Girl Seven

by Hanna Jameson

  I decided against asking to keep the photo and handed it back. Clare replaced it on the bookcase and next to it I noticed a sculpture of a woman’s body, legs twisted up behind the head, the face featureless apart from an open soundless scream where the mouth was meant to be. It didn’t sit comfortably with the rest of the room.

  I caught her eyes, tensed and looked away. ‘Look, do you mind if I go and speak to some people? I’ll call Pat on his mobile but it’s probably best I start trying to get some leads.’

  ‘It’s what he’s paying you for.’

  ‘Try not to worry too much. You know, I’m sure she’s fine.’

  She nodded. ‘She’d call if she was.’

  I was about to leave when I caught myself in the doorway, turning back. ‘Sorry… What’s her name?’

  ‘Emma.’ Her face was all shadows and grief, as if she already knew her daughter wasn’t coming back. ‘Her name’s Emma.’

  My breath froze in the air on the way back to my car. I could have gone home, but it was a job and sleep was overrated.

  I wanted a closer look at her hands.

  The level of cold on this night was oppressive and vaguely threatening. I let myself into DC Geoff Brinks’s house through the back door. Due to his late-night cigarettes it was never locked.

  You would never guess that he had two children, I thought as I sat down at his dining table in the dark. Usually you could see the telltale signs, like drawings stuck to the fridge or family photos, but his house was as void and grey as the man himself.

  It was later than usual, a little while after midnight, when I heard him coming down the stairs. I could have given him some warning but where was the fun in that?

  Brinks switched on the light and let out a high-pitched cry as he fell against the wall.

  I swear this never stopped being funny.

  ‘Evening, sunshine.’

  ‘Fuck! Fuck… Fuck, Nic!’

  ‘If you don’t lock your door one day you’ll get unlucky and it won’t be me you find down here.’

  ‘Lucky, pfft…’ Brinks, his T-shirt and boxers hanging off the bones jutting out of his hips, crossed the room to the fridge and got out a bottle of Carlsberg. He was slight to the point of emaciated, with small rat-like teeth and slick hair. ‘You’re lucky I don’t sleep in the buff, mate.’

  ‘There would be nothing buff about that, mate.’

  Brinks sat down heavily across the table, making me want to stand up.

  ‘This has to stop,’ he said, rubbing his finger across a stain in the plastic tablecloth.

  ‘Well, when you start locking your door I might start knocking.’ I winked, not able to resist fucking with his head. ‘Meet the missus, eh?’

  ‘No, not just that, I mean this.’ He gestured at nothing. ‘I mean this whole thing.’

  I snorted. ‘And you think I have nothing better to do with my time than cultivate new contacts?’

  ‘Come on, Nic—’

  ‘I need to be kept up to date on this case.’

  ‘Nic—’

  ‘Stop bleating my name like some fucking woman!’ I reached into my khaki bag and dropped a wad of notes on to the table. It was more likely to shut him up than words.

  He looked up from the money, as pale as the notes. ‘What case?’

  The token pretence at integrity was disgusting. I wanted to smash his head into the fridge and leave him choking in a pool of his own blood but it wouldn’t be fair on the family upstairs. Brinks would do anything for money. I doubted it would take much for him to let me do that.

  He coughed and fear flickered across his features. Sometimes I wondered whether he could see my thoughts betrayed on my face.

  ‘What case?’

  ‘It’s not a case yet, but it will be soon. Do you know who Pat Dyer is?’

  He took a gulp of beer. ‘I want to say arms dealer…’

  ‘Yeah, he lives in Marylebone. His daughter went missing today.’

  ‘Yeah, I know of him. Daughter is about sixteen now, right?’

  I hesitated, surprised at myself for having not asked. ‘Um, yeah.’

  ‘How long has she been gone?’

  ‘Since this morning. She went to meet a friend and never arrived. Parents only found out a while ago.’

  ‘Don’t want her gone another twelve hours, do we?’ he said, looking at me over the huge shadows under his eyes. ‘You know I’ll only be brought in if we find a body?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Ever the optimist.’

  I shrugged. It seemed pointless, hoping she would be found. The only alternative I could think of was that her friend had lied. It didn’t fit though. Her friend would have covered for her otherwise.

  ‘I’m gonna need things like CCTV footage, case notes, photographs, the usual.’

  ‘Do you have a description?’ he asked, counting the money left on the table.

  ‘She’s got long dark hair, blue eyes, mole on her neck along her collarbone.’ My mind was full of bin liners and mottled skin, blood under broken nails. I wondered how much money it would take to make Brinks do that to someone. ‘She was wearing jeans, black high-heel boots and a black and white striped top.’

  ‘Getting ahead of ourselves a bit, aren’t we?’ he said, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘If she turns up alive it’ll be a nice hundred pounds to lose.’

  ‘Point.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose as I stood up and wandered towards the door. ‘Seriously, this has to be the last time.’

  ‘Heh, whatever.’ I smiled back from the doorway. ‘Like you have a choice.’

  ‘I’m serious…’

  ‘Thanks, Geoff!’ I called back, already outside.

  ‘Go to hell, Nic.’

  I dialled Pat Dyer from a petrol station while downing an energy drink in my car, not expecting an answer. It was well into the early hours of the morning and stress was weighing on my eyelids.

  After a few seconds Pat answered. There was a dim rumble, as if he was driving. It was the third time I’d spoken to him, but the picture that was starting to form in my mind was of a man who didn’t tolerate contradiction or competition. He spoke like someone who was not only unaccustomed to interruption, but on constant lookout for anyone who seemed as though they might try.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘This is Nic, Nic Caruana.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Clare said you were following some leads?’

  ‘Well, it’s hard to tell at the moment but what was the name of Emma’s ex-boyfriend?’

  ‘Danny Maclaine. Don’t worry about him though, I’ve just seen him. Got a few leads of my own, you know.’

  ‘Do you mind if I talk to him anyway?’

  Pat went quiet for a while.

  ‘He doesn’t know anything,’ he said, sounding competitive.

  ‘I’d still like to talk to him.’

  ‘Believe me, if he knew anything he would have told me.’

  ‘Sure thing, but I like to check these things out myself.’

  He waited for me to relent, but I was more at ease with silence than him.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But he doesn’t know anything.’

  He gave me an address in Edmonton and hung up.

  I turned the car around, thinking that she was already dead. I tried switching on the radio and grimaced at the onslaught of drum ’n’ bass before switching it off again. When I stopped at some traffic lights I shut my eyes for a moment, jerked myself awake and drew a star in the condensation on the window.

  She’s already dead.

  The upper windows of the house in Edmonton were blocked with mattresses. Danny Maclaine answered the door with one eye swollen shut. His jeans were too baggy and his hair was on the verge of dreadlocks. A ginger cut-price Kurt Cobain.

  ‘Are you Danny Maclaine?’

  ‘Fuck, I already told him I don’t know where she is!’

  ‘I just want to talk to you.’

  Danny turned his head side-on to look at me. ‘Who are you
?’

  ‘I’m working with Pat. Don’t worry, I don’t think you know where she is.’

  ‘So she really is missing then?’

  ‘Yeah, since this morning.’

  ‘Fuck…’ He jerked his head. ‘All right.’

  There was only one lamp in the living room, one sofa, one table, no TV. He sat down carefully, an arm around his ribs. Someone in the street was playing Deftones too loud and a group of lads were shouting their way past the window. On the floor at his feet was a bag of pills.

  ‘When did you last see Emma?’ I asked, standing in the doorway.

  ‘About three weeks ago, maybe four, I don’t know.’ He picked up the bag of pills and let me decline one before knocking back two for himself.

  ‘How long were you together?’

  ‘A year. She was cool. We were together since she was fifteen. Her dad never liked me though, mad bastard.’

  My eyes fell across the bruises and split cheek. ‘He gave you quite a going-over.’

  ‘Well, he’s been waiting for an excuse for long enough.’ He shifted on the sofa and looked up at me as if he was about to share something important. ‘Look, she’s not the sort of girl who would pull a fast one on her parents. She’s a good sort, really. If she’s missing it’ll be… it’ll be something.’

  ‘I don’t want to jump to conclusions,’ I said. ‘Any idea where she would go? Places that she used to hang out?’

  ‘Only the usual places, clubs and stuff…’ He shrugged, leg jigging. ‘They were only places she would go with me though, cos of her age. I don’t know where her new fella would be taking her.’

  The music stopped but the shouting continued.

  ‘She had a new boyfriend?’

  ‘Just from what I’ve heard,’ he said. ‘She was seen out with another guy.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘No.’ His eye narrowed for a moment. ‘I don’t even know what he looks like.’

  The shouting outside stopped.

  ‘She’s… she’s probably dead, isn’t she?’ he said.

  I knew he wouldn’t appreciate a lie, even if it would have been kinder to give him one, at least for now.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  He nodded and sat back, one eye staring ahead.

  ‘I need to go but I may need to speak to you again.’

  Danny didn’t say anything else. He was rolling himself a joint when I left.

  2

  I glanced at my reflection in the overhead mirror again and pushed it away, embarrassed that I cared.

  I was an odd-looking guy by my own admission. An Italian father and Scottish mother had given me features that had taken years to grow into, and even now they remained uneasily arranged on my face: a Roman nose, pale eyes and aggressive teeth against a natural tan. My hair was still short, but starting to hang like Lennon’s during his fringe phase.

  I sat back in the driver’s seat, grimacing.

  Across the street the front of Pat Dyer’s house was grand and sombre. Everything about it said fuck off. Pat’s Mercedes wasn’t in the driveway and he wasn’t answering his phone.

  I got out of the car, eyes on the living-room light.

  I called Pat.

  Nothing.

  I called Pat again.

  Nothing.

  Fuck.

  I walked up to the door, rang the bell and listened to footsteps coming swiftly from the living room. When she opened the door she didn’t bother to hide her disappointment.

  ‘Oh, it’s you…’ She stepped back, masking the worry with contempt, charcoal shadows under her eyes. ‘Have you found anything?’

  ‘Nothing yet.’ I hesitated, until I realized that she wasn’t planning to invite me in again. ‘Listen, I need to search Emma’s room. If it’s OK with you, of course.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘OK, well, let me phrase it another way,’ I said. ‘I’m going to search her room, because that’s what I’m being paid to do. You can be OK with it, or not. I actually don’t give a shit either way.’

  I expected her to slam the door in my face but she stood to the side.

  ‘Fine.’

  I stepped inside and turned. ‘Look, it’s just—’

  ‘Don’t worry, I understood you the first time.’

  There was nothing I could say to make the atmosphere easier, I realized. There never was. With my job I only ever met people at their worst; racked with grief or spite or a petty need for revenge.

  I walked up the stairs and heard her say, ‘It’s on the left,’ which was as close to an endorsement as I was going to get.

  When I switched on the light the first thing that hit me was the realization of how young sixteen was. The walls were baby blue and covered in posters cut from magazines. I didn’t know who any of the men were and figured I wasn’t missing out on much.

  I glanced back as I heard Clare coming up the stairs. ‘I’m going to need to move some stuff.’

  She shrugged and leant against the doorway.

  I tried to forget she was there as I started working my way methodically around the room. First I checked the usual places; on the top shelves of the wardrobe and under the mattress. Burglars used the same logic; anything of value was either high or low.

  In her dressing table I found a diary and address book.

  ‘That’s private,’ Clare said.

  I raised my eyebrows at her as I sat down on the stool, picking my way past the lock with one of her hairpins. I scanned the most recent entries, saw a few names and put both the diary and address book in my pocket.

  ‘Do you know if Emma had a new boyfriend?’ I asked, looking at the photos stuck around the edges of the mirror.

  ‘No.’ She hesitated, as if she felt guilty for asking. ‘Have you seen…? Did she?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Emma looked like the sort of girl who knew too many people, I thought. One of the popular kids, with so many acquaintances that she wouldn’t be able to tell which ones were friends.

  ‘I thought she would have told us,’ Clare said. ‘She tells us everything.’

  ‘With all due respect, that’s a myth.’

  It was too quiet and the room was too bright.

  I reached forwards and ran my hands down either side of the mirror. My fingers brushed against something Sellotaped to the back and I stood up to peel it off. It was a bag of white powder.

  ‘No, she wouldn’t…’ She stepped into the room.

  I put it in my pocket along with the diary and address book. ‘Don’t worry, it might not even have any relevance.’

  ‘It’s relevant to me.’

  I looked back at Emma’s bedside table and saw on the digital clock that it was almost three in morning.

  ‘I’m going to go home,’ I said. ‘I think I’ve got enough information to get started. I’ll call round tomorrow… or later today, I mean. Hopefully Pat will be back by then and if the police find anything in the meantime I’ll know before anyone else.’

  ‘Are you just going to take those?’ She indicated her head at my pocket. ‘She might come back and if she sees we’ve…’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘I get it,’ she said. ‘You don’t think she’s coming back, do you?’

  ‘No, I’m just doing my job.’

  She looked me up and down but she seemed too tired to argue further.

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  ‘Cool. I’ll check in later.’

  I brushed against her shoulder as I walked towards the stairs, but her arms were folded and the scars on her wrists weren’t visible.

  My mobile started vibrating in my pocket. It was Brinks, and I already knew what he was going to say. He wouldn’t call me at this time of night unless it was from a crime scene.

  ‘Yep?’

  Brinks sounded as if he was walking, heavy breaths sending white noise down the line. ‘We’ve got the guys from Family Liaison heading over to the par
ents now. Poor bastards are going to have to identify a body.’

  ‘You found her?’

  ‘Her… it, whatever. If it wasn’t for some of the clothes you described I wouldn’t even fucking know.’

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘Bad? More like unrecognizable. Seriously, Nic, shot and beaten to fuck.’

  My thoughts went to the girl’s face in the picture frame; red, purple and smashed. I avoided looking back up the stairs at Clare, but I could feel her expression searing straight through me.

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘Taxi driver. I’ll give you the names and statements as and when.’

  ‘You sound spooked?’

  ‘Yeah, well, you’re not here. We’ll catch up later; I’ll give you some photos and stuff. Just thought you should know.’

  ‘Thanks, I suppose.’

  ‘Laters.’

  In a moment of sheer dread I considered carrying on down the stairs, leaving without meeting her eyes and pretending the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened. I put my phone in my pocket, with the diary and coke, and looked up at her.

  She took a breath and a few of the waiting tears worked their way out. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Listen, don’t panic,’ I said, marvelling at how ridiculous it sounded. ‘Listen to me. In a couple of minutes some officers are going to arrive and ask you to go down to the hospital to identify someone. Can you get ahold of Pat?’

  ‘I’ve tried, he’s not answering…’ She came down a few steps. ‘What do you mean identify someone? You mean they’ve found something, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  Why had I come back? Why hadn’t I just stayed in my car? Why hadn’t I just stayed at home and avoided this mess?

  She came closer but still stayed above me. ‘Don’t fucking lie.’

  It would be an insult to deny it. She knew more than that. It was admirable that she found the control to keep talking, even with the tears rolling down her cheeks from red eyes that the grief hadn’t yet caught up with.

  ‘I think it’s her,’ I said, softly, as if that would make it easier. ‘Is there any other way of calling Pat?’

  She looked away. ‘He’s not answering. Neither are his friends.’

  The tears were still coming but it was just formality, an imitation of a natural reaction to cover the shock.