by Deborah Lucy
‘Couldn’t you go home?’
‘There was five of us kids at home. Being here, I’m one less mouth to feed, one less to tidy up after. I wanted my own space. Freedom. I don’t want to be surrounded by kids. I’ve grown up now. I can live life on my own terms. I’m not going back. I won’t do this forever.’
‘You might get caught and end up in prison,’ Paul cautioned.
‘I won’t. Have you seen this lot?’ He gestured towards a police officer walking through the concourse. ‘They’d have to catch me first.’ He gave Paul a cheeky grin, thanked him for the burger and left.
Paul wondered if Megon had been preyed on by the people he’d seen. The thought of that made his heart ache. He knew Megon always thought she was so streetwise, but witnessing this underworld for himself, he knew she wouldn’t stand a chance. His beautiful Megon, the baby he’d cuddled, taught to talk, walk, ride her bike, taken to school and helped with her homework. She was still his baby, his and Leonie’s. Why had she gone?
He went over and over the last time he saw her. What had he missed that day, what clues were there that she was not going to come back that evening as she always had done? He didn’t want to believe anything bad had happened to her. But equally, he couldn’t believe she would want to hurt her mother in this way. She wouldn’t. So what the hell was going on?
In only four weeks, the sightings of Megon became less and less frequent. Paul knew he would have to cast his net wider. He had saturated the locality with posters and he had to admit that if he were Megon, he would have left to escape the pictures of her that were everywhere, but what could he do?
* * *
One day a breakthrough finally came. A friend of Megon got in touch to say another friend had had contact with his daughter. They said that Megon was no longer in London – she was in Swindon. Paul didn’t even know for sure where Swindon was.
Chapter 4
Detective Inspector Temple pulled up outside a row of terraced houses in the shadow of a block of 1960s flats in Park North, Swindon. He peered out of the windscreen, searching for the number on the front door. Looking at the numbers on the houses either side confirmed the house he had to go to. The plain, unpainted wooden door gave a hint of what lay behind. Underneath the key latch there were deep, dirty scars from the paws of a strong dog. The base of the door was blackened by boot marks and a tall spike of thick-stemmed thistles stood guard to one side.
Temple had seized the routine enquiry following the morning briefing. A fourteen-year-old girl had been reported missing by her school friend, who had rung in saying she hadn’t seen her for three days. Unusually, there had been no report of the girl missing from home by her parents. He had no doubt a few quick enquiries would establish that this was the latest teen prank to plague the emergency number.
A couple of phone calls and a PNC check quickly established the missing girl came from a chaotic family. Dad was long gone, leaving the unemployed mother – who was known to social services – nursing a chronic alcohol habit as she struggled to look after the missing girl and her ten-year-old brother. An unemployed twenty-two-year-old son who no longer lived at home had an old conviction for possession of Class A drugs.
It should be simple enough, and Temple had to take any opportunity to get out of the poky office. But he resented that it should have to come to this, picking up an enquiry that could easily be done by a PCSO or constable just so that he could get out in the fresh air.
He was miserable. He was sick of feeling like a pariah, having spent the last six months marking time away from front-line policing on ‘project work’ that had stopped just short of counting paperclips. The suicide of a teenage boy after police contact during a previous murder enquiry he’d led had seen him placed under investigation by the Independent Office for Police Conduct. Temple gave himself a hard time over it; he wished it had turned out differently. But it hadn’t.
The deputy chief constable would let him know the outcome of the investigation that afternoon. Temple hoped for ‘management advice’ and a return to detective duties that, for anyone else, might be a fair assessment. But he knew there was too much bad blood between him and his boss to think he’d be treated fairly in this process.
As well as moving him to back-office functions, the hierarchy had also put him back into uniform. Back in the white shirt and black clip-on tie, Temple knew it was all part of the punishment but it pissed him off; being turned out of the CID office was a clear sign to all of his fall from grace. He was in the shit, back in uniform, with a rubbish job and a long investigation ahead of him, and the loss of control that came with it. The drip effect.
It poured fuel on the inevitable canteen gossip, and the Chinese whispers ensured that when it was all put together, a stink of suspicion and lack of trust hovered about him. He quickly noticed that no one with promotion prospects would openly be seen talking to him, no matter how many times they might have passed the time of day or worked together in the past.
Professionally, he was a leper; death following police contact was to be avoided at all costs and was guaranteed to put a large dent in any career. He found that when colleagues saw him approaching, or he rang them on a work-related matter, they behaved as if he had something they didn’t want to catch. Held at arm’s length by the organisation and many of those in it, after six long months, Temple was feeling hypersensitive to his situation.
Then almost a month ago, the same hierarchy took the decision to lump him together in an office with a few more of the force’s black sheep who were under disciplinary investigation. In comparison with his three other colleagues, Temple considered himself lucky. His new ‘project’ was auditing historic missing person reports. The others were working on auditing stop-and-search figures and charging decisions. It would keep them all out of operational duties and distanced from other colleagues.
Although Temple was grateful for more meaningful work at last, the natural by-product of disciplinary action was a heightened sense of paranoia. He analysed every sideways look, every word spoken for anything that could cut through the secrecy and give a clue as to what the hierarchy had in mind to sanction him. It always leaked out somewhere to someone who would tell others.
As such, Temple viewed his three fellow officers with quiet mistrust, and they returned the compliment. Quarantined into one windowless room that had previously been a storage area, they all felt the size of their cramped conditions. Each of them was suspicious enough of the others and the Professional Standards Department to think that there was a reason they’d put them all together in such a confined space. The room was either bugged or there was a mole amongst them.
The three others were variously accused of assaulting a neighbour, racist comments and sexual harassment of a colleague. Now and then, each would make a throwaway comment, with no other motive than to put the theory of a mole or covert surveillance to the test. It made for a tense atmosphere, broken only by taut bursts of humour.
A bout of food poisoning running through the station as a result of a shift sergeant’s attempt at a prawn curry the previous night meant that by the morning, the shift was decimated and a number of low-level enquiries had to be divvied out. Temple had grabbed the chance to get out into the fresh air.
The prospect of conducting a safe-and-well check on a young schoolgirl who’d been reported missing by her friend would get him out for an hour. He had every expectation of finding the two friends together, giggling at him for taking the report seriously.
He thumped his fist loudly against the door.
‘Mrs Lewis? Answer the door please.’ He banged again. He figured 10.30 was a decent enough time to wake anyone.
His knock was sufficiently loud to rouse her and to open the door as far as a heavy padlocked chain allowed. She peered through the gap.
‘Mrs Barbara Lewis? I’m DI Temple. I need to talk to you about your daughter. Can I come in please?’ Through the narrow opening, he could see a portion of her drawn and lined face. He
had seen many faces such as hers, haggard and weighted by the unrelenting misery of her liquid life. From his basic enquiries, he knew she was forty-three, but on sight of her she looked easily twenty years older. She wasn’t registering the uniform so he took his warrant card out and put it close to the opening in the door.
For a moment she stood looking back at him blankly, before closing the door to release a chain that banged heavily on release. Dressed in a once-white flimsy cotton vest that ended at the top of her bare thighs, she let him in and walked back into the living room without a backward glance. Closing the door, Temple examined the thick chain and heavy-duty padlock that had barred his entry.
‘Who are you expecting?’ he called after her, but she ignored him.
Temple followed her into a living room where he was greeted with the stale smell of body odour. A multi-stained carpet lined the floor and empty cider cans stood sentry against the legs of wooden armchairs. Yellowing net curtains were hanging at the windows and spray from what was presumably cider stained the walls.
Even if he’d wanted to sit, Temple could see all the chairs were occupied either by clothes, dog hairs or newspapers. He could see that any notion of domesticity had bypassed Barbara Lewis. She continued on through to a small square kitchen and Temple followed. Standing with her back to him, she flicked the switch on the kettle.
‘Don’t bother on my account,’ he said as he looked about him, taking in the filthy surroundings. He didn’t want to risk drinking anything offered to him in a cup by Barbara Lewis. She killed the noise of the kettle.
‘I’d like to ask you about your daughter – she’s been reported missing by her friend. Is she here?’
Fully expecting her to say she was in her bedroom, he continued to look around. The kitchen was in disarray, with all the work surfaces covered by various cooking items, tins and the remains of old food. There was a strong smell of something rotting in an overflowing waste bin that she seemed oblivious to. The place was a health hazard.
She snorted, ‘She’s not been here for weeks.’
‘What do you mean? She does live here, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ she said, irritated at being questioned. She kept her back to him.
‘So how can she have not been here for weeks? If she’s not here, where is she?’
‘I dunno,’ she shrugged.
‘So, how long has it been since you last saw her? Two weeks, three?’
‘Yep. That’s about right,’ Barbara Lewis slurred, uninterested. She remained turned away from him, busy with something he couldn’t see. He wasn’t sure who was more confused now, him or her. Was she really saying she hadn’t seen her own fourteen-year-old daughter for weeks? Being an alcoholic, perhaps she’d got it wrong; perhaps she hadn’t understood what he’d said. He persisted.
‘She was reported missing today by a school friend who hasn’t seen her for three days, but you say you haven’t seen her for weeks?’ He watched as Barbara Lewis shrugged again.
‘You don’t appear to be that concerned. Do you know where she is?’ asked Temple, slightly raising his voice as if she was hard of hearing.
‘No, I don’t know where she is.’ Barbara turned around to face him with a cup clutched in one hand, cigarette in the other. He looked at her standing in front of him, her dirty feet bare on a faded, sticky lino floor. If her feet were anything to go by he couldn’t guess when she’d last had a bath.
‘Don’t you want to know where she is?’ Temple asked. He found it strange for a mother not to be concerned about the absence of her fourteen-year-old daughter. He wondered if she was on drugs as well as booze.
She was silent before letting out a sigh. ‘No, I don’t think I do.’
‘You are Barbara Lewis, the mother of China Lewis?’
‘Yes,’ she sighed again.
‘When did you last see her?’
‘I don’t know, I can’t remember exactly.’ She looked up to the ceiling as if she was trying hard to remember. Her grey, lank, greasy hair fell back like curtains either side of her haggard face. Watching her, Temple had no doubt that her lack of recall was genuine.
‘What’s she like, China?’
‘Gobby,’ she slurred, looking at him.
‘Is she in any trouble?’
‘She’s always in trouble. And I don’t want it here.’
‘Have you had any contact with China since you last saw her?’
‘Nope.’ Her heavily bagged eyes betrayed no concern. ‘And I don’t want to hear from her.’
‘And why would that be exactly?’
Barbara Lewis shrugged and with her wrinkled mouth clamped round her cigarette, she concentrated on taking a deep draw of nicotine. Temple couldn’t make her out. She showed a genuine lack of interest in where her daughter was. In fact, looking around, she showed a lack of interest in everything except for what was in the cup she was holding.
‘Do you know where she is, Barbara?’
‘I’ve said I don’t know.’
Temple moved towards her. ‘Barbara, you need to know. You should want to know where she is.’
‘As I said, I don’t know and don’t want to know.’
‘You are her mother, her legal custodian. You should be looking after her—’
Before he finished, she slammed the cup down on the edge of the work surface, sending some of the cider inside spilling out. Suddenly she rounded on him, the fingers holding her cigarette jabbing out at him as she shouted.
‘I’ve had enough of this. You lot should be looking after her. I don’t want her back here. You find her. You look after her. You lot. You’re supposed to be so fucking good at it.’
‘I’m trying to find out where she is, to see if she’s in any danger, to stop her being in danger. To do that, I need your help,’ Temple said in an attempt to placate her. The last thing he wanted was for her to become violent and for him to have to lay hands on her to restrain her.
‘I don’t care.’ Her voice was hard. Her face twisted as she spat the words.
She wrapped one arm across herself and glanced towards the small window in the kitchen that looked out onto the approach to the front door. Temple was starting to lose patience. It was clear he was an unwelcome intrusion into her day and he was getting nowhere with her. He decided to change tack.
‘Show me her bedroom.’
Barbara Lewis led the way up the stairs, leaving Temple to step back and avert his eyes as it was clear she was wearing no underwear under her long vest. She showed him to a room at the top of the stairs. Again, the scars of clawing dog paws were evident on the door.
The room she showed him to was small, dominated by a double divan bed pushed up against the wall, giving access from one side. A creased, plain grey duvet cover was neatly arranged on the bed. He lifted the mattress and ran his hand underneath. He felt nothing. Opposite the end of the bed, Temple searched through a chest of drawers.
It contained the usual teenage clothing of Primark tops and leggings. As Temple searched the bottom drawer, he put his hands through the clothing to the back board. There he discovered a stash of condoms and morning-after pills.
‘Does she have a boyfriend?’
Barbara Lewis stood in the door frame, looking down on him as he squatted in front of the drawers. To the side of her, Temple’s eye was drawn to the end of a small barrel from a bolt lock on the door frame. As he looked up at her waiting for an answer, she sucked deeply on her disappearing cigarette and Temple watched as a column of ash fell onto the carpet. She lifted her bare foot and rubbed it in with her toes. Looking at the condoms in his hands, she shrugged her shoulders.
‘She’s fourteen.’ He hoped his words might penetrate through the cider. Temple knew this wasn’t just a sign China was having sex.
‘I don’t know, she must have a boyfriend, mustn’t she?’ she slurred. He stood up and faced her.
‘You see, my problem is that you’ve got a completely different reaction to most parents whose kids go missin
g. They’re usually distraught. They’re usually straight on the phone. They help the police to find their kids and bring them back. You’ve not even bothered to report her missing. From what you’re telling me, you don’t even want her back, is that right?’
A sarcastic cackle showed her stained brown teeth. ‘Oh, at last, he’s got it.’
‘Whether you’re bothered or not, I still need to find China. If you don’t want her back here then we’ll deal with that when we’ve found her. So if you know if any harm’s come to her, you better say now because I will find out.’
Barbara looked at him. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’
‘Then help me, Barbara. Tell me.’
‘She’s safer away from here,’ she murmured. Temple let a silence settle between them.
‘Are you in danger? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’
She gestured that her own safety wasn’t an issue.
‘Then what is it? Who or what is the threat, Barbara? Tell me, why isn’t China safe here in her own home?’
‘I don’t want her back,’ she hissed. She turned and went downstairs.
Temple finished his search of the bedroom and went out onto the landing. Above him was a loft hatch. Using a rickety stool he snatched from the bathroom, he slowly pushed the board up to open the loft. As he lifted the hatch, he heard the soft break of thick threads of cobwebs. He stuck his head into darkness. In the little light there was, he could see nothing significant. Familiar with the smell of decaying flesh, he was satisfied that China Lewis wasn’t dead and hidden in the house.
As he returned the stool to the bathroom, his eyes flicked around. The room was filthy. The rim of the bath had a dark, dirty tide mark around it and it certainly hadn’t been recently used. The room smelt, but not of bleach or any other cleaning products that might be a telltale sign of something befalling China in her own home which might necessitate a scrub down.
He looked in on two other bedrooms before he went back downstairs into the kitchen, where he found Barbara Lewis at the sink with her back turned.
