Little Girl Lost

by Brian McGilloway

  After Matthews had gone, Robbie stayed in the room with her. He rested his buttocks on the edge of the desk, his arms folded, smiling at Lucy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Speaking of work–life balance,’ he began. ‘I was wondering if you fancied grabbing a bite to eat sometime.’

  Lucy shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I’m kind of busy with my dad and that. I …’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I just thought there’d be no harm in asking.’

  ‘I’m not …’ Lucy began.

  ‘It’s only a bite to eat, DS Black,’ he said.

  Lucy smiled. ‘Maybe sometime,’ she said finally. ‘That might be nice.’

  ‘Might be nice,’ Robbie considered. ‘That’s good enough for me. It’s a date. Or not. Your choice.’

  Lucy raised her eyebrows, sighed heavily, but could not fully conceal her smile.

  ‘I looked into that thing you asked, by the way,’ Robbie said. He pulled a folded sheet of A4 paper from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Thought I’d ask you out before I gave it to you so you wouldn’t feel obligated.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lucy said, opening the sheet and being immediately disappointed by the lack of information on the page. There was no more than a few handwritten notes.

  ‘Janet Houston,’ Robbie said. ‘She was in residential care until she turned seventeen. I can’t give you any of the background, beyond the fact that she was removed from her family home.’

  ‘Abuse or neglect?’

  ‘Abuse,’ he said grimly. ‘We took her into care when she was ten. Shifted back and forth between care and her family home.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘They,’ Robbie said. ‘I was still at school myself back then. She vanished when she was seventeen. One of my colleagues did say that something surfaced about her, involving the Provos. But I don’t know how accurate that is. Could just be rumour.’

  Lucy scanned the information on the sheet: the name, DOB, a brief summary of the events he had just recounted.

  ‘I’m not sure how much use it’s going to be, to be honest,’ Robbie said, shrugging apologetically.

  ‘It’s a start,’ Lucy said. ‘Thanks for getting it for me.’

  Robbie held out his hands. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  Tom Fleming was sitting in the Interview Room with a child and a female officer when Lucy went into the unit. The child was being videoed, Fleming holding two dolls towards her, one of each sex, both anatomically correct. The child was gesturing towards one of them. Lucy didn’t want to know the context, or which family relative the male doll represented in the child’s mind.

  She went up to her office and switched on the PC sitting on her desk. Charles Graham had said that Melanie Kent had booked her leave before she started with Clarendon Shirts. Perhaps what he had meant was that she had already booked a holiday before she started working for them. The state of the house and absence of toothbrushes and so on in the bathroom suggested that her absence was a planned one. Perhaps something had happened to her and Alice as they left for their break? Or perhaps Alice had been left behind with someone else? Her father?

  Lucy phoned Belfast International Airport first and asked them to run a check for Melanie Kent, Peter Kent or Alice Kent as passengers booked to go out of the airport during the previous week. Having been given a promise that they would get back to her, she hung up and then immediately picked up again and phoned Dublin Airport, making the same request. Then she called the ferry companies and asked there. While she waited for them to return her call, she laid her notepad in front of the monitor. She had the names of Kent and Mullan circled on one page, Janet Houston’s written in a different-coloured pen beneath it. While she waited for the new Police National Database to load, she prevaricated over which name to search first. In the end, it was Janet Houston’s that she typed.

  After leaving care, Houston had been arrested on and off numerous times over the years for public-order offences. The most recent arrest photograph, taken following her arrest for assaulting an officer, surprised Lucy: the woman should only have been in her early thirties but she appeared significantly older. Her features were bloated and ruddy, even under the harshness of the station lights. On her left temple a deep gash seemed to have festered, while one of her eyes was swollen shut above a thick bruise that yellowed her cheekbone. She appeared more the victim of an assault than the perpetrator.

  Lucy scanned down through the woman’s personal details and was dismayed to find her address listed as ‘no fixed abode’. Regardless, she printed off Janet’s record and the photograph of her. Then she ran a search on Peter Kent.

  Kent’s record was not quite as long as Janet’s but significantly more serious. He had been arrested several times, in each instance on terrorist charges, stretching back to the mid-nineties. Considering the bulk of these had been post-ceasefire, in all probability it confirmed the Strabane inspector’s assertion that he was probably a dissident Republican, dismayed with the Provos declaration that the war was over. Again, the address details were blank. Lucy enlarged the arrest photo of Kent, studied his face for some sign of Alice in the man. His face was thin and hard, his expression defiant. His eyes were narrowed, bright with a glint of arrogance. He sported a thin shadow of stubble. Like Alice, he had high cheekbones, which conferred his features with a degree of effeminacy. She also shared his mouth, his lips soft and full.

  Lucy hit print and typed in Kevin Mullan’s name. Mullan’s record was the most interesting. He had been a bomber with the IRA during the later stages of the Troubles. He was believed to have led a break-away faction following the ceasefire which had been responsible for a spate of fire-bombings in shops and commercial premises around the town. At some stage, perhaps during one such attack, he must have burnt his face and required a skin graft. Lucy enlarged his photograph and involuntarily shuddered at the image. While the grafting may well have been successful, the man was still disfigured. The left-hand side of his face had the brittle shiny quality of plastic, the upper part of the cheek jutting slightly over the lower eyelid. The bottom part of the cheek looked as if it didn’t quite fit the jawline, a tiny apron of skin overhanging the bone. Despite being unshaven on the right-hand side of his face, this grafted skin was unnaturally smooth. The skin was drawn back at the corner of the lip, revealing the edge of the man’s teeth, giving the impression of a sneer.

  Mullan’s most recent arrest was not mentioned, though it was hardly surprising as the incident had occurred in the Republic. Promisingly, however, the database did list Mullan as living in Derry. If he still lived there, Lucy hoped, he might know Peter Kent’s present location. While he might not want to help the police if he thought she was after Kent for a crime, he might be more forthcoming if he realized that it was a family crisis that had prompted her search. Still, glancing again at Mullan’s photograph, Lucy was not entirely sure she wanted to face the man alone. In fact, even after she closed the database, she thought she could see the ghost of his features burned onto the screen.

  CHAPTER 27

  Lucy knocked on Fleming’s door. He looked up at her from his desk when she opened it, his head resting in one hand as he completed the paperwork from his interview.

  ‘Tough one?’ she asked.

  ‘Nightmare,’ Fleming said. ‘Any luck with the girl?’

  Lucy came into the room and sat on the chair facing Fleming. ‘I think I’ve found out who she is. Her mother’s boss recognized her. She and the mother live in Strabane. I went up to the house but the place is empty.’

  Fleming raised an eyebrow. ‘Any signs of violence?’

  ‘Nothing. It looks like they planned on leaving; no toothbrushes or the like.’

  ‘Holidays?’

  ‘I’ve contacted airports and ferries to see if any of them were booked to travel over the past week.’

  ‘Good work. What about a father?’ Fleming asked, closing the folder in front of him.

  �
��He was doing time in Dublin for explosives. He was released a while back. No known address for him, but his partner in the bomb attempt got out at the same time; he has an address in Derry.’

  Fleming nodded approvingly. ‘How did you get all that?’

  ‘The DI in Strabane got it.’

  ‘So are you going to the friend’s house?’

  ‘If you’d accompany me,’ Lucy said. ‘He’s a rough-looking character.’

  Fleming slid the folder away from him and stood. ‘I’d be delighted to,’ he said.

  As they left the unit, Lucy prevaricated, unsure whether or not Fleming would want to drive. However, he did nothing but look at her expectantly, glancing around the car park.

  ‘Where’s your car?’ he asked.

  ‘Over this way.’

  As they strapped in their seat belts, Fleming, clearly feeling he needed to explain more fully, said, ‘I was done for drink-driving, lost my licence.’

  ‘I see,’ Lucy said, not looking at the man.

  ‘My wife left me. I took it badly.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir,’ Lucy replied, shifting in her seat, exaggeratedly checking her mirrors as she moved off, anything but looking her commanding officer in the face during his display of collegial frankness. She could sense that he was looking at her, could sense his gaze. He was smiling mildly at her and she hoped he wasn’t going to make a pass at her. Every time she moved to a new posting, she spent the first month making it clear that she was not looking for an office fling. For some reason, the older officers took longer to realize this.

  ‘But that was before I found Jesus,’ Fleming concluded. ‘So, who are we looking for?’

  Lucy suppressed an embarrassed laugh.

  ‘I hope my telling you that didn’t make you uncomfortable,’ Fleming added. ‘People in the unit wonder why I don’t drive. It’s easier to be honest.’

  ‘I appreciate your candour, sir,’ Lucy said.

  ‘So, who are we looking for?’

  Lucy reached back into her bag and pulled out some folders then handed them across to Fleming.

  He opened the first. ‘Peter Kent,’ he read.

  ‘Alice’s father, I think. There’s no sign of him or the mother. He was released a while back; we’ve no address for him. His partner is the scarred man in the other folders – Kevin Mullan.’

  Fleming opened the next folder and grunted softly as he saw the arrest shot.

  ‘He’s a bad boy,’ Fleming said. ‘He’s a regular with the Response team. He burned himself, you know.’

  Lucy nodded. ‘Planting his own bomb?’

  ‘Hoist with his own petard, apparently.’

  ‘He’s the one we’re going to see. I’m hoping he’ll know where Kent is.’

  ‘He’ll never cooperate with us; the likes of Mullan will never accept the law unless they’re delivering it themselves with hurling bats and hammers.’

  ‘I’m hoping that if he realizes we’ve found Kent’s daughter, he might be more amenable.’

  ‘Unless, of course, Kent is responsible for the blood on the girl’s clothes,’ Fleming suggested, scanning the information Lucy had printed from the Police National Database on Mullan. ‘Mullan’ll hardly hand him over.’

  ‘He might contact him,’ Lucy said, aware of the hint of desperation in her voice. ‘We’ve a bulletin out on the mother too, in case this doesn’t lead anywhere.’

  Fleming nodded absent-mindedly, opening the final folder in his lap.

  ‘Where does Janet fit into this?’

  ‘She’s something different I’m working on,’ Lucy said, then regretted it. As her superior officer, Fleming would know every case she’d be working.

  ‘Is Travers getting you tied into CID again?’ Fleming asked, without lifting his gaze from the sheets in front of him. Lucy wondered whether she imagined a hurt tone in his voice.

  ‘No, it’s something personal.’

  Fleming glanced at her quizzically, then shut the folder.

  ‘You said “Janet” there, sir? Do you know her?’

  ‘I know her fairly well,’ he replied, looking out the passenger window.

  ‘Where might I find her?’ Lucy asked.

  Fleming continued looking out the window, as if she had not spoken, though Lucy knew that he had heard. She guessed that his earlier display of honesty was about setting down a marker. She also suspected that, if he was to help her, he’d expect her to trust him enough to be honest.

  ‘My father is suffering with Alzheimer’s,’ she explained. ‘He has mentioned Janet a number of times. I discovered that this was the Janet he spoke about. He knew her when he was younger.’

  ‘What did your father do?’ Fleming asked, resting his hands on the folder. Lucy noticed that his nails were manicured and precise. He still wore a wedding ring too, despite telling her his wife had left him.

  ‘He … he owned a shop in Derry.’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘She worked there too,’ Lucy said, more freely now, feeling a little rankled by the lack of even a conversational tone to the questions. She suddenly regretted asking him to accompany her. She looked across at him, his features set, his mouth pursed. It struck Lucy that, by the nature of the questions and Fleming’s response to her answers, he already knew the truth.

  ‘They were both police too,’ she admitted finally.

  Fleming’s expression softened.

  ‘Your mother’s secretary told me you had been up with her,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Lucy struggled to decide whether she was more angry with the secretary for telling Fleming, or Fleming himself for testing her the way he had.

  Sensing her anger perhaps, he raised a hand from the folder in placation.

  ‘I knew your father, Lucy,’ he said. ‘He was my inspector when I started in D District. He was a good man. Bill Travers took over from him.’

  ‘You might have admitted as much, sir,’ Lucy said. ‘Before you asked me.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Fleming agreed. ‘I thought you didn’t want people to know.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Lucy said. ‘If people know my mother’s the ACC they’ll …’

  ‘Assume you got assigned to PPU through nepotism rather than merit?’ Fleming said. ‘There’s not much fear that people will think your mother did you a favour when she put you in the PPU.’

  Lucy had to agree with him on that.

  ‘She has, however, asked me to look out for you,’ Fleming said. ‘Until you find your feet.’

  ‘I can handle things on my own, thank you, sir,’ Lucy said, making little effort now to hide her anger.

  ‘I thought as much,’ Fleming said. ‘But if you’re looking into Janet, I guessed you might like some help.’

  ‘My mother suggested there was something between Janet and my father,’ Lucy stated.

  ‘She was his informant,’ Fleming said.

  ‘My father still talks about her.’

  ‘That’s because he probably still feels responsible,’ Fleming said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You’ll understand when you meet her,’ he said. ‘You’ve passed Mullan’s house, by the way.’

  CHAPTER 28

  The woman’s cursing continued unabated even while Lucy tried to explain the purpose for her visit.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ the woman, Kevin Mullan’s partner presumably, screamed at her.

  Lucy glanced around. At the houses opposite, two of the neighbours were standing at the respective sides of the fence running between their properties, watching across with open amusement.

  It hadn’t been surprising that she’d missed his house. The rows of terraces the whole way through the estate were identical, all crafted from red brick made in Lifford just over the border in Donegal, then shipped down to Derry. The whole city centre was a strange amalgam of ancient stone and red brick, often side by side. It was all red here, though.

  ‘I’m not looking to question your partner. I need his help
in a family matter.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ the woman spat back, raising her voice for the benefit of the two across the street. ‘Liar.’

  ‘I’m not Miss—’

  ‘You know a cop’s lying, ’cause they open their mouths,’ she added.

  Lucy glanced back at Fleming who stood at the car, resting his buttocks against the bonnet. He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Can we come in?’ Lucy asked, already pushing forwards, keen to stop the public performance.

  ‘You can’t force your way in,’ the woman screeched, even as she herself backed into the hallway. ‘I’m calling the papers.’

  Once inside, though, her demeanour seemed to soften. It was not the first time Lucy had encountered such a reaction on the doorstep – mostly so the neighbours wouldn’t think the visited party was cooperating – for the party in question to become a little more amenable once inside.

  Fleming took a last look across at the neighbours, then followed Lucy and the woman inside.

  She was sitting on her sofa when they went into the living room, her legs clasped tight together to hold the ashtray which balanced on her lap. She lit the butt of an old cigarette, wrapped one arm around her chest, and looked up at the two officers standing in her lounge.

  ‘You may sit down if you’re here,’ she said. ‘Have you any fags? I’m all out.’

  Lucy began to explain that she didn’t smoke when Fleming stood and said he might have some in the car. She was a little surprised by this; she didn’t think he smoked.

  ‘I’m not actually looking for your partner, Miss …?’ Lucy said, pausing for the woman to complete the sentence for her.

  ‘Gallagher,’ the woman said, dragging deeply on the butt, then twisting it out in the ashtray. She blew out the smoke low, towards the floor.

  ‘I need to find an acquaintance of his – Peter Kent.’

  ‘Don’t know him,’ Gallagher said, not quite looking Lucy in the eye.

  ‘He served time with your partner,’ Lucy said. ‘We don’t have an address for him.’

  ‘Well, that’s why I don’t know him. Kevin didn’t tell me who he did time with. Why would he?’