Little Girl Lost

by Brian McGilloway

  They drove up Strand Road behind four Response Land Rovers. At the rear of the Guildhall they split, two vehicles continuing on towards the Craigavon Bridge where they would set up a checkpoint on the upper and lower decks. The other two headed down the Quay towards the Foyle Bridge at the other end of the city; one would block the dual roads towards Derry, the other the two lanes leading to the Waterside.

  The convoy continued up Culmore Road, the other cars slowing down to the thirty-mile-an-hour speed limit when they saw the PSNI cars approach. Mickey had the heating turned on in the car, making the atmosphere even stuffier than it already was with Travers’s presence. Once or twice, Lucy and Tara attempted to engage in conversation but it fizzled out quickly as, with each attempt, Travers twisted in his seat, smiling in expectation of being involved. Finally, they settled into an uneasy silence.

  At the Culmore roundabout, the convoy split, Travers issuing orders through the car’s radio handset. Team C would park in the lay-by at the bottom of the Derry side of the bridge on the lanes leading towards Waterside. Team D would be in the lay-by on the opposite side of the road, the lanes separated by a low metal fence. Teams A and B would take up similar positions at the Waterside end of the bridge. If any team spotted the van, they were to close in behind it. When it was stopped by the Uniform checkpoint at the apex of the bridge, they could close in on it and lift the two Cunninghams.

  They sat in the car for half an hour, watching the cars speed past, many disregarding the 50 mph limit. The large orange windsock attached to a lamp post just past the lay-by managed an occasional desultory flutter. A few snowflakes drifted onto the windscreen. Lucy glanced down to her left, to the fields below the bridge. Standing out amongst the trees near the river’s edge, she saw the crumbling outline of Boom Hall. She remembered seeing this place when she was younger; it was an eighteenth-century mansion, built on the spot where the Jacobean army had erected a wooden boom across the River Foyle to prevent relief ships bringing supplies upstream to the Williamites during the Siege of Derry in 1689. Despite its significance, it had fallen into disrepair.

  Eventually, Travers seemingly tired of the silence in the car.

  ‘Mickey, cut over to the van there and get a few teas, would you?’

  Mickey, in reply, glanced towards the back seat, clearly hoping Travers would give the task to one of the women. Instead, Travers handed him a ten-pound note. ‘Milk and one sugar. What about you girls?’

  ‘No sugar,’ Tara said, smiling. ‘Milk though. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Milk and one as well, please,’ Lucy said.

  Mickey took the money and, getting out, slammed the door a little harder than necessary.

  ‘No point in having a DC if he can’t get the tea, isn’t that right?’ Travers said, turning in the seat to face them. ‘Benefits of promotion.’

  They watched Mickey wait for a break in the traffic before running across the two lanes to the central partition. He clambered over the wooden fence and similarly waited for a chance to run across the opposite side of the bridge to the lay-by where Team D sat. A white chip van was parked at the edge of the bay. A moment after Mickey took up position outside it, someone was dispatched from Team D’s car on the same mission.

  Mickey had made it back to the central partition with the four polystyrene cups balancing on a piece of card as a makeshift tray when Lucy noticed the red van pass him, heading across towards Waterside. Travers spotted it at the same time.

  ‘That’s us,’ he said, climbing across into the driver’s seat.

  Mickey dropped the tea and, dodging a car, scampered across to them. Travers pointed for him to get into the passenger seat, and, when he had done so, took off.

  They pulled out into the left-hand lane and headed up the gradient of the bridge to where they could see the van’s brake lights flash as it began to slow. Clearly the Cunninghams had spotted the checkpoint further along the bridge, although it was still some distance away, and were slowing.

  ‘They’re thinking of cutting across,’ Travers said.

  ‘Except they can’t,’ Mickey said. ‘The middle partition runs the whole way up.’

  The van sat in the outer lane. To their left was another lane of traffic going in the same direction as them. To turn they would have to cross the central partition which was impossible because of the buffer fencing. They were trapped, with no choice but to continue along the bridge towards the checkpoint. The driver of the car behind the van sounded his horn in enquiry, for they had now stopped dead in the middle of the road.

  Lucy thought for a second that they might make a run for it, abandon the van and try to escape on foot. Instead the van suddenly lurched left.

  ‘He’s doing a U-turn,’ Mickey said.

  Sure enough, ignoring the blaring horns of the other cars in its path, the van executed a three-point turn and began driving the wrong way down the road again, causing the cars climbing the bridge to pull in tight on the inner lane to let it past.

  Travers hit the siren and flasher. ‘Get D across here,’ he snapped flinging the handset to Mickey.

  ‘Team D assist. Suspects driving back down the bridge on the wrong side towards Culmore roundabout.’

  Lucy glanced back and, as the radio crackled with a click of static in response, she saw Team D’s car pull out of the roundabout and head towards the Culmore roundabout to come onto their side of the bridge.

  The Cunninghams had spotted Lucy’s car now and were swerving on the road, the slushy conditions making it hard for them to retain control of their vehicle.

  Travers pulled across the road diagonally, trying to block their path. Whoever was driving the van sped up in response and mounted the edge of the central partition so that the fencing dragged alongside the side of the van. One section of it twisted off the wooden poles cemented into the road and unravelled like ribbon, dragging along the ground behind the van.

  ‘Brace yourselves!’ Travers shouted as the van approached. The driver was hoping to squeeze past the rear end of the car but had underestimated the width of his own vehicle.

  Lucy felt the car shift, felt herself being flung in the opposite direction to that of the car, heard the dull thud as the van clipped the back of the car, then the screech as it pulled off their bumper.

  The force of the impact caused their car to turn so that, in fact, they ended up facing the direction in which the van was travelling. Further down the road, ahead of them both, Team D had adopted a similar position, cutting diagonally across the lanes. This time, perhaps seeing the fate of C’s car, they parked tight against the central reservation.

  The red van slid to a stop. Travers slammed the car into gear and set off after them.

  ‘Everyone OK?’ he called, glancing in the mirror at the two women.

  Ahead, the Cunninghams had pulled across the road into the lay-by where Team C had been parked moments earlier and came to a halt. Instantly two men alighted from the van and set off on foot, down the embankment from the lay-by. Lucy recognized the thinner of the two as Alan Cunningham. He carried a bag in his hand as he ran.

  Travers pulled in behind them, as Team D pulled in at the other entrance to the lay-by. Both cars emptied and the teams set off on foot after the Cunninghams.

  At the top of the bank, they could see instantly the wide disturbances in the snow where the two men had slid down to the field at the bottom. Peter Cunningham was caught on a barbed-wire fence leading into a field behind Boom Hall. Alan Cunningham had abandoned his brother and was running towards the old dilapidated building.

  ‘He’s dumped the bag!’ Lucy shouted.

  ‘Secure the van!’ Travers shouted, then set off down the embankment after them, sliding on his buttocks to the bottom.

  Peter Cunningham was twisting now, pulling at his jacket where it was caught on the barbs. Finally, he unzipped the coat and, leaving it hanging off the fence, set off across the snow, wearing only a T-shirt.

  Lucy followed Alan Cunningham who was runnin
g towards the ruins of Boom Hall, every so often seeming to lose his footing on the snow that still lay on the uneven ground. He finally reached the building and disappeared around the corner.

  Lucy sprinted after him, only slowing as she reached the front of the building. The ground-floor windows had been blocked up to prevent local children climbing inside and injuring themselves in the ruins. Only the uppermost windows remained open, their glass long since gone. Thick tendrils of ivy scarred across the face of the building, twisting round the brickwork and in through the open apertures of the upper windows.

  At first Lucy could not see Alan Cunningham anywhere. Then she heard a soft scraping and, looking up, realized he had used a set of thick vines growing up the wall to help scale the side of the building. He had almost reached the top. Pulling himself up to an upper window ledge, he heaved himself over and dropped from view.

  Lucy stood back and gauged the height of the wall. Then she took hold of the vines to pull herself up. She knew that if the vines had taken Cunningham’s weight they should take hers, but still she was a little concerned that he might have dislodged their hold on the crumbling brickwork. Putting one hand in front of the other and leaning her weight on her legs, she climbed slowly and steadily. In places she found that the cement had been weathered away from between the bricks of the wall, the gaps providing good footholds. As she neared the window ledge she felt her arms beginning to ache. Finding a suitable foothold in the brickwork, she used her legs to push herself upwards, her hand clawing for purchase on the upper ledge.

  Glancing back, she saw Travers standing below her, reaching for the first vine. Then she heaved herself the final few feet onto the window ledge and found herself staring into the belly of the ruined building. Apart from a few surviving rafters, the roof was completely absent meaning that she could see the ruins clearly, even in the weakening winter light. The interior walls were in varying states of disrepair, the floors of the rooms littered with pieces of timber and lumps of rubble.

  Gripping the window ledge, she swung her legs over and, lowering herself halfway down the interior wall, dropped to the ground. She reckoned she was standing in what had once been the main living room for the crumbled remains of a huge fireplace dominated the wall opposite. The floor under her feet was uneven below the coating of snow, which had not melted, the interior of the building being enshadowed by the surrounding walls.

  She stumbled across the floor, trying to follow the disturbed snow where Cunningham had moved. She became aware of the number of internal walls, all of them potential hiding places. She began to regret her haste in following him and considered for a moment waiting for Travers to catch up. But she also knew Travers was older than her, less fit, and would struggle to scale the wall easily.

  Somewhere to the rear of the building she heard scuffling, then a bird exploded into the sky, disturbed by something. Lucy followed its path, a crow, grey-capped, its wings thudding against the chill wind.

  She moved towards the spot where she had seen it appear. Rounding the corner of a wall, she guessed she was in the hallway of the house, a long thin corridor, along which two walls ran almost the entire length of the house, a number of doorways giving off from each side.

  She continued moving towards the rear of the building. Because the floor was so uneven, the snow did not lie smoothly and she could not be sure if Cunningham had caused the marks in the snow. Still, at one doorway further ahead and to her right, there did seem to be definite footprints. She approached the doorway, her gun drawn, and paused for a moment, listening for the sound of breathing, holding her own breath as she did so.

  Finally, she peered around the edge of the doorway, cautiously, with no more than a snatched glance.

  Still, the rock caught her full on the forehead. Cunningham was standing just inside the doorway, pressed against the wall, the rock clasped in his hand, rising again for another strike. Lucy stumbled backwards, losing her footing and falling onto her back. Her vision seemed to twist and distort and she could feel the heat of the blood trickling down her forehead.

  She looked up at Cunningham, stepping into the doorway, following her. She realized that he looked terrified, almost as if he took no pleasure in what he was doing. He stared down at her, his face drawn and pale, then he flung the rock to one side and sped past her, running back along the corridor she had just come down. Lucy tried to grab at his foot to stop him, but he kicked backwards, connecting with her shoulder and forcing her to let him go. She lay on the ground, struggling to get up, watching him make his escape. He was drawing near the final doorway at the far end of the corridor when Travers stepped through it, his baton raised. With a deft flick of the baton, he caught Cunningham on the throat. The man dropped to his knees instantly. Travers raised the stick a second time and struck again, this time at the lower part of the back of Cunningham’s neck. The sharp crack of the wood on bone carried down to Lucy who watched helplessly as Cunningham flopped forward onto his face.

  CHAPTER 36

  Lucy waited inside the building with Travers while the team outside began breaking down the blocks that had been cemented into one of the ground-floor windows. Travers made her sit against the wall and rest, his coat wrapped around her to keep her warm. Neither of them paid much heed to Cunningham who, once Travers had cuffed him, had lain face down on the rubble without moving.

  Finally, they saw a glimpse of light in the wall as the middle block was pushed in. After that, the surrounding blocks came out easily enough. Outside, Peter Cunningham sat against the fencing at the bottom of the bank leading up to where the cars had been abandoned. He already sported a black eye, a gash on his cheek livid against the pallor of his face. He still wore only his T-shirt, none of the officers seeming minded to give him his jacket.

  Mickey helped Lucy and Travers through the window. When Cunningham had been lifted through, he was taken over and placed beside his brother. Glancing up through the fields, Lucy could see a Land Rover making painfully slow progress along the narrow roadway that led down to Boom Hall from beneath the bridge. Mickey approached Travers with the bag they had seen Cunningham carrying when he first ran from the van.

  Travers opened the bag. Inside were a number of small food bags. Each contained twists of paper around small brown blocks, no larger than an Oxo cube.

  ‘Heroin?’

  ‘Looks like, sir.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Mickey shrugged. ‘They’re searching the van now, sir.’

  A moment later an officer slid down the embankment towards them, calling for Travers. He held out his hand in offering. Lucy followed Travers over and he took the object the man offered him. As he held it up, Lucy could see the small golden figure of a ballerina.

  ‘Bingo,’ Travers said.

  Lucy spent the rest of the day in hospital. Her cut required stitching, then the doctor had insisted on keeping her in in case of concussion. The nurse wouldn’t even let her go down to see her father, telling her that she had to stay in bed. If she was being honest, it suited her. After the local anaesthetic had worn off, the cut had begun to sting madly, added to which she had developed a thumping headache.

  She asked for and was finally given a heavy painkiller and slept fitfully through the afternoon. Just before five, when the shift had changed, she asked the nurse who had taken over if she might be able to see Dr Matthews.

  ‘You might have concussion,’ the nurse said, glancing at her chart.

  ‘That’s right,’ Lucy said.

  ‘I’m not sure that requires a psychiatrist,’ the girl continued, deadpan.

  ‘We share a mutual friend. Could you tell her I want to speak to her about Alice?’

  Matthews arrived just before six. She wore her overcoat as they spoke, despite the heat of the ward and made it clear that she was leaving for the day.

  ‘You wanted to see me,’ she said.

  Having asked to speak to her, Lucy now realized she had no real reason for doing so. ‘I was wonderin
g if you had spoken to Alice recently.’

  Matthews demurred for a moment. ‘I’ve seen her once.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I upset her,’ Lucy said quietly. ‘The last time I saw her. I didn’t mean to but …’

  The woman put down her bag and sat heavily on the seat beside Lucy. ‘How?’

  ‘I was reading to her and she started screaming.’

  ‘What were you reading?’

  Lucy thought. ‘Little Red Riding Hood.’

  Matthews smiled grimly. ‘More fairy tales.’

  ‘I was just reading to her. I thought fairy tales would be safe.’

  Matthews unbuttoned her coat as she shifted in the seat, aiming to get more comfortable. ‘Fairy tales reflect innate fears: separation; the darkness; evil; being lost in woods. Many children who have gone through trauma will associate themselves with a fairy-tale character. It could be that Alice sees herself in the Little Red Riding Hood story that you told her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. Each child sees a different element of themselves or their story in the tales. Just look at some of the pictures she drew and you’ll see children in woods, straight out of the fairy tales.’

  Lucy considered the response. She herself had drawn the parallel between one of the pictures and Hansel and Gretel. ‘What about the one with the red rectangle?’ she added.

  Matthews shrugged. ‘Which one?’

  ‘The red rectangle with the black animal in the middle.’

  ‘I know the one. Based on her reaction to your story, the black animal may be a wolf.’

  ‘She saw who killed her father, didn’t she?’ Lucy asked, shifting herself up straighter in the bed.

  Matthews nodded. ‘Possibly. But at the minute, the only thing she’ll see or remember is a symbol of the act rather than having a clear sense of the individuals involved in it.’

  ‘A wolf?’ Lucy guessed.

  ‘A wolf,’ Matthews agreed, standing to button her coat once more.

  Lucy watched the late evening news in her room. Travers was interviewed about the breakthrough in the kidnapping case. Two men were assisting police with their investigation. He was sure they would have Kate safely home soon, he assured the reporter.