by M. L Rose
Arla stiffened without saying anything. She had no wish to discuss the case regarding her sister, and she hoped it had no bearing on the present one. But in the back of her mind, an uncomfortable feeling persisted. And Johnson’s silence was ominous.
“What I’m saying is this, Arla. You help out in the community for homeless kids, teenagers under social services, right?”
“So? This is the daughter of a diplomat, hardly a runaway or an orphan.”
Johnson sighed. “All I was wondering was if you had come across her at a community event, or maybe you did a talk at her school, you know.” He shrugged.
Arla couldn’t believe it. She gave a slight shake of her head. “Sir, if I did, don’t you think I would have mentioned it? I would be the first one to admit a link between myself and the missing, because that would help to solve the case much quicker.”
“Good.”
“Can’t you see what this is about, sir? The line of questioning you are now subjecting me to is exactly what the abductor wants you to do.”
“Now hold on a second…”
“No!” Arla shifted forward, her nostrils flaring. “He, or she, deliberately wants to put my integrity into doubt. Like I know something about where this girl might be. That’s why he left this note, right?”
Johnson had to concede the point. “Yes.”
“It’s like asking me which room in Buckingham Palace The Queen is in right now. I have no idea. I don’t know this girl. Do we have a photo?”
Johnson opened a drawer and took a folder out. “This is still top secret. The parents have contacted us only, via the US Embassy and the Home Office. They have not as yet gone to the press. I think we should be grateful to them. You can imagine the stink this will cause if the press gets a hold about your name being involved.”
Arla nodded and took the photo. It was a blown-up image of Maddy Burroughs posing in a holiday snap. She was wearing a short, blue dress, and her long, bare legs tapered down to slingback heels. She was wearing bright make-up, and looked older than her teenage years suggested. Turquoise waters of a gentle sea lapped on the sand behind her, and green-grey hills rose in the distance.
“When was this photo taken?” Arla asked.
Harry spoke up. “Last year, summer holidays in Zakynthos island, Greece.”
“How old was she then?”
Harry spoke again. “Sixteen and a half.”
Arla stared at the confident, pouting face of the teenager. Her dress indicated she was going out for the evening, and her posture held the swagger of a girl approaching adulthood, eager to take on life. Something lurched inside Arla’s heart, a somersault that turned into a silent sob.
Nicole had been like this once.
Don’t go there. Not now.
She was aware of Harry’s long fingers fluttering close to hers, and gently removing the photo from her hands. Johnson was watching her closely.
She cleared her throat and said, “When did the letter arrive?”
“In the morning, after Royal Mail. Mr Burroughs was at work: his wife found it. She called us immediately, after looking up your name on our website.”
Arla’s mind was whirring. The psychopaths she had come across in her work were all safely behind bars. Who could be playing this sick joke on her?
Johnson seemed to read her mind. “Can you think of anyone?”
Arla spread her hands. “Take your pick, sir.”
Harry cleared his throat, and they both turned to look at him. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his long neck as he spoke. “Whoever left this note was aware of the abduction. Her parents haven’t been to the press. The mother said the school is aware, and therefore so are the families of her friends.”
“You spoke to her?” Arla asked.
Harry nodded. Arla said, “A good place to start our enquiries. First, her family, then the school. From there, we widen the net.”
“Who do you want in the team?” Johnson asked.
“Can I decide that tomorrow, sir?” She glanced at Harry. “Everyone’s coming tomorrow, right?”
Harry nodded. “Meeting in incident room at 0800.”
“Now listen,” Johnson said. Both of them looked at the senior police officer. His polished face held a resigned expression.
“When this blows up, it’s going to be big. I need a swift resolution. That’s why, despite your name being so blatantly involved, I am making you SIO in the case. If I see that we are dragging our heels, or things aren’t going to plan, I will have to replace you as SIO. Got that?”
“Yes,” Arla said, unfazed. She was used to ultimatums from her boss. “Will the family go to the press? I’d prefer it if they didn’t.”
“That’s the thing. The Home Office, and luckily both the family and the US Embassy, agree with you. But they want it sorted, pronto. You know what the Yanks are like. If they don’t see results…”
Like someone else I know, Arla thought to herself. “Yes, sir, I get the picture. How long have we got?”
“Time has not been specified, but there is something bigger on the horizon.”
“Like what?”
“A US presidential visit in three months’ time.”
Johnson was silent for a while, letting it sink in. Arla thought back to the newspapers she had read on the train up to Dundee and back. She remembered the headlines. Oh no.
Harry stirred, and Johnson looked at both of them in turn.
“American diplomat’s daughter disappears three months before the President visits,” Johnson said wryly.
“Look on the bright side,” Harry said. “If we don’t find her, we can blame the budget cuts. Lack of manpower.”
Arla turned in her seat and fixed him with a glare. Harry held his hands up in mock horror and shrank back.
She turned to Johnson. “We will find her, sir. I promise you.”
“Promises are meant to be kept, DCI Baker. Remember that.”
CHAPTER 7
Arla declined the offer of a lift from Harry, smiling inwardly at the look of puppy dog regret in his eyes. She waited in the station while her Uber arrived. As she waited, Arla thought about where she was heading. Home, certainly, back to her ground-floor apartment in Tooting, South London. But en route lay another place she visited rarely, but it remained at the back of her mind like an itch that never went away. Seeing Nicole’s remains had brought those memories back to the forefront. Grainy, distorted images of a childhood she hid in the darkest recesses of her mind. She never plumbed those depths, but she knew it had made her who she was. Impulsive, emotional, short-tempered.
The lid lifted, and some vapour escaped to the surface of her brain. Arla got up and started pacing the front desk area, watched by the duty sergeant. The place Arla had in mind was an apartment in Balham, not far from where she lived, but far enough for her to ignore. Her father lived there. She had no desire to see him. But once or twice a year, she dropped in to say hello. He had said sorry, but it didn’t mean anything to Arla. Sorry wouldn’t bring her childhood back. Not all of it had been his fault, but his drinking had made a bad situation worse, then out of control. His remorse, and the fact that he didn’t touch alcohol anymore, had mellowed him slightly in Arla’s eyes.
When the Uber arrived, the blue sky had clouded over suddenly. They came from nowhere, heavy-bellied, laden with rain, and the pulsating heat of the night turned into a warm patter of rain. Arla shielded her hair and ran into the car. She told the driver where to drop her off.
When the car had zoomed off into the rain-slicked, neon-yellow road, she stood for a while under the silent, blinking traffic lights. The railway station was across the road, with the bridge over it. The tall, five-storey Victorian building to her right had been built as a block of apartments, and so it had remained. Off-licences crowded the street around her, and the ground floor of the building was a Co-op supermarket. Some evening shoppers milled around the entrance.
Arla ignored the drumming of her heart, or the vacu
um opening up inside her, and rang the bell of her father’s apartment. After a while, he answered.
“Who is it?” There was no video on the calling system. She didn’t answer for a while. A train passed overhead, shaking the bridge. She felt the rumble in her heels, travelling up her body. He didn’t hang up.
“Arla,” he said, his voice softer. “Is that you?”
She swallowed back the bitterness. “Yes.”
There was silence for a while, a pause in which both of them wondered what the other was thinking.
She wondered what he was doing, holding the phone. Standing, sitting? How long would he carry on like this? She cleared her throat, feeling foolish about standing outside, speaking so loud.
“How are you?”
“Not bad,” Timothy Baker said. “Not bad. And you?”
“I’m fine,” Arla said. Great, she thought. Platitudes are over. There was nothing more to say, and it had been the same for many years.
“Would you like to come upstairs?” Timothy asked, his voice hesitant.
Arla thought of what she had to say, and what purpose it would serve. It would cause them both some sorrow, bringing back those days of pain. Then she would go home, and he would stay up all night, nursing regrets.
Really, why was she here?
Now she knew he was alive and functioning. She had done her job.
“I should go, Dad. I have work tomorrow.” She could hear him breathing, feel his regret expanding and contracting with every wave of sound. It lapped against her ears, the endless pulses of a restless ocean.
“OK,” he said. “See you later.”
With a click the line went dead. Arla sighed, a kaleidoscope of anger, sorrow and frustration raging through her like a subway train. She crossed the road and looked up at his apartment. The curtains were drawn, and she could see him looking out. Looking at her. She waved, and he lifted his arm slowly, then let it drop. He walked away and turned the light off.
CHAPTER 8
A village in Kent
South-East England
Maddy Burroughs was aware of a piercing pain between her eyes. She knotted her eyebrows, fighting the sharp pain, and her eyelids fluttered open. The sunlight was like shards of lightning, blazing into her eyes. She grimaced and shut her eyes again. Her face and jaw ached, and there was a strange, metallic taste inside her mouth. She tried to move her hands, and found them restrained. Then she felt the burn on her wrists, and knew they were tied together. Her feet were also tied.
Suddenly, the memories came flying back to her like an avalanche. Her eyes flew open, then she blinked as she adjusted to the light. She remembered walking back from the pub, being attacked by that man… Then the memory became sketchy. She had woken up in this place once before, but each time someone had given her an injection, and she had fallen asleep. Had she eaten? A few crumbs of bread, some soup. A man wearing a mask had untied her, and she had relieved herself in a commode dragged to the bedside.
Fear reared up inside her. She cried out, but only a muffled sound came from the tape covering her mouth. When she moved her torso, she was aware of a belt holding her across the bed. She stopped struggling and looked around her. There was one window to her left, above a block of wood with four legs that served as a table. The walls were made of stone blocks, and she could see strands of hay in the corners of the room. Sunlight petered in from the sides of the window, whose shades were drawn. She looked up. Black-painted timber beams criss-crossed the ceiling.
It seemed like she was in a barn or stable. She could definitely smell a whiff of horse manure. She listened for animal sounds, but heard none. She had been horse riding in Richmond Park a few times, and she knew what horses sounded like. This place was empty, and might have been used in the past as a stable. Maddy tried to move around, her shoes clinking against the metal railings at the end of the hospital gurney she was lying on.
A door creaked open behind her. Maddy stiffened. She heard his footsteps approaching. Soft, like he was trying to make no sound. But there was also a sound of something being dragged, a heavier object.
Maddy’s heart thrummed, and her chest heaved as she felt him come closer. She screamed and wriggled in the bed as she saw his face appear suddenly over hers. He was wearing a black hoodie, covering his head, and a black balaclava covering his face. All she could see was his glittering eyes, and she turned her head away, sick and repulsed.
“Well, well, we have woken up, have we?” The voice was light, almost sing-song. A strange voice, one she wouldn’t forget easily.
She could feel him leaning over her, and she kept her head turned away, fear clawing at her throat.
“I’m going to unhook your belt and untie your ankles and hands. Then you can sit in the commode and do what you need to. There will be a loo roll on the floor. I will stand just outside the door. If you try anything funny…” He stopped speaking abruptly and grabbed her chin. She didn’t fight as he jerked her face towards him.
Her eyes widened when she saw the long kitchen knife. The sharpened tip gleamed.
“I’ll cut your fingers off first, then your toes. One by one. Got it?”
Maddy nodded vigorously. She could see nothing but his eyes, and they were distant, dark holes in his skull. He unhooked her then, holding the knife in one hand, he expertly untied the rope holding her ankles together with the other. When her hands were free she rubbed them together. He stood in front of her, knife pointed as she sat up in the bed warily. Behind the commode, he had placed a covered plate.
“Bread and soup in there,” the muffled, strange voice behind the balaclava said. He thrust at her with the knife and she screamed, falling back on the bed. He loomed over her, and the tip of the knife touched her throat. A teardrop rolled out of Maddy’s eye, and she sniffed. She was trying to hold it in like a grown-up, but suddenly she didn’t feel it anymore. She felt like a scared, lost little girl.
“Remember what I said. No funny business.” The knife came off her throat, and he pulled her up by the collar. She watched him walk to the door, his gait strange, shoulders slouched. He seemed different from the confident young man who had accosted her outside the pub. He opened the door, and left it ajar.
Maddy’s bladder was bursting, and she used the commode gladly. She was ravenous, too, and she ate the bread and soup quickly, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He came in as soon as she had finished. Maddy knew the drill. She let herself be pushed back on the bed, face down, hands up. Her ankles and hands were tied swiftly, then she was turned around like a sack of potatoes.
She looked at his dark shape, moving at the base of the bed. An idea came to her. She made noises, muffled by the tape. He came over and examined her closely.
“You want to say something?”
Maddy nodded. “Forget it.” He made to move away, and Maddy kicked against the railings. He stopped.
“OK,” he said in that weird voice. “I thought you were going to be an adult about this, but it’s now time for your injections.” He reached inside his pocket and drew out a syringe and vial. Maddy watched in horror as he took the lid off the syringe, and plunged the needle through the rubber top of the vial.
Maddy tried to lift her head, and she shook herself, grabbing his attention. Exasperated, he put down the syringe and vial on the table, and walked over to her. He held the knife at her throat, and his eyes glinted with fury.
“If you scream or shout, I’m going to slit your fucking throat. Got that?”
Maddy nodded. Without ceremony, he pulled back the duct tape that was covering her mouth. She almost screamed in pain as the tape was removed. She felt his hand clamp over her mouth. He had soft hands, she couldn’t help but notice. She felt the tip of the sharp knife against her chin, pushing her head back on the pillow.
“Now speak softly, and make it quick.”
Maddy swallowed several times before she could get the words out. “My daddy will pay for you to release me.” Her voice was hoarse. “I can give you
his number. Just call him and say what you want. I swear…” Her words were lost as he pulled the duct tape back over her lips.
He threw his head back and laughed. “You think this is about money, Maddy? I don’t give a damn about money. You have no idea what this is about. You,” he pushed the knife in a little further, drawing a drop of dark crimson, “are just a pawn in this game.”
CHAPTER 9
The incident room on the ground floor of Clapham Common Police Station was buzzing. Arla had arrived at 7 am, and nursing her coffee and croissant from the canteen, she had arranged the paperwork. The incident room was adjacent to the open-plan detectives’ office. It seated more than 50, and was lined by a row of computers, printers and fax machines at the corners.
A whiteboard was up at one end, with a projector screen next to it. The screen would not be used today, but the laptop needed to connect to the projector suspended from the ceiling was present and fully charged. Arla had used it often to do a PowerPoint presentation when needed. For most occasions, though, the whiteboard and brainstorming were enough.
Photos of Maddy, and her friend Maya, as the last person who had seen her, had been stuck up on the whiteboard.
The last few people came in, and Arla took her place at the lectern and cleared her throat. “Settle down, guys.” From the corner of her eye, she spotted Johnson coming in and closing the door softly shut.
“Name of missing person is Madeleine Burroughs, known to everyone as Maddy. She was last seen at the end-of-term drinks for her school, Brunswick College in Clapham, a private coeducational sixth-form college. By all accounts she was drunk at the pub, but then so were all her friends. At 20.00, she decided to walk back on her own. That was the last anyone saw of Maddy.”
“CCTV?” Sergeant James Bennett, a keen detective whom Arla liked, asked, after raising his hand.
“No CCTV in that region of Brockwell Park. You have to walk to the end of the road to the T-junction. We assume Maddy was walking there to catch the bus from the main road.”
