by Cathy Glass
Ten minutes later I was finally speaking to a police officer. I had just told him I needed to report someone missing when I heard the front door open as John came in from work. ‘Sorry,’ I said to the officer, ‘can you hold on a minute.’ I put down the phone, picked up Adrian, and went down the hall. ‘Can you look after him?’ I said bluntly, and completely stressed out. ‘I’m on the phone to the police. Dawn hasn’t returned.’ Before John had time to take off his coat, I’d dumped Adrian in his arms. ‘Your dinner is in the oven,’ I called before I retrieved the phone.
‘Sorry,’ I said again to the police officer. ‘You asked for my name.’
‘Yes,’ he said patiently.
I gave it to him; then he asked for our address and telephone number. There was a pause while he wrote.
‘And who is it that is missing?’
‘Our foster daughter, Dawn Jennings.’
Another pause. ‘Her date of birth please.’
I had to think. ‘She’s thirteen. Her birthday is the sixth of January.’ I left him to calculate the year for it was more than my brain was capable of at that point, but I felt guilty for not knowing it off by heart as I obviously knew Adrian’s.
‘And she’s your foster child?’ he confirmed.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you told her social worker?’
‘I’ve told the duty social worker. Dawn’s social worker in on holiday.’
‘Aren’t they always?’ he said dryly. ‘And her social worker’s name?’
‘Ruth Peters.’
Another pause. ‘When was the last time you saw Dawn?’
‘This morning at eight fifteen.’
He asked for the circumstances of her leaving the house and I explained that she’d left to go to school but hadn’t arrived, and how I had gone to her room and found the blood. I told him about the scars on her arm where she had previously cut herself, and what I knew of her past. He then asked for a description of Dawn and what she was wearing.
‘She’s small for her age, about five feet tall,’ I said, speaking slowly and allowing him time to write. ‘Slightly built, with fair chin-length hair and blue eyes. She was wearing her school uniform – a navy pleated skirt, black tights, light blue blouse under a navy sweater with the school’s logo.’
‘And her school is?’
‘St James’s.’
‘Was she wearing a coat?’
‘No. She didn’t take it because of the warmer weather.’
‘Is it possible Dawn could have taken clothes with her and changed out of her uniform?’ he asked.
I thought. ‘I don’t think so. Her school bag isn’t really big enough with all her books.’
‘What about without her books? Could she have taken a change of clothes and left her books at home?’
‘Well, yes, but I’m sure she wouldn’t deceive me like that.’ Yet as I said it I realised that Dawn had deceived me in not going to school. I so desperately wanted to believe and have faith in Dawn that I instinctively rushed to her defence. ‘It’s possible,’ I added quietly.
‘Have you checked her wardrobe for missing clothes?’ he sensibly asked.
‘No.’
‘Would you do so, and tell the officers when they arrive if you find anything missing.’
‘Officers?’ I asked.
‘The police officers who will come to your house later; it’s part of the missing persons procedure.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said, once again feeling completely ignorant, but how many people know the missing persons procedure unless they’ve had cause to implement it? ‘Perhaps Dawn met someone on the way to school,’ I offered as he wrote. ‘Her mother said Dawn got in with a bad lot when she lived with her and went missing.’
‘Quite possibly she met up with others,’ the officer said with a certain resignation. ‘These kids usually do. Do you have any of her friends’ contact details or know places where Dawn might have gone to hang out with her mates?’
Again, I felt totally inadequate. ‘No. She hasn’t told us. She goes out on Friday and Saturday evenings and has to be home by nine thirty. But she never tells us where she’s going.’
‘Do you have her mother’s address or phone number?’
‘No,’ I said again, thinking that perhaps we should have been given it by the social worker.
‘I’ll check our records. If Dawn has gone missing before or is known to the police we should have some details.’
‘Thank you.’ I said.
‘And you say she has harmed herself in the past?’
‘Yes, but not since she’s been living with us. There are scars on her arms from before. This is the first time she has cut herself here, and I really don’t know what made her do it. She wasn’t upset.’
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Do any of her friends have cars?’ But before I could answer, he added, ‘I don’t suppose you know?’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘I’ve no idea, but she is only thirteen, so I wouldn’t think so.’
He didn’t pass comment, but I recognised that my assumption might well be another example of my ignorance about Dawn and teenagers in general.
‘Does she have a passport?’ he asked.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘How much money did Dawn have on her this morning when she left the house?’
‘It’s difficult to say. We give her pocket money and clothing allowance. If she hasn’t spent any of it, which I don’t think she has, it could be over £40.’
I heard him draw a sharp breath. ‘It’s not a good idea for persistent runaways to be given a lot of money. They can travel further.’ It was the first hint of reproach I had heard in his voice, and I secretly agreed with him.
‘Dawn’s social worker said we had to give it to her,’ I said, which I knew sounded pathetic.
There was another pause before he said. ‘Mrs Glass, I’ll put Dawn’s details on our missing persons register. When the officers visit you, can you give them a recent photograph of Dawn, one that they can take with them, please?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, my anxiety rising. ‘We haven’t got one. We’ve taken family photographs that include Dawn, but they are still on the camera. I haven’t had them developed yet.’
‘Don’t worry. We have a good description of her and we might still have a photo from the last time she ran away. But in future when you foster teenagers with a history of running away, it would help us if you could have a photograph to hand.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again, my feelings of inadequacy and ignorance escalating. ‘This is all new to us. When will the officers visit?’
‘I can’t give you a time. We’re very busy and short staffed. Hopefully later this evening. If Dawn comes home in the meantime, please phone us and we’ll take her off the missing persons register to save wasting police time.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I hesitated, not wanting to show further ignorance but needing to know. ‘Could you tell me what you actually do now, please? I mean how you try to find Dawn. I’m very worried. ’
‘I’m sure you are. Dawn’s description will be circulated to all patrols so if she’s out on the streets there’s a good chance an officer will spot her. If she hasn’t returned by tomorrow we’ll put her details on the National Missing Persons Bureau, and check the hospitals.’ My stomach tightened at the mention of hospital: I pictured Dawn lying alone in a hospital bed and having her wounds stitched, with no one there to comfort her. ‘If we thought there was a chance of her leaving the country,’ he continued, ‘we’d notify the airports and ports, but I don’t think that is the case here.’
‘No,’ I quietly agreed. ‘I wouldn’t think so.’
‘That’s it, then, for now. I’m sure Dawn is safe and will come home soon.’
‘I hope so. Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.’
By the time I put the phone down, John had eaten his dinner and had taken Adrian upstairs with him while he changed out of his work suit. I felt tired and str
ained, yet peculiarly alert from all the adrenalin of the stress. I went upstairs and into our bedroom, where I tried to raise a smile for John’s sake.
‘Look!’ John said before I had chance to say anything, and he nodded towards Adrian. Adrian was on all fours, making small sporadic movements across the carpeted floor, and it took me a moment to realise that he was crawling. The moment I had anticipated and had looked forward to for weeks had happened in my absence, while I had been on the phone reporting Dawn missing. And my happiness was marred by disappointment that I had missed this milestone, and the continual worry about Dawn.
I crossed the bedroom, and sitting on the floor, a short distance in front of Adrian, beckoned for him to come to me. ‘Come on, come to Mummy,’ I said encouragingly, lightly clapping my hands. Adrian grinned, gurgled, and then with a sudden crab-like movement scampered the small distance between us, and squatted in my lap. ‘Well done!’ I cried. ‘Who’s a clever boy?’ John clapped loudly. I picked up Adrian, gave him a big kiss and then held him up in the air, where he giggled. Bringing him down again, I looked at John and sighed. ‘Have you seen Dawn’s bed?’
‘Yes.’ John said flatly.
‘I’ve done the missing persons and the police will be coming later. The police officer asked for a lot of details about Dawn and I realised just how little we know. He said we should have a photograph for next time, in case she does it again.’
John gave a half nod of acknowledgement and continued changing from his suit. ‘I’m not sure there will be a next time,’ he said. Adrian was now standing in my lap, bouncing up and down, his chubby warm arms lightly brushing mine. I looked up at John. ‘We can’t go on like this with Dawn,’ he said seriously. ‘We’re lurching from one crisis to another. I know you feel a lot for her, and feel sorry for her, and so do I, but the continual worry and lack of sleep is getting ridiculous. I’m going into work every morning exhausted and firing on only one cylinder. Even when Dawn doesn’t sleepwalk, I’m still listening out for her. And now she’s gone missing! I’ve got a very responsible job and I can’t function like this, and neither can you. How are you managing to cope with Adrian? You look ill.’
‘I’ve been worried sick all day, that’s why,’ I said defensively. ‘And Adrian’s fine. So what are we supposed to do? Tell the social worker that Dawn has to leave? That we’ve had enough, and she can be someone else’s problem?’
‘Yes, if necessary,’ John said, his voice rising. ‘I think Dawn needs more help than we can give her. We’ve done our best and it’s not helping her. How many teenagers do you know who sleepwalk, go missing and slash their arms? How many parents do you know who have to lock their bedroom door to keep them and their baby safe? The doctor said she probably needs to see a psychiatrist, and that book said so too. I think they’re right. Dawn’s behaviour isn’t normal and she needs help fast.’
John’s voice had risen and so had mine. We stared at each other in emotionally charged silence. It was the nearest we had come to a full-scale argument in over four years of marriage. It didn’t escape me that it was Dawn who was (inadvertently) responsible, and that she had caused problems between her parents and their partners.
‘But what’s it going to do to Dawn, if we send her away?’ I said quietly after a moment. ‘Her parents don’t want her; she knows that. What’s it going to do to Dawn if we now tell her we don’t want her either?’
‘Look,’ John said more evenly. ‘When Dawn returns, which I’m sure she will, let’s sit her down and talk to her, and try to find out what’s going on. If she’s open and honest with us, perhaps we can find a way forward. She’s always so polite, and seems to want to co-operate, perhaps she’ll open up after all this. I also think that social worker needs to start being more forthcoming. Dawn’s living in our house, and we are responsible for her. We should be entitled to know her background.’
I smiled, and John smiled back. ‘Agreed,’ I said.
‘Come on, then. Let’s get Adrian into bed, and go and sit in the lounge, and unwind.’
Relieved to have John’s support again, I changed Adrian’s nappy and then lay him in his cot. He looked up and grinned. John came over. ‘’Night,’ night,’ we both said, kissing him goodnight. ‘It won’t be long before he can go into his own room,’ John said as we came out. ‘He’s old enough now.’
‘Yes, and now he doesn’t need a night-time feed it will be easier.’
Adrian’s room had been ready since before his birth and, in truth, he could have moved in there sooner. But there was one thing stopping us, and I knew it hung unspoken in the air. If Adrian were in his own room, how safe would he be? Adrian’s room was next to Dawn’s, at the other end of the landing, and it was doubtful we would hear her if she sleepwalked in to find him. We couldn’t lock Adrian in his bedroom any more than we could lock Dawn in hers. Neither John nor I said it, but we both knew that Adrian would be staying in our bedroom until Dawn stopped sleepwalking and we felt it was safe for Adrian to be alone in the nursery.
Chapter Thirteen
Crime Scene
Keeping my gaze from Dawn’s blood-stained pillow, I went into her room to check if any of her clothes were missing, as the police had asked. I opened the wardrobe doors first and flicked through the rails. Apart from the clothes Dawn had arrived in, virtually everything she owned I had bought her – she had never retrieved any of her belongings from either of her parents, and indeed I now doubted she had anything else – so I was reasonably familiar with what should be there, and I couldn’t see anything obviously missing. Closing the wardrobe doors, I then searched the chest of drawers, and the bedside cabinet. I felt guilty looking through Dawn’s belongings without her present, but I couldn’t afford to be precious about this now that Dawn was officially missing and the police were involved. I returned everything I moved to its exact position – Dawn kept her room neat and tidy.
I couldn’t find anything missing, and neither could I find an address book or diary that might have given some clue as to where Dawn had gone. I checked under the bed and then, steeling myself, I peeled off the bloodied pillowcase, with the intention of changing it for a fresh one. When Dawn eventually arrived home it wouldn’t help her to be confronted with the evidence of her cutting and distress. However, when I removed the pillowcase, I found that the blood had seeped through to the pillow beneath, and I knew the lot would have to be thrown away. I found a spare pillow in the airing cupboard, and putting on a fresh case, I remade the bed, closed the curtains against the dark outside and, gathering up the pillow and case, went downstairs. I dumped the lot by the back door in the kitchen ready to take out to the dustbin the following morning.
I joined John in the lounge; he had just made a pot of tea and I gratefully accepted the mug he offered. It was now nearly 8.30 p.m., two hours since I had reported Dawn missing, and we sat on the sofa, waiting for the police and speculating on where Dawn could possibly be. At nine o’clock John switched on the television for the news, which offered some diversion for our thoughts. At 10.45, when the police still hadn’t arrived and we were both exhausted and wanting to go to bed, John suggested he phoned the police station to find out what time we could expect them. I opened the telephone directory and read out the number of our local police station as John dialled. ‘It’s a recorded message,’ he said a moment later, as surprised as I had been. ‘I’m being held in a queue.’
The police station must have been even busier or more short-staffed than when I had phoned, for it was fifteen minutes before an officer finally answered. John gave his name and explained that I had reported our foster daughter missing and we were still waiting for the police to visit. He was asked for Dawn’s name and our address; then he said, ‘I see, all right, thanks, we will.’ He replaced the phone with a sigh. ‘They’re so busy they might not be here until tomorrow. The officer said Dawn’s details have been circulated and we should go to bed.’
‘Just as well you phoned,’ I said. ‘We could have been sitting up
all night waiting.’
We went straight upstairs and I was in bed first. When John came in from the bathroom he automatically turned the key in our bedroom door before realising his mistake. And although we were both obviously very worried about Dawn we were also shattered, and were asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillows. It was, however, short-lived.
I came to with a start and immediately looked at the bedside clock. It was 1.00 a.m. John was wide awake too, and for a few seconds we didn’t know what had woken us. Then the silence was broken by two long rings on the door bell and we both sat bolt upright.
‘Who the hell’s that?’ John said.
‘Dawn?’
We were out of bed, grabbing our dressing gowns as we went. John flicked on the landing light as we passed, and then the one in the hall. I stood just behind him, my heart racing, and my expectations and relief mounting as he slid the bolt and opened the front door. My hopes were immediately dashed. It wasn’t Dawn.
On the doorstep stood two uniformed officers; their patrol car parked on the kerb outside and lit up like a beacon.
‘You reported a missing person?’ one of the officers said.
‘Yes, that’s right. Dawn,’ John said. ‘Come in. We were told not to expect you until tomorrow.’
‘Sorry. It’s been a busy night.’
They came into the hall and took off their hats, and I saw them cast a scrutinising gaze around. I was reminded of the television dramas where the police enter a suspect’s home and make a mental note of everything that might be suspicious, and I felt almost guilty.
