Little Girl Lost (Detective Robyn Carter crime thriller series Book 1)

by Carol Wyer

  ‘Anyhow, I am digressing. You asked about Lucas. After Mr Matthews moved here, he began having difficulties with his son. He couldn’t keep him under control. Lucas was rude, surly, aggressive even. Mr Matthews made the decision to send him to boarding school so the boy could have some consistency in his life. Paul felt he had failed his son. At the time Paul was still working and trying to combine his career with looking after the children. It was all too much for him on top of the death of his wife. He believed Lucas would be better off away in a stable environment with other boys. It cost a fortune to keep Lucas there and all he learnt was how to answer back and get up to mischief. During school holidays he’d come into the village and sit in the bus shelter drinking alcohol and smoking and generally being rude to people. He used to hang about with a couple of other ne’er-do-wells from the village – Charlie Finder and Richie Turnbull. They left the village years ago. Charlie’s in prison now, I hear. Anyway, they made the locals nervous. Then a few others from another village joined the boys in the bus shelter and it got out of hand. Some nights they’d play music loudly and others they’d fight. Our house overlooked the bus shelter and one evening, Alf and me noticed a car – a black BMW – pull up, and a chap wound down the window and handed out packets of something to the kids. We were sure it was drugs. Lucas seemed to be the ringleader. He strolled up to the car, leant in, took the packet, stuck his finger in and licked it, then handed the man some money. We rang the police but there was no evidence and Lucas denied it and so did the other boys.

  ‘I wished we hadn’t reported it. For a few weeks afterwards they congregated on the path right outside our front window and stared in at us. They did nothing but stare but it was awful. Alf went out to tell them to clear off but one of the lads laughed, spat at him and called him “an old git”. Lucas didn’t say anything but I had the feeling he was behind the harassment. Charlie Finder said they weren’t doing anything wrong and we could call the police if we wanted. We didn’t, of course. We didn’t want any more trouble. I told Alf to ignore them and that’s what we did. They stopped soon after.

  ‘The next school holidays Lucas didn’t come into the village. I think the boys started going into Uttoxeter or Burton-upon-Trent to cause mischief instead. Then I heard that Lucas had had an accident and was in hospital. Mr Matthews sent him on to a private hospital in London and paid for a top surgeon to treat him but they couldn’t save his eye. Mr Matthews never spoke about it but there was talk in the village that Lucas had been out of his head on drugs and managed to stab himself with a sharp implement when his father was out for the night.’

  ‘Lucas wasn’t here when you started working for Mr Matthews?’

  Geraldine shook her head. ‘He had left home for good by then. I think the rift between him and his father had grown too big for them both and between you and me, I think Mr Matthews suffered a breakdown. The house was in a terrible mess when I arrived. There was plenty of evidence that he drank heavily too. I feel bad telling you all this,’ she said, ‘but if it helps you find his son then I suppose it’s okay to tell you – what with you being a police officer.’

  Robyn gave her a small smile of encouragement. The woman took a long breath before continuing, ‘He stopped drinking suddenly. He became one of those health-conscious people overnight. I left him on Friday night sitting in that chair,’ she pointed to the black leather chair, ‘in jeans and an old tatty jumper, slumped in front of the television with a bottle of whisky by his side and came in Monday morning to find him dressed in a tracksuit and trainers, about to jog around the woods.

  ‘He said, “Morning, Geraldine. I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m not going to mope about any longer. I’ve chucked out the last of the whisky.” And he never touched a drop again to my knowledge. After that, he spent a lot of time in the garden or by the reservoir birdwatching, or jogging. There are some wonderful routes around the reservoir. He used to take the path from the back of the house through the woods and then join a path that ran right around the edge. It’s so peaceful there too.’ She paused, her eyes filling up with tears.

  Robyn waited for a moment then changing the subject asked, ‘Have you seen Lucas in the village or in the area at all in recent weeks, apart from the day he was here?’

  ‘No.’ She looked around the house with red-rimmed eyes. Robyn could see that Geraldine had lost more than an employer. Looking after Paul Matthews had been her raison d’être and soon there would be a hole in her life that she could not fill. Robyn felt sorry for the woman.

  ‘Did you know Lucas’s sister too?’

  Geraldine pulled a face. ‘Natasha? She was a strange creature. People in the village said she was a vampire, what with her white face and black clothes. She came to the village once, to the store, but I believe that was the only time. She was a very peculiar girl. She was sent to boarding school at the same time as Lucas. It was an all-girls school, as I recall, in the south somewhere. She left home as soon as she’d completed her exams and hasn’t been seen since. She’s never contacted her father. What a family, eh?’

  Robyn pursed her lips and blew quietly. She wasn’t making much headway. ‘Is there anything at all you can tell me about Lucas that might help me? Is there a mobile phone or laptop that Paul might have used to contact him?’ she asked.

  Geraldine shook her head. ‘He didn’t have a mobile phone. Didn’t much care for them. There is a laptop but it’s not in its usual place. He had been using it more than normal the last few days before the accident. I haven’t seen it since.’

  The doorbell rang, interrupting their conversation. ‘Excuse me a minute,’ said Geraldine, leaving Robyn alone in the kitchen. Robyn glanced at the pile of magazines in front of her. They were stacked in piles but one was open wide at pages featuring a photographic competition. There were some excellent entries of birds from puffins to common garden birds, but the winning shot was of a magnificent marsh eagle with wings forming a shallow V as it flew above a body of water, a small sparrow clutched in its talons. Paul Matthews was obviously into his birdwatching. Below the photograph was a small picture of the winner, a plain-faced woman in glasses, Miss Zoe Cooper, from Farnborough. Robyn looked around the room again. She wanted to get her hands on Paul’s laptop but she couldn’t see it anywhere. She could ask for a warrant and search for it but that would take time. A rustling alerted her to the return of the housekeeper.

  ‘That was the farmer. He wanted to know if he should cut the hedges. According to Mr Matthews’ wishes, the house is up for sale and all proceeds go to charity but I’m to stay on and look after it until it is sold. He left me a lovely settlement. Enough to pay off the mortgage on my house and have a nice holiday.’ She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at moist eyes. ‘He was such a kind man. He deserved better.’

  ‘So the house hasn’t been left to his children?’

  ‘No. And why should it? I blame them. Those children of his, they are the ones who really broke his heart.’

  ‘And you don’t know where his laptop is?’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t help. He leaves it here.’ She gestured towards the island. And, I never move anything. I leave it just as he wants… wanted it. I remember he was using it the day before the accident because he asked me if I knew anything about Hampshire. He was planning on a few days away in Farnborough. “Going to look up someone,” that’s what he said. I was speechless: after all, he wasn’t one for company. I told him I’ve not even been to London, let alone Hampshire. We laughed at that. And he told me I should go and watch a show in London. He said I’d like Chicago. Maybe I should go. In his memory. As a sort of tribute,’ she added, looking down at her damp handkerchief. ‘Sorry, but I don’t know what happened to the laptop. If I find it, should I let you know?’

  ‘Yes please. It would be most helpful.’

  Robyn left shortly afterwards. There was no more to be gleaned from the woman. She had begun to get a picture of the Matthews family. Even though Geraldine Marsh had not
been able to give her much information about Lucas, Robyn felt she was onto something. Maybe Paul Matthews had been making arrangements to meet Lucas in Farnborough in Hampshire.

  She took the route that Paul Matthews had followed the day he died. It led down to a road, over a gate and into the woods in front of the reservoir. According to a sign, she was now on the Blue Route and she breathed in the heady scent of pine and crunched over carpets of dead leaves fallen from the mix of broadleaf and coniferous woodland including English oak, sycamore, maple, birch and larch. A persistent loud tapping alerted her to a woodpecker searching for grubs and in the distance she could make out the occasional cry of a pheasant. It was pleasantly fresh in the woods. She could understand why Paul Matthews had chosen to live here, away from everyday madness. At the far end of the route, she came across a feeder-station and hide hidden among the trees. Several tits had settled on the nut feeders there. No doubt Paul had spent a few hours here watching the birds.

  She joined the Yellow Route at a stone trough and cut through a wildflower meadow where a few cornflowers, daisies and poppies raised their heads above the wild grasses which swayed in a light breeze, before entering Stansley Wood, where she followed an undulating path that rose above the reservoir. Soon she came across a small posy of wild flowers in a jam jar beside a tree. She wondered if Geraldine Marsh had put them there. It no doubt marked where Paul Matthews had tumbled and died. He had at least died in a beautiful spot. After paying her respects, she continued along the route and passed the ‘petrified pond’ where the scenery changed dramatically. She marvelled at the view of the magnificent reservoir, its water a deep inky blue. Several swans swam by the edge, bobbing occasionally for food before gliding across the water, making no ripples. There were wading birds searching in the shallower waters. She didn’t know much about birds but there were plenty here including many Canadian geese. A buzzard soared above her head. She couldn’t help but feel she was missing something back at the house. Something wasn’t sitting right. But she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  15

  Then

  I knew as soon as I entered the playground that it was going to be a difficult day. I could see them, waiting by the school entrance, watching my every move like vultures waiting to descend on a human carcass.

  Becky Stone is the ringleader. I call her Beaky because she’s always sticking her nose in other people’s business. Beaky has hated me from the first day I was introduced to the class. Mrs France, all smiles and pretend matronly concern, ushered me into the room of twenty-five pupils, their cold stares doing nothing to make me want to like them. I glowered back.

  ‘Try and make her feel welcome. Becky, maybe you could show her around the school at breaktime?’

  Beaky marched about the school, pointing out where everything was then left me. ‘I don’t want to be your friend,’ she hissed as she headed back to her cronies. ‘We all know what sort of person you are.’

  I was mystified. They couldn’t possibly know what sort of person I was. I barely knew what sort of person I was. I did however know I would never want to be friends with any of those snooty cows. I was used to my own company. I would be fine without them.

  Today, something was different. Beaky was standing by the entrance with a fat grin on her stupid, freckled, goody-two-shoe face. Her groupies copied her stance and all stared at me. They hissed as I walked by. I felt my hands tighten. I could wrap them around Becky Stone’s neck and strangle her before they could pull me off her.

  Throughout the day I sense a tension. It’s as if Beaky wants to challenge me, goad me, but I am too clever for her and I sit away from her in lessons and disappear into the fields behind the school during lunchtime. But in the afternoon we have art and I am partnered with her, of all people. She sits next to me with her arms folded and a sullen look on her spoilt face.

  The class has been given the task of making a poster for the annual best-kept-village competition. It is supposed to encourage everyone who lives in the village to keep it tidy until judges decide which out of the many villages that enter will win. I don’t care which village wins. We’ve only been living in this place eight weeks and already I loathe it. I preferred the suburbs of Birmingham. We lived near the shops and I could move about without anyone noticing me. Here in this village, everyone notices an eleven-year-old girl out on her own. I have had to be stealthy and hide in the shadows. I wish we could leave. My mother, on the other hand, loves it. She thinks we are finally getting out of the financial pit we have been in. We’re renting a bungalow on an estate. It belongs to my mum’s new boss. He comes around a few nights a week, sometimes bringing several of his male friends with him. I am sent outside to roam the streets while Mum serves them drinks and looks after them. She doesn’t want me in the house while they are there. I’m not entirely sure what she means by ‘looking after them’ but I have a fairly good idea.

  ‘Do I have to?’ Beaky whines when Mrs France makes her move her desk.

  ‘You have to work together on this project. It won’t hurt you to be apart from Maisie Johnson and Eve Hubbert for once.’

  Beaky pulls a face behind the teacher’s back and screws around to look at her friends who have already become too involved with the project to pay any attention to her. She shrugs and pulls out a large fluffy pink pencil case stuffed with coloured crayons and pens, then spots my avaricious glances and says, ‘Don’t even think about it. They’re my pens. You use your own. I don’t want to catch your germs. You’ll contaminate them.’ She glances at my paltry collection that I have amassed. Mum never has enough money to buy me nice pencils so I only have a few I have come across dropped or left behind in various classes. I really shall have to steal some. Beaky scowls at me and announces, ‘I have the best pens so I’m doing the writing.’

  She leans across the paper and begins to draw large bubble-writing using various shades of purple, pink and orange. Her elbows fill most of the paper, making it impossible to work. Every time I try to work on my area she leans further forward, tongue out in concentration, and hogs the large sheet of paper. I sharpen my pencil to a fine point. If she doesn’t move soon… Mrs France appears.

  ‘That’s very good, Becky,’ she gushes, her piggy eyes taking in the gaudy colours. She’d have said anything Beaky did was very good. She’s teacher’s pet. Beaky smirks in an irritating ‘Yes, I know it is’ way and I grip my pencil tighter.

  ‘Jody, what are you supposed to be doing?’ I almost forget to answer. Jody is the latest name I have been given. Jody Farmer. What a stupid name. Mum insisted we changed them again when we came to the village so she is Samantha and I am Jody. She thought the names sounded ‘wholesome’. What a joke. Neither of us fit that description.

  ‘Dustbins,’ I reply. ‘Becky is just finishing here so I can draw dustbins.’ Mrs France moves off, satisfied with my response. Beaky huffs but moves over. I ignore her and set to drawing rows of dustbins all in grey. It is therapeutic drawing bin after bin all in neat rows, all identical. Suddenly I feel a sharp elbow in my ribs. Beaky hisses at me to move over and give her space to finish the wording. I protest but Beaky states that because she has the best pencils and pens, there is no point in anyone else doing the artwork. I sit back in irritation. There is no way the stupid girl is going to let me contribute to the poster. Mrs France passes by again.

  ‘Have you given up?’ she asks. ‘No, miss,’ I reply. ‘I’m waiting for Becky to finish so I can get back into my bin corner.’

  Maisie, sitting behind us both, sniggers and mumbles something about it being the best place for me. Mrs France pretends she hasn’t heard and moves away. Beaky sticks out her tongue at me. Maisie and Eve are now tittering behind me. I feel the curtain of red beginning to descend again. How I loathe all the stupid girls in the class with their silly bright bobbles in their hair and their high-pitched whiny voices.

  Most of all I hate Beaky who is sneaky and cruel and spreads rumours about other classmates to her friends. Her mother
is the local gossip who works in the post office and Beaky will be exactly like her when she’s older – hard-faced and mean. I hate Beaky’s mum almost as much as I hate Beaky. She accused me of stealing sellotape from the Post Office. I told her if I were going to steal something it wouldn’t be a roll of useless sellotape. She made me stand in the back room and called the local community officer to search me. Of course, I didn’t have any sellotape on me. Luckily I didn’t have the Yorkie bar I had stolen either. I dropped it as soon as I realised she was onto me.

  I glare at Beaky and hiss, ‘You wait until after class.’

  Instead of looking afraid she grins at me and squirms around to speak to Maisie. ‘You’re right,’ she whispers. ‘Jody should live in a bin. Did you hear about last night?’

  My heart hammers. She couldn’t possibly know. Not unless that mother of hers had seen what happened. I drop my head. Beaky is mean but surely she wouldn’t share this latest information. Her mother would never have told her. Then she looks at me, sneering as she does, and I can tell that she knows.

  ‘Jody spent the night on her doorstep by the bins. She got locked out by her mum.’

  The girls make oohing noises, eyes wide open. Beaky’s eyes glitter. She’s been dying to share the next bit of information and I cringe inwardly and curse my mother.