Missing Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  ‘Did she give any indication of feeling the same way?’

  ‘No. I’m probably showing my age, you know, that feeling that you already know complete strangers?’

  ‘That’ll be it,’ said Millie. ‘How’s it going with Grace Clifton? Is there any news from the reconstruction?’

  Mariner grimaced. ‘You know how to kick a man when he’s down. Bugger all, in other words.’ He cast a guilty glance towards the baby. ‘Sorry.’

  Millie laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t think his understanding’s that advanced.’

  ‘If there has been anything significant, no one’s told me yet,’ said Mariner.

  ‘You think she’s run away?’

  ‘Her mates say she’s a rebel. What better two fingers up to your parents than this?’

  ‘You’d know,’ said Millie.

  ‘Yes, I would,’ said Mariner, though it hadn’t really occurred to him until then. ‘But I did have the decency to let my mother know I was safe. Eventually.’

  Suliman, Millie’s husband, returned just as Mariner was leaving. ‘I hope you haven’t been trying to talk her into anything,’ he said, and Mariner couldn’t quite tell if he was joking or not.

  * * *

  When Mariner got out of his car, back at the house, he heard an unfamiliar sound: Jamie laughing. Not just the faint chuckle of satisfaction he allowed himself when they went swimming, or when a new packet of Hula Hoops came his way, but a real belly laugh.

  He opened the door to find Jamie apparently snowboarding in the middle of the living room, in between bouts of jumping and flapping his hands with glee. Knox had brought across a Wii.

  ‘Our Siobhan’s kids like it, so I thought Jamie might,’ said Knox. ‘How’s Millie?’

  ‘She’s good,’ said Mariner. ‘But you’d know that better than me. She said you’ve been over a few times.’

  ‘Yeah, well I seem to find myself over that side of the city quite often, so I just pop in, you know?’

  Mariner didn’t really. It had never been his habit to ‘pop in’ on anyone. But his colleagues had always been more sociable than him. What rubs off from the kind of family life Mariner himself had never experienced, he supposed.

  Chapter Six

  Dominique woke on Monday morning feeling the warmth of her mum’s arms around her, and with the sound of Mum’s voice whispering soothingly in her ear and she nestled back into the pillows. But they felt cold and hard and when she opened her eyes Mum wasn’t there. For the first time Dominique felt frightened and burning tears began to form behind her eyes. She remembered waking up in the night to the noise of banging and shouting in one of the other flats along the landing. It reminded her of when they lived at home with Dad. She had never seen Mum and Dad fighting, but she'd heard it a lot and she knew it was one of the reasons they had come to Birmingham. Most of the shouting happened when Dominique was in bed and they thought she couldn’t hear. It had got worse and worse, until Mum said they had to go, and they went to Auntie’s. Suddenly Dominique wondered if that was where Mum had gone now. But Auntie hadn’t really wanted them there the last time, so somehow Dominique didn't think she'd be very welcome. Thinking about London gave her a sudden longing for her dad.

  The food monster in her tummy started to growl. Today was Monday but Dominique wasn’t sure if she wanted to go to school. What if Mum came home while she was there? But when they’d first come to Birmingham, before Dominique had made friends at school, she’d wanted to stay at home and mum had told her about the trooncy lady. She was seriously scary, mum said, like Miss Trunchbull in the Matilda film. Dominique didn’t want her to come to the flat, so she had to go to school. Besides, it would be nice to see Somia and Evie. It had been lonely having no one to talk to. It felt funny at first, setting off all on her own again, but as she got closer to school she started to see some faces that she knew and that made her feel much better.

  ‘Mummy let you walk on your own today?’ asked Asha’s mum.

  ‘Just from the corner,’ said Dominique, looking back and giving a little wave, as if her mum might still be waiting and watching there.

  Finding Somia in the playground, Dominique felt a surge of joy, and scampered over to see her friend, and for a little while she almost forgot about Mum. She hadn’t got any money for toast, but Somia shared hers (although they both left the crusts) and Dominique knew she was on free dinners so would get something for lunch. It made her think about sausages and cheese flan and pizza, and her tummy rumbled again.

  * * *

  For obvious reasons, Mariner had never truly understood what life was like for his colleagues who were also mothers, and who often rushed into work at the last minute breathless and harassed. Since Jamie had moved in, he’d developed a genuine sympathy for anyone who had to get their kids ready for school. The deadline for Jamie was the community centre bus that turned up every weekday morning, at eight twenty sharp, on its circuitous route to pick up the attendees. It had taken weeks to perfect a routine that worked, and it could be thrown off course if the slightest aspect was not to Jamie’s liking. But this morning all went about as smoothly as it ever would. They’d had their run and Jamie was dressed, fed and waiting when the bus pulled into the service road.

  ‘Hi there, Jamie! How are you doing?’ The escort today was Declan, who was unfailingly cheerful, and swung energetically down from the doors to help Jamie on board. As Mariner watched Jamie lope along the aisle to take his favourite seat, the half-dozen or so other passengers, all without exception white-haired, gazed blankly out at him, reminding Mariner once again of the inappropriateness of this arrangement. One elderly woman had her forehead pressed against the window, the personification of a ‘windy-licker,’ an expression which Declan had once explained was still in common usage in parts of Ireland. The driver then executed what had become a well-practised three-point turn in the tight space available, and Mariner watched the bus disappear again out onto the main road. He walked back into the house to get his coat, thankful nonetheless that Jamie was taken care of for a few hours.

  A day spent on tenterhooks had brought little reward. One of the first in CID, Mariner walked through a virtually empty bullpen and along to his new office, one of the so-called perks of his temporary promotion. Superintendent Sharp had moved up a whole floor, vacating the space for him, and Mariner still wasn’t used to it. Down a short corridor off CID, he felt it distanced him from the rest of the squad and he often found himself roaming around the main office instead, perching on desks and staying engaged with what was happening on the ground, all the while ignoring the ever-growing pile of paper in his in-tray. But this morning he sat down at his own computer and went straight to Grace Clifton’s policy log on HOLMES, to check what, if any, new information had been entered since Saturday night’s reconstruction.

  He didn’t get very far. As the screen was coming to life, Vicky Jesson knocked lightly on his always-open door and came in. As she often did, she’d brought him an unsolicited mug of coffee — black, no sugar — which she placed down in front of him. ‘I thought you might like an update,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mariner. ‘Should I be excited?’

  ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up.’ Just as she was pulling up a spare chair, Charlie Glover appeared, dapper as always, and clutching his Birmingham City mug. The man did himself no favours.

  ‘When did you knock off on Saturday?’ Mariner was asking Jesson.

  ‘I think it was about half eleven in the end,’ Jesson said. ‘I left a couple of uniforms. But by that time of night people are either off their faces or desperate to get home. There didn’t seem much point in hanging around.’

  ‘I was about the same,’ said Glover. He remained standing, leaning back against a filing cabinet. ‘We had a handful of calls at most while I was here. None of which sounded especially promising.’

  By now the log had come up on Mariner’s screen and, taking a slug of coffee, he scanned what was there. ‘One of the unifor
ms out on Broad Street by Symphony was approached by a couple of people who thought they might have seen something,’ he said.

  ‘It’s vague,’ said Jesson, reading from her corresponding printout. ‘They thought they saw a man and woman arguing outside a bar, but the female doesn’t fit Grace’s description.’

  ‘And three of the calls logged are from people who thought they might have seen a “dark-coloured” van in the area, on the night Grace went missing,’ Mariner read. ‘Great. Given how common they are, it would be more surprising if they hadn’t seen one.’

  ‘And no one seems to have got a make or a licence plate number,’ said Jesson. ‘Without those, it’s hopeless. “Might have been one of those transit vans” seems to be the extent of the observations.’

  ‘In other words, naff all,’ said Charlie. His lexicon of expletives had changed somewhat since he and his missus had been born again. Mariner wondered if anyone else had noticed that.

  ‘Well, I don’t think any of us is that surprised that so little new information has come to light,’ Mariner said. ‘If anything, it’s vindication of what we’re all thinking. But it doesn’t move things any further forward, either.’

  ‘Well, if she has run away, I for one am starting to get increasingly annoyed by a little cow who’s too selfish to consider that her parents might be going out of their minds with worry, and who can’t be bothered to at least contact them, directly or indirectly, to let them know she’s OK,’ said Jesson, with feeling.

  ‘Where are we up to with friends and family?’ asked Mariner.

  ‘We’ve pretty much exhausted all avenues,’ she said. ‘The friends were all together waiting for Grace, which has been verified by bar staff. Close family have sound alibis through this family gathering.’

  ‘Let’s make sure they can account for their movements throughout the evening,’ said Mariner. ‘Hour by hour, if necessary. The Hagley Road isn’t that far away, and at a big get-together like that it can be easy enough to slip away for a short time. Other than that, it’s either that Grace herself has initiated this — in which case I agree, selfish little cow — or we’re looking at someone outside of that circle, someone we don’t yet know about or a complete stranger, which is the least likely scenario statistically.’ He was voicing what they were all thinking. ‘We’ve gone over all the social networking stuff?’ he checked.

  ‘Max has, with his usual diligence,’ said Glover. ‘We’re following up on a couple of students from her old school who aren’t local, but pretty much everyone else is accounted for. No mystery emails. We haven’t got her phone, of course.’

  ‘It goes straight to voicemail when we call it?’

  ‘Every time. Her family keep trying too, and they’ve promised to let us know if they get anything different.’

  ‘Do you get the impression that anyone is holding back?’ Mariner asked. He had his own thoughts on that but he was interested to hear what Jesson and Glover had to say.

  Jesson chipped in first. ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘If there’s anyone I’d have reservations about, it’s her dad. They crossed swords frequently, according to more or less everyone else. I did wonder . . .’ She paused.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Even if his alibi checks out, would he have had the means to arrange something?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ said Glover.

  ‘Well, we’re looking at a wealthy and powerful man, who’s operated in the business world for years. I can’t help thinking that at some time he might have come into contact with the kinds of individuals who could make something like this happen. And he’s certainly got the resources.’

  There was a knock on the door and one of the civilian admin staff came in to deposit Mariner’s post, which he acknowledged with a nod of thanks. ‘You don’t sound as if you really believe it,’ he was saying to Jesson. ‘And we have to come back to the motive. Would a father really take such drastic action with his daughter, just because she’s a bit rebellious? Grace may have caused them some embarrassment by choosing a different career path from her brother and sister, but I’m not sure that it’s cause for such an extreme reaction.’

  ‘He might be tempted when she turns up alive and well,’ said Glover wryly.

  The clerk remained, hovering indecisively in the doorway.

  ‘Was there something else?’ Mariner asked him.

  ‘There’s this,’ he said holding up a bulky package. ‘It’s addressed to DCI Sharp, but as she’s not a DCI any more, I didn’t know . . .’

  ‘Is she in yet?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘She’s not in her office.’

  ‘OK. Leave it here and I’ll pass it on if necessary.’

  The clerk deposited the parcel on his desk. ‘It came by courier this morning from Friar Street,’ he said. ‘It got wrongly delivered to one of their dog handlers, PC Dave Sharp, in the middle of last week, but he’s been off sick. It wasn’t until he came back and saw DCI on the address that he realised it was meant for us here. It’s happened before with odd pieces of correspondence and luckily he spotted the mistake before . . .’ He tailed off. ‘Sorry, you probably didn’t need to know all that.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mariner. The bulky eighteen-inch square padded envelope looked as if it had arrived via a war zone. Along its deep creases, the bubble wrap was bursting through the outer shell, like a series of polythene hernias. Mariner absently picked it up and began prying open the seal. ‘So, in the meantime,’ he said, wrapping things up with Glover and Jesson, ‘we keep on pushing against doors, hoping that either Grace has a sudden crisis of conscience and gets in touch, or we learn something new and important that gives us a clue about where she is.’

  Jesson dipped her head towards the parcel. ‘Let us know if you want us to sing “Happy Birthday,”’ she said.

  But Mariner didn’t respond. His attention had been snagged by what was inside and he was opening his desk drawer to take out a pair of latex gloves. ‘Go and get some sterile paper and forensic bags, Charlie,’ he said.

  As Glover disappeared, Jesson moved forward to see. ‘What is it?’

  The air in the room had thickened and Mariner was suddenly hypersensitive to the hairs on the back of his neck. Gloved-up, he reached inside the envelope to retrieve a small object which he placed carefully on the desk. It was a plastic badge bearing the Town Hall/Symphony Hall logo. Alongside it was the name Grace Clifton.

  Chapter Seven

  Returning to Mariner’s office, Charlie was the last to snap on his protective gloves. By which time Mariner had spread out the brown paper he’d brought and placed the package on top. Now he slid out a pile of clothing, pressed and perfectly folded. One by one he picked up the items and laid them out on the table: a black skirt and waistcoat, bra, panties and tights. A separate, bulkier plastic bag at the bottom of the pile contained a pair of highly polished black shoes with a two-inch heel.

  ‘It fits the description of what she was wearing,’ Jesson said. ‘And it’s the right size: eight to ten, size four shoes.’ She reached over to check the labels in the underwear. ‘This is Hollister,’ she said. ‘And we’ve got H&M, and New Look. Those are a young person’s shops. I can check with her mum to make sure.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘Smell that?’ she said. ‘Detergent. It’s all been freshly washed. Nice fabric conditioner too. Sainsbury’s Summer Meadow, unless I’m very much mistaken.’

  ‘Really?’ Mariner was impressed. Her look told him he was being ridiculous. ‘So why go to the trouble?’ he said.

  Charlie landed on the obvious. ‘To get rid of any forensic evidence,’ he said.

  ‘It’s still a risk though,’ said Jesson. ‘If you’re worried about forensic traces, why send them at all?’

  ‘There’s no blouse,’ Mariner observed.

  ‘Perhaps it didn’t wash too well,’ said Glover, grimly.

  As they absorbed individually what the contents of the package signified, Mariner picked up the items and dropped each into an evidence bag that Jesson he
ld open. For him this was their first solid indicator that Grace Clifton might not have engineered her own disappearance. He wondered if the other two were thinking along the same lines.

  ‘What if Grace herself has sent them?’ offered Jesson, tentatively.

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘Well, say she has just run away, either on her own or with someone. She’d hardly want to wear her work uniform, would she? So maybe she has other clothes to change into and she’s sent these, I don’t know, in a misguided attempt to let people know that she’s safe.’

  ‘Or perhaps a symbolic thing. Letting go of her old life?’ said Glover.

  ‘If that’s the case, why send them to us?’ said Mariner. ‘Why not to her parents?’

  ‘Because it would freak them out?’ said Jesson.

  ‘All the more reason to do it,’ Charlie speculated. ‘Everyone says she has a wicked sense of humour.’

  ‘But that would be plain cruel,’ said Mariner. ‘And why be so cryptic? Simpler to write a note, stick a stamp on an envelope and drop it into a post box, surely?’

  ‘It might give away her location,’ Jesson pointed out.

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘What if it’s a cry for help?’ said Glover suddenly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Say Grace has run away, with someone we haven’t yet identified, someone unknown to any of her friends or family. Someone she met. Perhaps at first it was exciting, dangerous even, and it seemed like an adventure. Now she could be getting cold feet. But whoever she’s with has some kind of control over her, and this is her way of trying to let us know.’

  Jesson was shaking her head. ‘It overcomplicates things,’ she said. ‘And we’ve found no online activity linking her with persons unknown.’

  ‘She doesn’t have to have met them online,’ Charlie pointed out. ‘Some people still do that thing called face-to-face contact.’

  But they were straying into the realm of speculation. Mariner picked up the envelope again. ‘Looks as if Dave Sharp’s dog had a good chew on this.’