Lost Souls

by Chris Merritt

  ‘Look, er, if there’s anything I can do to help, you know, with your dad. I mean, if you just want to talk, or whatever…’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Thanks.’

  Dan stood to leave. ‘Keep in touch, yeah?’

  There was something so compassionate in his expression that Lexi felt the desire to just get up and let him envelop her in a hug. But she stayed seated.

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  He tapped a hand on the doorframe and nodded once. Then he was gone.

  Twelve

  While most of MIT 8 was out talking to potential witnesses and meeting the people who knew poor Donovan Blair, Lucy Berry was ensconced at her desk in Jubilee House. As a civilian analyst, she rarely left the team base. And that was just the way she liked it. Data, computing power and a bank of screens were the tools of her trade. Lucy wasn’t interested in breaking down doors, handcuffing suspects or car chases – the stuff her colleagues traded stories over in the pub after work. That was all far too dangerous.

  Besides, she had her family to think of. She wouldn’t want to put herself at risk of anything that might stop her looking after her children, Pip and Kate. They were both under five and, despite her and her husband’s best efforts, seemed to take a miniature hurricane with them wherever they went, leaving chaos and mess in their wake. There might be no avoiding that at home, but it was here – with her programmes and systems – that Lucy could find the order to which she was naturally inclined.

  This morning, she was trawling through The Met’s Crimint Plus database in search of offenders who might match the profile sketch they had from their suspect strategy. But she worried that it was too broad: anyone with a record of violence against children. Unfortunately, there were a lot of people who met those criteria. Lucy wasn’t a detective, but she’d worked on murder cases for long enough to know that their perpetrator wasn’t going to be found among the hundreds of bad parents who had been caught hitting their children. There was something else going on here.

  She’d been glad to hear that Dan was already consulting Dr Lexi Green. The psychologist had been crucial in understanding two of their previous cases where the motives were deep-seated and opaque. Lucy hoped Lexi would be able to help them unlock this one, too.

  Finishing a list of search hits with no indication of progress, she sighed, pushed her chair back and stood. A cup of tea, that’s what she needed. Then she’d move on to the next database. Grabbing her new favourite mug – the one with a photo of Pip and Kate that her husband had got printed for her last Christmas – she headed for the kitchenette.

  Inside, DC Andy Parsons and PC Leo Richards – one of the MIT’s uniformed officers – were leaning against the countertops, chatting. Lucy didn’t catch what they said, but the tone of it was clearly disparaging. Paperwork, she guessed. Everyone seemed to hate that, although she didn’t mind it. She nodded a little hello to them as she moved towards the industrial-size box of teabags and extracted one, popped it into her mug.

  ‘I mean, what is machine learning, anyway?’ said Leo.

  Andy shrugged. ‘No idea, mate. Sounds like a load of bollocks, though, doesn’t it?’

  Lucy checked there was water in the kettle and flicked it on. ‘Um, actually it’s just a way of using a computer to perform a task,’ she said. ‘You feed it data to help it recognise patterns and then, based on experience, it gets progressively better at classifying whatever you’ve told it to do.’

  There was a brief silence and Andy slurped his tea. ‘Well, maybe you can help us understand it then, Luce,’ he said.

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘A report I’ve been sent. There’s a bloke at – where was it, Leo?’

  ‘UCL.’

  ‘That’s the one. Well, he’s got this machine learning thing and reckons he’s found a pattern of missing kids around south-west London. That bit of it, I get. It’s the programming and statistics I’ve got no bloody clue about.’

  Lucy was always keen to hear about new modelling and applications of computing in policework. Especially if there was a way of helping children who’d gone missing. The thought of anything like that happening to her two made her breath catch momentarily.

  ‘Sounds interesting,’ she said.

  ‘If you like that sort of thing,’ replied Andy.

  ‘What pattern?’

  ‘Don’t know, I haven’t got that far. And I ain’t really had time to read it with what’s going on at the minute. Maybe I’ll just leave it on my desk, make myself look clever.’ He smirked and Leo laughed too. But Lucy didn’t. She was thinking about the report.

  ‘I’ll read it,’ she offered. ‘I mean, if that’s OK?’

  Andy shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t waste your time. I was probably going to stick it in the post over to Wandsworth CID. It’s not really our area anyway.’

  ‘I’d just like to see what model he’s used. You know, before you send it on.’

  ‘Knock yourself out. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘All right. Be my guest, then. Come on, Professor Richards, we’ve got CCTV to track down.’ Andy gave her a lopsided grin and ambled out, with Leo behind him.

  When she got back to her desk two minutes later, a thick, spiral-bound document was sitting on top of her keyboard. A Post-it note on top read:

  You have been warned! Andy.

  She removed the note and stuck it neatly to one side of her array of monitors before examining the cover. The title read: Application of a Machine Learning Algorithm to Geo-Spatial Analysis of Missing Persons in Greater London.

  Lucy could see why Andy might’ve been put off. She flicked rapidly through numerous pages of code and tables of numbers. Midway through, a loose sheet of paper was released from inside the report and slid onto the floor. Retrieving it, she found it was a letter from the author. She read:

  As part of my research into prospective crime mapping, I’ve been examining data for missing persons in London going back more than twenty years. Against baseline trends, I think I’ve found a statistically significant deviation which indicates an anomaly in south-west London. You can see this in my report. I’m willing to help you analyse your data further to explore this, and I also want to see if you have any relevant datasets that you can share with me to augment my model. Thanks, Marshall Hanlon (PhD candidate, UCL Security & Crime Science)

  It wasn’t the catchiest intro, but Lucy was intrigued. She wasn’t surprised that Andy hadn’t been interested; the language was academic and technical, and the student’s summary of his findings was vague. Lucy knew she had a lot of her own stuff to be getting on with. But, glancing at the photograph of her two grinning children on her mug of tea, she once again felt the pang of sadness for the relatives of these missing persons. There were real people behind these numbers. What if, God forbid, one of her family went missing? She’d want every tool to be used in search of them.

  Lucy glanced at the clock. It wouldn’t hurt to take a ten-minute break, particularly as she was planning to work through lunch anyway. She took a small sip of tea, turned to the first page, and began reading.

  Thirteen

  The house where Donovan Blair had lived prior to his disappearance was a slim Victorian workers’ cottage, jammed into a terrace in Mortlake right beside the railway line. Smith had to walk single file with Khan up the short path bordered by shrubs that were so carefully manicured she thought they might be artificial. A quick inspection revealed they weren’t.

  They knocked at the freshly painted front door and, almost immediately, it was opened by a middle-aged woman. She wore a cardigan over a floral dress. Smith took in the details of her smart shoes, jewellery and make-up. She’d clearly dressed up for the occasion, which was more than could be said for Smith.

  ‘Patricia Hughes? We spoke on the phone, I’m Detective Sergeant—’

  ‘Yes, yes. Do come in,’ she replied briskly, beckoning them into the narrow hallway before Smith had ev
en extracted her warrant card. She did it anyway and finished introducing herself and Khan.

  ‘I’m Trish,’ said the woman. ‘Would you mind taking off your shoes, please? Then we’re through there.’ She pointed to a room at the end, then called out in a warbling voice, ‘Roger? The police are here, darling. Can you bring the tea and biscuits through, please?’

  Smith slipped off her ankle boots and whispered to Khan, ‘Hope you put clean socks on this morning, Mo.’

  They padded over thick carpet into a living room that smelled of lavender. It was almost clinical, every item of furniture, trinket and photo frame tidied, dusted and straightened. Like a show home, she thought. She glanced at Khan, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. On the wall behind him hung a large and elaborate piece of cross-stitching. Smith read the Bible verse from it:

  For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. John 3:16

  Trish moved between the armchairs and sofa, plumping cushions, fussing over their arrangement. Was all this part of her personal expression of grief, or its total absence? Smith knew everyone dealt with death in their own way. Eventually, Trish invited them to sit.

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ said Smith.

  Before Trish could reply, a man entered with a tea tray, its contents trembling and clinking. Smith guessed he was fifty, give or take. Roger Hughes had a high, domed forehead that glistened under the bright ceiling lights. His little round glasses were equally reflective and made it difficult to see his eyes. He wore pressed slacks, a collared shirt and, incredibly, a tie.

  ‘Put it here, Roger,’ said Trish, tapping her palm against a table beside her.

  When the intros were done with Roger and the tea served, Smith repeated her condolence.

  ‘We were so shocked, weren’t we, darling?’ Trish turned to her husband, but he didn’t respond. ‘Donovan was a troubled child, but we were trying to give him a better life.’

  Smith wondered how Donovan felt about living here.

  ‘How long had he been with you?’ she asked.

  ‘Just over six months,’ replied Trish. ‘Before he went missing.’

  ‘Had he run away before in that time?’

  ‘There was one night he didn’t come home, wasn’t there, darling?’ Trish didn’t wait for confirmation. ‘Near the beginning. We put it down to nerves, feeling unsettled, that sort of thing. But, when Donovan did come back the following day, like the prodigal son, we all prayed together. And it didn’t happen again.’

  ‘I see.’ Smith made a couple of notes. ‘Do you have any idea where he might’ve gone on that particular night?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. He wouldn’t tell us, and we didn’t push him.’ Trish sipped her tea, pinkie finger extended. She didn’t seem upset at all. ‘You could try asking his social worker.’

  ‘For all the good that’ll do,’ added her husband quietly.

  ‘Roger!’ Trish glared at him. ‘Sorry, Sergeant Smith.’

  ‘What did you mean by that, Mr Hughes?’ asked Khan.

  Trish laid a hand on Roger’s knee. ‘Nothing. All he’s trying to say is that Donovan’s social worker, Alison, is somewhat… disengaged. We’ve seen it before, haven’t we, darling? Burned-out. No time for the children. And—’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Trish. Alison?—’

  ‘Griffin.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Smith jotted the name. She knew the MIT had struggled to get hold of Social Services. Now, she had one possible explanation for that. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘Yes. Well, she had reservations about us taking Donovan to church, too.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Alison wasn’t a believer, you see. She would’ve preferred a more, how can I put it? Spiritually neutral environment for Donovan. We simply told her church would help him, like it helped lots of the children we fostered before him.’

  ‘Had any of those other children run away from your home?’

  Trish tutted. ‘Of course. That’s just what they do sometimes. We can’t lock them inside.’ She smiled, but Smith didn’t return the expression. She imagined the discipline here wasn’t far short of that; somewhere between a prison and a monastery.

  ‘So, they had run away, then?’

  ‘Yes, but if you ask anyone who’s fostered as long as we have, you’ll find it’s unfortunately rather common.’

  ‘And did any of them not come back?’

  ‘Sergeant Smith, Roger and I have looked after children for almost thirty years. It’s our calling. We’ve had so many through our doors that we can’t even remember all of their names. As I said, you should ask Social Services.’

  Smith didn’t like the evasive response, but decided to change tack. ‘Do you know of anyone who would’ve wanted to hurt Donovan? We’re aware he had some trouble at school.’

  ‘We can’t think of anybody specific, can we, darling? But so many people would’ve known him at Richmond Park Academy, it’s impossible to say. Pupils, staff.’

  ‘Staff…’ Smith thought back to their visit to the school, recalled the teachers they’d met there. All pleasant, sensible, DBS checked. It seemed unlikely. ‘Did anyone at school ever seriously threaten Donovan?’

  ‘Not that we knew of.’

  ‘What about at your church? As you know, his body was found there.’ Smith paused. ‘By Eric Cooper.’

  Trish sat bolt upright. ‘If you’re implying that Eric might’ve had something to do with it, then that’s simply ridiculous. Eric is a lovely man. Extremely devout. Local Scout leader, too, you know,’ she added, as if that proved Cooper was incapable of doing anything bad.

  ‘Anyone else at the church, or perhaps with access to it, who might—’

  ‘Goodness, no!’ cried Trish. ‘I can’t believe you’d even ask that…’ She shook her head quickly, drank her tea. Smith noticed a slight tremor in her hand.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Smith. ‘We have to cover every possibility. I’m sure you understand.’ She held back from saying anything about the prayer pose of Donovan’s body by the altar, or the Bible verse; those details hadn’t been made public.

  Appearing to gather herself, Trish nodded, then looked up and met Smith’s level gaze. ‘You should ask at that sports club he went to,’ she said.

  Smith recalled the membership card found in Donovan’s pocket, which had enabled his early identification. ‘Why do you say that?’

  She exchanged a glance with her husband. ‘Well, there are one or two, ah, rather rough characters there, aren’t there, Roger?’

  ‘Mm, yes.’

  ‘Thanks for the suggestion,’ said Smith.

  The conversation moved on to Donovan’s routine and interests, places he liked to go. Khan led on these questions while Smith observed, took notes, and digested what she’d heard. Her copper’s nose told her there was something a bit off about Roger and Trish Hughes, a disconnect between what’d happened and their reaction. Something fake about it all, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. They finished up and, back in the hallway, put their shoes on. Smith offered a final condolence. Unusually, it was Roger who responded.

  ‘We prayed for his soul,’ he said solemnly. ‘And we know he’s in heaven, now.’

  Fourteen

  Charley Mullins lifted the trousers off the rack, turned towards the nearest mirror and held them up against herself. Then she put them back and ran a hand over the material: faux leather. The trousers looked grown-up, smart and sexy. OK, so she was thirteen, and the children’s sizes in H&M ran up to age fourteen. But you couldn’t get these in the kids’ section. And besides, she was tall enough to wear women’s stuff now. The only problem was the price tag: £25. She glanced around, couldn’t see a store detective anywhere. Could she sneak them into her bag? She was just checking for a security tag inside when a voice called her name.

  ‘Charley!’

  Her head jerked around, a burst of adrenalin rippling thr
ough her tummy. Guilty conscience.

  ‘Hello!’ The man beamed at her. ‘I thought I recognised you.’

  He was older. Not old, like, over thirty, but maybe in his twenties. He seemed familiar but she wasn’t sure from where, exactly. She’d been through so many places in the last couple of years that the adults trying to help her sometimes blurred into each other.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  ‘Er, fine,’ she replied with a cautious smile. She was too nervous to ask him who he was, thought she might look stupid. Or rude. She’d remember in a minute.

  ‘No school today?’

  At three o’clock in the afternoon, that was a fair question.

  ‘Um, yeah, but I skipped the last period. Wanted to come shopping instead.’ She pouted and he nodded in response.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.’ He cast a little glance over his shoulder. ‘I should be at work too, but, whatever!’

  They shared a conspiratorial giggle. He seemed cool.

  ‘So, how’s your mum?’ he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders.

  He knew her mum? Was that where she’d seen him before?

  ‘Dunno,’ she replied defiantly. ‘I don’t live with her anymore.’

  ‘Really? What happened?’

  ‘She kicked me out.’

  ‘Whoa, shit. How come?’

  Charley had no problem telling this story. The more people knew what a total bitch her mum was, the better.

  ‘Got a new boyfriend, didn’t she?’ Charley replied, casually, though she could feel the hate already making her a bit hotter. ‘I didn’t like him, so I said to her, it’s him or me. Guess who she chose?’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ The man shook his head slowly. He really looked as if he cared. ‘And your dad?’

  She shrugged. ‘Don’t know him.’

  ‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry.’