”

  “Where there are rats, they’ll probably be mice too,” I said rationally. “And to think you were going to come alone, huh? Who would’ve saved you from the creatures then?” I teasingly showed my front teeth like a rat would.

  McCall was careful to avoid any major stains of the carpet, shivering at the mere thought of rodents. “That’s not funny. They’re one of my worst fears.”

  “Really? I always thought they were kind of cute in their own furry sort of way.” I shrugged indifferently.

  “Don’t,” McCall begged. “If you see one, I’d rather not know. At least then I could pretend they don’t exist.”

  “On the plus side, there are at least a dozen leaflets promoting an Indian takeaway in town. It looks quite nice.” I gazed hungrily at the glossy cartoon drawings of rice and kormas, feeling my appetite grow for the first time in a few weeks. This job was certainly enough to make us ravenous.

  “That depends how quickly we get this case sorted.” McCall wiped her watering eyes after the shock of the rats. “I want to find Sarah as quickly as humanly possible. I can’t bear the thought of a young girl out there alone.”

  I never tried to rationalise a criminal's reasoning for committing such a crime, for that would be an impossible task. “The best thing we can do is our job. That’s what we promised the Carlings, so that’s what we’ll do.”

  Tired of the grim setting, we attempted to flick the light switches on, but of course, the electricity didn’t work. The Carlings probably couldn’t afford their bills for the metre either. Making do with the torches on our phones that cast eerie shadows onto the deserted furniture, we trekked further into the abandoned offices that were stuck in a nostalgic freeze-frame of time.

  Before the dust and cobwebs, the office would’ve been like any other. Congealed tea
mugs were left standing on the shelves, where spiders had holed inside the branded china. There seemed to have been a sudden closure here since the Carlings had plummeted into a dire situation.

  A stray, overflowing rubbish bin clattered as McCall tripped over it clumsily. The noise pierced straight through my sore head.

  “Who put that there?” she complained and stooped to carefully move it out of the way.

  “That probably happened because your shoes are impractical for traipsing through a cluttered floor,” I groaned, knowing she wouldn’t change her fashion sense for anyone.

  “Maybe.” She gave a tight-lipped grin at my observation. We were both trying to hide that we were spooked by the creepy place.

  Mr and Mrs Carling must’ve earned some serious money at one point before losing it all. I could see how their workplace must have been glamorous before their financial woes got the best of them. There were a few desks scattered around, filled with empty spaces where high tech computers used to reside, all of which Mr Carling had admitted he’d sold recently to earn an extra penny when handing over the office keys to our care. There were also various wires attached to plug sockets, all of which were uncovered.

  “Conscious about electrical hazards, I see.” We shared a sarcastic glance, certain that they would be a potential trip and fire hazard.

  “I presume this is Mr Carling’s personal office,” McCall quipped dryly and pointed to a huge, obnoxious sign above the connecting door. It read ‘Mr Bob Carling, Owner.’

  “I wonder why Mrs Carling’s name isn’t up there too,” I said fairly.

  “Perhaps he’s one of those old-fashioned gentlemen. You know the type? Those sorts of men who like women to be silent and let their husbands take all the credit. Tradwives, I think they’re called. I watched a documentary about them a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Arseholes, you mean?” I bantered as I cautiously entered Mr Carling’s private workroom.

  “Precisely.”