Little Girl Gone

by Stephen Edger

  And that was Sophie’s trigger to spring into action. ‘You sit still, and I’ll grab your pyjamas and dressing gown.’

  Alex didn’t argue, knowing Sophie would have done anything to escape the tension in the room. And as silence once again returned to the house, Alex found herself staring at the large print of Carol-Anne on the wall above the television. The photo shoot had been a present from Ray’s sister and husband. The photographer had done such a good job of capturing Carol-Anne’s sweet, glowing innocence. And as Alex studied each line of her daughter’s face, she made a silent vow that she would get her back, whatever it took.

  8

  The area immediately surrounding Alex’s grey hatchback had now been covered with a tent to keep it out of sight of curious bystanders, but more importantly to protect the evidence it contained from being washed away by the elements. A large mobile generator whirred away in the background, powering the temporary brilliant white lights that had been erected and pointed at the scene as the technicians continued to examine and collect samples from the surrounding area.

  The sky overhead was pitch-black, the moon hidden somewhere behind the thick blanket of clouds. At least the rain was holding off for now.

  Ray finished the last of the cigarettes Owen had given him and scrunched up the packet, tempted to throw it into the gutter, but conscious that an eagle-eyed technician would probably take it back to the lab for later examination.

  He was standing between the inner and outer cordoned areas. An area of ten cars either side of where the tent was stretched over the hatchback marked the width of the inner cordon – the area where the technicians’ focus was – while the depth stretched almost to the edge of the car park. The residential street where the car park’s entrance and exit stood had been taped off, with a uniformed officer standing guard at both ends, allowing access only to residents who could provide documentation showing they lived there. Several residents had been watching the scene unfold from the safety of their windows; free entertainment for the curious mind.

  Ray hated waiting for news – he felt so useless since DI Trent had made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want him anywhere near her investigation. It wasn’t personal discrimination – he understood the rules – but who better to have on the team than someone who knew the victim so well?

  His phone vibrated, and he allowed himself the briefest smile when he saw who it was from, before the guilt took over. He deleted the message – as he always did – and this time didn’t reply. It was important to keep his mind focused on the job at hand.

  ‘What are you still doing here, Ray?’ Trent called out, ducking beneath the inner cordon and heading over to him. ‘I asked you to go home and wait for our call. I can’t have you anywhere near the crime scene. Please don’t make me have you escorted from here.’

  He pulled the overcoat tighter around his midriff. ‘Please, ma’am, I don’t want to interfere or slow you down, I just want to stay close by to react when there’s a break. I swear you won’t even know I’m here.’

  ‘The rules are there for good reason, Ray, as well you know.’ She softened her tone. ‘I understand that you want to help, and if it wasn’t for your close involvement there’s nobody I’d rather have by my side, but it isn’t possible. I have assigned a Family Liaison Officer who’ll help keep you informed. Please just go home and await my call.’

  ‘I could be useful, ma’am. I’ll go out of my mind with worry if I go home. Let me chase down some leads. Anything? I don’t care how mundane it is, I’ll do it. What about searching for any possible dashcams that might have captured something? Please?’

  She reached out and rubbed his arm. ‘You know I can’t. We have all available resources searching the properties near to your home, canvassing for witnesses, and searching for Carol-Anne.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through and how you’re feeling, and you know we’re good at what we do. And because you’re so well-liked in the team, you know everyone will give a hundred per cent to get little Carol-Anne back to you and Alex.’

  She steered him towards the outer cordon, and gave the uniformed officer there strict instructions not to allow him back within the area.

  ‘I’ll call as soon as we have something,’ she called after him, but he was no longer listening, stalking off to a nearby off-licence to buy more cigarettes and a small bottle of vodka.

  If he had to go home and try not to think about his daughter’s peril, then he couldn’t do it sober. As he unscrewed the cap, though, and moved to put it against his lips, he had a fresh idea, and quickly resealed and pocketed the bottle.

  Any detective worth his salt knows who the key figures in the city are: the people who exercise control over large-scale criminal enterprises. One such figure in Southampton was Gianni Demetrios, the product of a Greek father and Italian mother, raised in the UK but with strong family connections in his parents’ countries of birth. A self-professed crime lord, he made it his business to know everybody else’s; no major activities occurred in Southampton without his prior approval.

  Like most men in his position, Demetrios liked to create the impression that he was just an honest businessman trying to scrape together a living. And among his less-than-savoury businesses, he did indeed run several above-the-counter companies, paying his taxes and providing pension benefits to his employees. The rumours about Demetrios’s wider interests were well known to every detective in Hampshire Constabulary. The trouble with rumours is they’re worth nothing in court. Which is why Demetrios continued to run his operation from the comfort of the outside world, rather than behind bars.

  Most evenings Demetrios could be found sitting behind three feet of mahogany, watching as the hard-working residents of Southampton gambled their wages in his casino. If anyone could provide alternative insight into what might have happened to Carol-Anne, it was Demetrios; which is why Ray was now sitting behind the wheel of his car staring up at the brightly fronted building that welcomed gamblers of all varieties to bet against the house.

  Two large bouncers with shaved heads – one black with thick arms, and the other EasternEuropean-looking – were checking memberships at the main door as Ray approached.

  ‘It’s a members-only club, pal,’ the larger of the men said, sticking out an arm to block Ray’s approach to the door.

  Ray eyed him cautiously. With a good six inches height advantage, it didn’t look like he’d have too much trouble flattening Ray.

  ‘I’m here to see your boss,’ Ray said, as he pulled out his police identification and held it aloft for both to see.

  ‘You got a warrant?’ the bouncer fired back, not even bothering to look at the credentials.

  ‘It’s not official business,’ Ray countered, puffing out his chest as much as he could and pushing himself up on his toes to reduce the height difference. ‘I don’t want any trouble. Can you just ask Mr Demetrios whether he will see me? It won’t take long.’

  The black guard nodded for his colleague to make the call, and peeling away, the call was placed, leaving Ray and the larger man where they were.

  He eventually returned and led Ray in through the doors, past the cloakroom and past the well-dressed members squealing in equal measures of despair and excitement as they won and lost their bets.

  The lift carriage deposited them on the top floor of the building, where Ray was led through two solid oak doors with gilded door handles.

  ‘Mr Demetrios said you should wait here and he will be along shortly,’ the bouncer said, indicating the large leather sofa against the far wall. ‘I’ll be just outside in case there’s any trouble.’

  A moment later, two other doors opened and in walked the olive-skinned, dark-haired businessman, resembling a young Al Pacino in The Godfather.

  ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Granger, isn’t it?’ Demetrios asked, extending a wary hand as he joined Ray by the sofa.

  Ray looked at the hand, before reluctantly shaking it. Ray wasn’t the s
ort to go cap in hand to anyone, let alone an individual with Demetrios’s shady background, but formalities had to be observed in such quarters. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘I’m always happy to make time for the upstanding law enforcers of our fair city,’ Demetrios purred, his coal-coloured curls slicked back. ‘What is it I can do for you?’

  Ray was taking a huge risk being anywhere near Demetrios’s casino; desperate times called for desperate measures. He would worry about the fallout once Carol-Anne was back home and safe.

  ‘I need information,’ Ray began carefully, conscious that Demetrios was the sort of snake who would probably be recording every word of their exchange. ‘You know people, and I need to know the name of the person or persons who have abducted my daughter.’ The words cut his heart to ribbons; it was all he could do to keep himself upright as his knees buckled under the weight of expectation.

  It was hard to tell if the look of confusion on Demetrios’s face was as a result of Ray’s appearance or the words he’d spoken. ‘I’m sorry about your loss, but I’m afraid I really have no idea—’

  ‘Cut the crap!’ Ray barked before he could stop himself. ‘Nobody would sanction something like this around here without your say-so. Was it someone I locked up? Someone looking for revenge? Going after me is one thing, but to snatch my daughter, it’s … give me a name!’

  Demetrios took off quickly, moving back through the doors he’d emerged from, ushering Ray to follow him. Lifting a framed photograph from the corner of the desk, he showed it to Ray. ‘This is my daughter Gabriella. She’s ten now, and lives with her mother and grandparents in Sicily. I miss her every day. I swear on her life, I have no idea who would make a move against you. I would never be involved in something so cruel.’

  Ray examined his face, looking for any twitch or hint of deceit. Finding none, his heart sank. ‘Then can you find out who would do it? She’s only two and I’m terrified that …’ He couldn’t finish the sentence, as he struggled to keep his composure. ‘I will do anything to get her back. Any amount of money, I’ll pay it. I just want my daughter back.’

  And in that moment, their conflicting backgrounds were forgotten about as they shared the pain and joy of paternity.

  ‘Leave it with me, detective. I will see what I can find out. And then maybe one day in the future, you can return the favour.’ There was a momentary glint in his eyes as he spoke, but it was gone seconds later. He pressed a buzzer somewhere beneath his desk, and the bouncer returned and led Ray away by the arm.

  9

  The sound of urgent banging woke Alex from the few disrupted hours of slumber she’d managed on the sofa when her hours of impatient pacing had yielded no news. Ray’s keys weren’t in their usual spot suggesting he’d never made it home, and as she reached for her phone to check for any news on Carol-Anne, her heart sank to find no messages or missed calls. He may not have verbally blamed her, yet his actions were speaking far louder.

  Further banging quickly lifted the fog of drowsiness, and she raced to the front door, yesterday’s suit creased and hanging from her aching body. As she opened the door to see a tall woman in a long skirt and grey cardigan holding her identification aloft, the hope of seeing Carol-Anne bounding towards her faded.

  ‘I’m PC Isla Murphy,’ the woman in the cardigan said, her silhouette framed by the early morning light. ‘I’m your assigned Family Liaison Officer. You were expecting me, weren’t you? DI Trent said she would phone ahead and tell you I was coming.’

  Alex strained her neck to look beyond the woman for any sign of her daughter, but finding an empty and lifeless street, she stepped to one side. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, allowing Isla to enter before closing the door. ‘Is there any news?’

  Isla headed into the kitchen, making a beeline for the kettle and promptly filling it. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Tea,’ Alex said, subconsciously biting at her nails, oblivious that she was chipping yesterday’s coat of polish.

  ‘Where would I find that? And mugs?’

  Alex pointed to the cupboard hanging above the kettle’s stand on the counter.

  Isla removed two fresh mugs, depositing teabags in each. ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’

  ‘Just milk,’ Alex replied, not one who enjoyed being fussed over, yet desperate to keep her only contact with the investigation onside.

  ‘Have you had breakfast yet?’ Isla asked, while waiting for the kettle to boil.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ Alex replied, shaking her head. ‘Please, just tell me what’s happening. Does DI Trent have any new leads? Have they worked out who took my daughter yet? Please, I need something.’

  Isla cocked her head sympathetically. ‘I have nothing new I can tell you yet,’ she said. ‘I am due to have a check-in call with Detective Inspector Trent in the next hour, and then hopefully I will be able to provide you with an update. In the meantime, we should get you some breakfast. It’s important to take care of yourself during situations like this. I’ve seen firsthand how the stress takes a grip, and you need to stay strong for your daughter’s sake. There’s no knowing when she is going to need you again, and you’ll be no use to her if you’re exhausted. In my experience the best thing you can do to help us is to eat three square meals per day, get eight hours’ sleep and keep yourself well-hydrated.’

  There was something so familiar about Isla. Standing at over six feet tall, her grey hair was scraped back over her head and held in a bun with a grip. The cardigan was the same shade of grey as her hair, and the skin around her face and neck was so pale she looked washed out; like someone had plucked a character from a black-and-white movie and deposited her in a Technicolor universe. Facially she couldn’t have been much older than her late-fifties, but her plain clothes and dour attitude reminded Alex of an old headmistress.

  ‘I’ll fix you some toast,’ Isla continued, lifting the lid of the bread bin. ‘Butter and jam?’

  ‘In the fridge,’ Alex said, nodding at the unit in the corner behind the door.

  ‘I hear your husband is in the force, is that right?’

  ‘He’s a detective sergeant in Trent’s team. You don’t know him then?’

  ‘Not personally. Southampton isn’t my regular patch. I’m usually based on the Isle of Wight, but DI Trent requested me specifically to come and be with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I like to think it’s because I’m good at my job,’ Isla said as she dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. ‘I’m here for whatever you need for as long as this takes, Alex. I’m not a spy, as some families choose to believe. I’m here to keep you informed of the investigation’s progress, to answer any of your questions, and to shield you from as much of the stress and drama as I can.’

  Isla turned away to make the tea, placing the mug on the breakfast bar in front of Alex when it was ready. When the toast popped up, she spread the butter and jam ferociously, handing the plate over.

  Alex dutifully took a bite of the toast, struggling to generate enough saliva to swallow.

  ‘How did you sleep last night?’ Isla asked, brushing a stray hair from her face.

  ‘Hardly at all,’ Alex admitted. She wasn’t one who easily shared with strangers, yet Isla struck her as someone who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  ‘That’s to be expected. It might be an idea to get your head down for a nap later on this morning or early afternoon. There’s no knowing how long or short the investigation will be, and I should warn you there will be a lot of hanging around waiting for updates. I will do everything in my power to keep you as well informed as I can, and if there is anything specific you want me to ask the investigation team, please tell me and I will make a note of it.’

  Alex wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to her next question, but asked anyway. ‘Have you worked on any child abduction cases before?’

  Isla studied her face, as she looked for the right words. ‘I have, and before you ask me how many of those cases r
esulted in the safe return of the child, you should know that no two cases are ever the same. My track record as a Family Liaison Officer has absolutely no bearing on how your situation will turn out.’

  ‘How many ended well?’

  ‘I told you, it doesn’t matter; it has no bearing on—’

  ‘How many?’ Alex interrupted, fixing her with a firm stare.

  Isla sighed. ‘Okay, in the interest of establishing a circle of honesty with you, I will answer your question, but I cannot stress enough that you should not read anything – either positive or negative – into it.’ She paused. ‘I have been liaison in five separate child abduction cases, and in four of those, the child was safely returned.’

  Alex couldn’t prevent the trace of a smile breaking out across her face.

  ‘You need to understand that none of the five cases bore any of the hallmarks of yours,’ Isla cautioned. ‘In those successful cases, we identified the perpetrator as a relative or family friend, and the circumstances surrounding the holding of those children were not as complex as what occurred yesterday.’

  ‘You got them back?’

  ‘I didn’t personally, but the investigating team did manage to reunite the child with the parent.’

  ‘And the fifth?’ Alex interrupted. ‘What happened with the one who didn’t make it home?’

  Isla’s forehead tightened. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I just want to know what to expect.’

  ‘There’s no way to know what to expect. Every missing child case is different.’

  ‘What happened to the child?’

  Isla sighed again, raising her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I’m not at liberty to—’

  ‘Please just tell me!’

  ‘He died,’ Isla sighed, and the heavyset frown revealed she instantly regretted it.

  Alex wasn’t prepared for the answer, and had to steady herself on the stool. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I’ve already said too much. I will repeat that what happened then was totally different to what you are going through. You need to remain positive. The police will do everything they can to find your daughter.’