I stare into the gap between the school and the church, over the still waters of Dovestones. She has to be somewhere, and while she could be in the depths of the water or at the tops of the high hills, I’m thinking that she isn’t far away.
Chapter 20
Afterward, two pretty little beds were covered with clean white linen, and Hansel and Gretel lay down in them and thought they were in heaven.
Since I’d seen the paper and realized that I knew where the missing girl is, I’d been very quiet. I’m always like this when I have to think. Getting on with life on the outside, but my mind bubbling away with ideas. This has turned out really badly for me, but now I see how it could have been even worse. As I lay in bed last night, my train of thought developed along the lines of what Christine wanted with Dara. And what she had wanted with Elise.
Elise is safe now, probably with social services or in foster care. I blink back the tears as I think about her beautiful face and her soft hair. The way she was just learning to speak. How we’d dance together to songs from my phone, her tripping over her own feet and laughing as we both fell to the floor. Elise asleep in bed, like a little angel. My god. What did Christine want with her and Dara?
I slept, and now I’m up, feeling much better than I had yesterday. Not so defeated. There has to be a way out of here, and I’m going to find it.
I open the door and walk along the corridor. Eva hasn’t come to get me yet, so I assume I just have to go downstairs and start work. I’m walking along when a door opens and a young girl’s hand darts out and catches my sleeve. She pulls me inside and shuts the door.
I’ve seen her before. She is one of the girls from the other night. She’s pale and shaky. She sits on the bed and jiggles her leg.
“That girl. Emily. Is she . . . ?”
I nod.
“Yes. Yes, she is. We won’t see Emily again.”
She begins to cry.
“I thought I was seeing things. I thought it was just a nightmare, and I’d wake up soon.”
I look at her hand, and she’s got the same cannula marks as I have.
“What’s your name?”
She winces a little.
“Joanne. Joanne Lees.”
“Have they drugged you, Joanne? Because drugs can do all sorts of things to the mind.”
And I should know. Paranoia. Bad decision making. Oh yes. I should know.
She nods.
“Yes. I couldn’t wake up yesterday. I don’t feel like myself today. And Emily. Why did they do it? And why didn’t those other men stop them? I know they’re bad people who do bad stuff with us, but shooting someone?”
She obviously hasn’t had the talk from Eva. In her drug-addled mind, she hasn’t made the connection between the screen and the room. She hasn’t realized what this place is. But who would unless they are told? I’ve rolled my eyes at far less in the past, as my boyfriend told me the details about his criminal family. Something, somewhere inside me didn’t believe him. I thought he was trying to impress me with smashed kneecaps and backstreet murder. People just aren’t that evil. Murders are for the movies.
But I did start to believe him when he took Elise and threatened to kill me. When I saw what he did to the guy on the motorway. I started to realize that the world is full of evil bastards. Yet even now I’m resisting what this place really is. I have the advantage over Joanne because of the criminals I’ve known in the past. And because I had to face them to get my daughter back. So I know the score.
Yet it had never crossed my mind that the films of girls having the life snuffed out of them were real. I’d looked on as my boyfriend and his mates watched all kinds of sick porn. I’d listened to them laugh at women cut up and beaten on screen, young girls abused. It had never, ever occurred to me that the abuse was real. That it was actually happening. I thought it was all an act.
It’s so obvious now that the films must be made somewhere. But my mind still fights it. Who would do that? What kind of sick mind would arrange for rape and murder to be filmed? I’d thought that it was all staged, all made up. But now I know differently.
I’d wondered, in the split second that Emily made a run for it, why no one looked at her. Why none of the men ran after her, tried to save her as she lay dying. And that’s when I knew it wasn’t all staged at all. That’s when a layer of my innocence, a layer I thought no longer existed, smashed to the bottom of my soul.
They knew what was going to happen. That’s why there was little reaction. They all knew exactly what was going on. They’d seen it all before. That’s why Declan had snapped the motorway man’s neck and casually thrown his body away, then got back in the car and driven me to Asda. He’s done it before. He was used to it. All the stories were true. And this is true now.
Joanne is still sitting on the bed looking at me. Expecting an answer. She’s still got her innocence intact despite working as a prostitute. She hasn’t guessed that there are worse things. That these are the worse things. I look at her. For once I don’t know what to say. But I try anyway.
“How long have you been here?”
She thinks, her pinprick pupils darting around as she tries to remember a time she wasn’t here.
“Three weeks. Yes. Three weekends.”
“What day is it?”
She thinks again.
“Monday? Maybe Tuesday?”
I nod.
“You’ve been downstairs. To the parties? You were there the other night when Emily . . .”
She nods again.
“Yes. And the week before.”
She pulls up her shirt and shows me a huge yellow and green bruise right along her lower back. I think how I can break it to her gently.
“So have any of the girls left yet?”
She smiles.
“Oh yes. Trudy and Sam. Gone back to the club.”
“Did you see them leave?”
She thinks again.
“No. They just weren’t here one day. I asked Eva where they were, and she just said that Mr. Jameson had taken them back to the club. So there’s hope after all, isn’t there? Like Eva says, if I just do everything they say.”
I can’t tell her. I just can’t. So I try to drop a hint.
“Big screen. In the main room.”
She brightens a bit and moves to the edge of the bed.
“Yeah. Massive. I was in there the other morning. Restocking the bar, I was. They put some daytime TV on it. Phillip Schofield was massive. Then when I was in the control room, I looked at my Facebook account.”
She looks from side to side and leans forward.
“I logged in.”
I stare at her. Logged in.
“Where? Where did you log in?”
“In the control room. At the back. I was dusting and there was no one there and I couldn’t resist it.”
“On a phone? A laptop?”
“Laptop. No one came in for ages. Loads of people have left me messages.”
I hold her shoulders and she winces.
“Did you tell anyone where you were? Are they coming to find you?”
She makes a strange sound between a laugh and a cry.
“Who? Is who coming? Miley fucking Cyrus and Rihanna? People I knew when I was in junior school? There isn’t anyone to come.”
“So who are the messages from?”
She’s looking at her feet. Two tears fall onto her light-blue leggings and soak in.
“Punters. From where I used to work before I went to work for Brian Jameson. Don’t think any of them would be interested in rescuing me. That’s not what they’re interested in.”
I hug her. She starts to sob in heavy gulps, and I rub her back like I used to do to my younger sister. She calms down a little.
“So no one caught you?”
“No. I was there for a while on my own. Then I heard someone coming so I closed it down. But even then no one came in. I think they were having their breakfast.”
I nod.
&nb
sp; “Look, Joanne. Just do what Eva tells you and don’t do anything rash. I’m going to try to get someone to help us.”
She smiles.
“Right. And who will you ask? Have you got someone?”
I think. Elise is all I have, and I’m going to put it right. I’m going to get out of here and tell someone where that missing girl is, then I’m going to get Elise back.
“Yes. I’ve got someone. You stay here as long as you can, Joanne. Then just do what they tell you. And don’t tell anyone what I’ve said.”
She nods and I leave. I hurry down the corridor, hoping that breakfast hasn’t finished. When I reach the hallway, I see Eva’s cleaning trolley and grab some polish and a duster. I make my way up the hallway, dusting the ornate vases, and some of the security guards are sitting around in the dining room eating. Others are sitting in the screen room watching Homes Under the Hammer.
I move toward the door and knock gently. A tall blond guy wearing an empty shoulder holster opens the door. I smile as sweetly as I can. Acting was always my forte.
“May I clean this room, please?”
He turns around and looks back into the room. I look to his right and see three laptops, all open at a browser. There’s a mobile phone on the side. I think back to how Declan taught me to steal mobile phones. How to steal anything. It might come in handy now. The guy turns back and my gaze returns to him.
“Not right now. I’ll give you a shout later.”
He pushes the door almost closed and I notice that it doesn’t have a lock. I walk away and check other doors. None of them have locks. But why would they? No one would dare do anything wrong here, would they? My head is suddenly swimming with possibilities. Of course I’m scared, but what have I got to lose? I could be dead by weekend anyway with the camera running. Why not take my chances?
But I need a plan. Not the sort of plan I’ve had before, something that will work. Joanne was right. So was Eva. We’re all alone here. I’ve got Elise, but I can hardly get messages to her. I don’t even have a Facebook account; it would be too easy for Declan to find me.
I swap my duster for a floor polisher and push it up and down the hallway, keeping my eyes open for the blond guy leaving the room. Eva motions for me to go into the dining room, and I try to search the security guy’s pockets for mobiles as I clear their dishes. No luck. I move the dishes and wash them in the catering-size sink at the back of the kitchen. There’s a window here, and I press my hand against the cold glass. It’s always so warm in here. Almost tropical.
The window is double glazed and sealed on the outside with a thin mesh. I check the back door, and it’s locked. This door has a keyhole, like the front door, but every other door in the whole building is left open. When I’ve finished, I walk back through the hallway, pick up a stray piece of paper, and glance into the control room. There are six or seven men in there now, all seated in front of the laptops, and I can see that they are editing naked bodies and scenes from the night before.
I hurry to my room and make a note of the time. They start at ten o’clock. Before that, it’s just the blond guy. I rustle through the makeup on the dresser and find an eyeliner. I write the times that the room is unoccupied down on the newspaper and stare at the picture of Elise again. I need to work out a plan. Who can I contact and what will I say?
I read the article again, and I underline the bit about Twitter @gmpolice. I’d seen that before. I’ve had a Twitter account before. I had to have one to sign into my Spotify account. Spotify was my only link to the music world. I had a free account at first, but I used Declan’s card to get the paid one, and he’s never noticed. What was my password? I reach into the past year’s memories and try to sort through the cocaine nights and the alcohol-laced smiles. The crying myself to sleep and the guilt at leaving Elise night after night. The falling, falling deeper into Jameson’s trap without even guessing.
I catch sight of my hand and the pin prick where a needle had been only days ago. It makes me remember the mark on Elise’s arm. My mind fishes up a memory of me having a tetanus at the hospital and my own mother holding my hand. Even though she stank of booze and her eyes were rolling from bluies, she cared. Somewhere deep down she did.
You could see it in her eyes. It was there, in the depths of her, and she knew what she should have been doing. Sometimes, like in the hospital, it surfaced. It was a connecting thread between us. Visit to the hospital. Just me and her. Sometimes I’d scrape my knee or ankle and feign a fall so she’d take me and sit there with me. Just me.
Mother’s maiden name. That’s my password. @linajagger. My Twitter user name. I think about her lying there in her own vomit and wonder if she ever thought about me at the end. And the invisible thread that held us together for longer than we should have been. Like Elise and me. And I think about the only thread left between my daughter and me, and I have my plan.
Chapter 21
Wednesday morning. My head’s throbbing with tension, and I let Percy out. Instead of waiting for me at the side door, she runs straight over to my neighbor’s house. The door opens, and she disappears inside. I think about Aiden and Sal and how they used to play football in the garden. Loneliness weighs heavily on me; even my cat’s losing interest. It’s almost as if I’m being enveloped by my own sadness, but I have to fight to get out and solve other people’s. In between, I try to resist running off to find my son. It feels like what I should be doing, but I have no idea where to start.
But there’s no time to think about myself now. I have to find Dara. Damien hadn’t answered any of my texts, and I hadn’t seen him as I drove around Greenfield. I had called at the Prices’ home hoping to catch Lorraine, but she’d already gone. As I fell asleep last night, I promised myself that today would be different. Today would be progress.
And here I am driving to the station. It’s a beautiful sunny day, but I can’t get the coldness out of my system. I can’t quite work out what’s going on and what’s happened to Dara. And Elise’s mother. As I arrive, the usual horde of reporters crowd my car and press up against the window. I drive free and into the car park, wondering if Damien will be here waiting for me. He isn’t.
But Stan’s waiting for me at the desk.
“Never guess what, Jan?”
I seriously hope it’s that Dara has been found, safe and well. I shake my head, and he continues.
“Hable’s been suspended.”
He leans over the desk.
“For grassing to the press.”
I smile. I knew someone had been. The press couldn’t have known all the details otherwise.
“Yeah. Kind of figures.”
Stan straightens.
“Suspended on full pay until further notice. Any news on the girl?”
I shake my head.
“Haven’t found her yet.”
“No. I meant the other one. The quiet little thing. Seems like everyone’s forgot about her now.”
They have. No one’s mentioned poor little Elise for ages. Or her mother. Not with a two-year-old missing. He carries on.
“Something more interesting cropped up. Same in disasters. You get one, everybody’s looking at it and helping, then another one comes along, and they all turn toward the new one. Doesn’t stop the old one from still happening, though. Or the people from suffering. That girl’s mother never came forward, did she? Funny that.”
He shuts the day book. His eyes meet mine, and I know he’s right.
“I’ll be in surveillance. Lorraine’s coming in later on. Please can you tell her I’m in there? And don’t worry, Stan, I’m on it. All of it.”
I take all the interviews and the case files into surveillance. There’s a side office, where I know I won’t be disturbed, with a couple of desks and use of the system. The first thing I do is phone Mike. He answers before the first ring has ended.
“All right, mucker?”
He sounds chirpy. Chirpier than me.
“Mike. How’s it going?”
“Good, Jan. We’ve been looking at phone records for those ex-cons. Fucking nothing. Nada. You OK? How’s the case coming along?”
I take a deep breath.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I know it’s not an official line of inquiry yet, but I’ve had some information that points to other kids going missing. Could you check some stuff for me?”
There’s a momentary silence.
“Is this about what you said the other day? About the kid that turned up? Only I don’t think . . .”
“Mike. Please. As a mate. I just need you to do this, and if it turns out there’s nothing in it, I’ll drop it.”
I can picture him shaking his head and pulling in his lips as he decides.
“What is it?”
“Child benefit. Three women. Dawn Sommers. Address Fourteen High Street. Kerry Durose, address Two Mill Bottom, and Alana Cox, Twenty-Two Lovers Lane. I need to know if any of them had any changes in benefit circumstance in the past year. Also, their use of bank accounts in the last six months. Anything at all. NI contributions. Anything.”
I can hear him typing in the details.
“None of them are MisPer. Is this about the kid’s mum?”
“No. Just let me know, Mike. On my mobile. Please. I promise if nothing comes of it, I’ll drop it stone dead.”
The call ends, and I know he’ll do it for me. I read through the rest of the door-to-door interviews. Damien’s aren’t here. He hasn’t written them up. There are two more accounts of women going missing with children, one from two years ago and one from about thirteen months ago. I pull these to one side and put them with the three I’ve given to Mike.
I need to think. It’s easy to understand why Jim Stewart won’t take this seriously. Every time we do door-to-door, or any interviewing, people come up with their own experiences. If it’s about robbery, they tell us first how they’ve been robbed, then give their evidence. GBH. How they’ve been attacked. Suicide. How they had a great uncle who did it. It qualifies their story and builds trust. We listen patiently. I know that this is what these accounts look like. Missing child. How my daughter ran away with her baby. I therefore have the experience to talk about it. I am a reliable witness.
Playlist for a Paper Angel (DS Jan Pearce Crime Fiction Series Book 3) Page 15
