by M. L Rose
James spoke up again. “Could she have been meeting a boyfriend? A secret rendezvous?”
“We haven’t taken statements from school or friends as yet. All of that will be done from today.”
Arla continued. “She had a mobile phone, which has gone with her. We are in contact with the telephone company to get the last signal. She had a laptop at home, and plain clothes are going today with us to collect all her belongings from her home.”
Arla held up a finger. “One thing you must all remember. She is a diplomat’s daughter, and full credit to the family for not panicking about this and going to the media. We cannot send uniforms or marked cars to her address. The family want this kept from the press while we conclude our rapid investigation.”
Johnson raised his gravelly voice from the doorway where he was standing. “The Home Office is watching every move we are making. As you can imagine, this is a transatlantic affair now, and every effort is being made to keep it private. I repeat, no media, no press. If I hear anyone from this room has leaked anything to the media, they will be suspended without notice. If you want your job, keep your mouth shut.”
Arla said, “We have to hit the national database for missing persons. I want all the detectives, from sergeant rank upwards, to monitor the database discreetly. If you find anything, please report directly to me or DI Harry Mehta.” She pointed to Harry, who was towering next to her.
“I want call logs from the Burroughs’ residence for three months prior to the disappearance. We will get Maddy’s mobile number and get call logs from the phone company. As you can imagine, that will take some time.”
“I can get the Home Office to put pressure on the phone company,” Johnson chimed in from the door.
“Thank you, sir,” Arla said. “I want call logs from the parents’ numbers as well. This will be difficult and intrusive, and it depends on what I can get out of the parents. More importantly, Facebook and Twitter/WhatsApp accounts of the vic… I mean missing person. I want them downloaded as hard copies.”
“At the same time, we tackle the school.” Arla paused to take a sip of water. “Brunswick High might be a private, fee-paying school, but we need statements from every member of staff who has been in touch with Maddy. Students as well, obviously, and we have to be discreet, because we don’t want news to spread too much.”
James Bennett said, “I read the prelim report, guv: hope you don’t mind.” Arla flashed him a smile: she liked detectives taking initiative.
James continued. “In it, the parents have been in touch with the school already, so her friends and their families must be aware.”
“Good point, which makes our job more tricky. But it has to be done. I know this is a pain. But we need to merge with the surroundings as much as we can. We need to walk into the school looking like parents picking up the children, not police officers with suits and badges.”
“Somebody better tell Harry,” Rob Pickering, one of the DIs, quipped. A smattering of laughter swept across the room. Harry was always the best-dressed person in the room. Eliot Ness, they called him, or Smooth Harry. Arla preferred Dirty Harry, which annoyed him no end.
“Who do you want in the team, Arla?” Johnson asked.
Arla craned her neck till she caught sight of Lisa Gayle’s blonde locks in the middle of the room. Lisa’s face broke into a grin.
Arla said, “DI Mehta, Sergeants Lisa, Rob and James.”
“Will that be enough?”
“I’d rather be focused and fast, sir, than waste my time coordinating a big team. Besides, everyone here will keep their eyes and ears open.”
Johnson nodded. Everyone stood up and stretched, dragging chairs back into the corners. As they filed out, Arla’s eyes fell on the photos of Maddy staring out from the whiteboard. It was still the same holiday photo that she had seen last night, but the AV team had blown up the face and got a close-up. Next to the photo there was an e-fit as well, which would be redundant once the detectives had more photos from the family albums.
Sergeant James Bennett stepped into her circle. “Where do we start, guv?”
Arla liked the fresh-faced young man. She had been like him once, passionate about the job, eager to rise up the ranks. She took in his short, black hair, large and intelligent, grey eyes, and his square-cut jaw. He was a hit with the ladies as well, she knew that. In the office parties she had heard whispers, likening him to an Italian footballer, amidst the usual fit of giggles. His moves on the dance floor had many suitors.
She turned to Harry and raised her eyebrows. He shrugged. “You and I do the house first, I guess.”
Lisa and Rob had gathered around them. Lisa said, “That way you don’t have to dress like a dowdy 50-year-old dad picking up his daughter at the school, Harry.”
Harry scowled at her and the others smirked. Arla said, “Park two streets down and walk in slowly. Lisa and Rob, you hit the school, James, stay here and get Maddy’s social media accounts sorted out and the phone call logs.” She registered the look of disappointment in James’ face.
“The social media accounts and phone logs are critical. They can make or break this case. It’s a big job.” She looked at James, and suppressed a smile when he squared his shoulders, his eyes lively.
“Meet back here at 16.00,” Arla said. She glanced at Harry. “Let’s move.”
CHAPTER 10
The roads that encircle the roughly triangular expanse of Clapham Common contain the best of London’s Victorian architecture. Built in the mid- to late-nineteenth century, the red-brick and white-eaved houses are tall and grandiose, built with the residences of the affluent City bankers in mind, when the mansions of Kensington and Knightsbridge became too expensive.
The buildings were still lovingly maintained. Floor-to-ceiling windows of multiple floors reflected the greenery of the Common opposite, whilst effectively hiding the opulence of their interiors.
Arla watched from the passenger side window as the terraces appeared. They came off the South Circular, swept around the football fields and ponds of the park, and followed the A24 into a street called Narbonne Avenue. The elegant terraces gave way to grand mansions here, each building with front lawns mown to perfection, red-brick and sandstone edifices separated from each other by curved railings.
“Smell the money?” Harry asked.
Arla didn’t answer. Harry said, “I smell the council estates three blocks away. Wonder if these rich people can.”
London’s juxtaposition of great wealth with widespread, deepening poverty had never made sense to Arla. How could a city where most of its citizens lived at or just above the poverty line boast so many multimillion-pound houses? Entire families were crammed into two-bedroom apartments, while the über-wealthy lived in houses with bathrooms the same size.
“Sure they can smell the estates, Harry. That’s why they buy expensive perfumes.” She blinked. “You know, like you. You smell like a department store at Christmas. Haven’t met a man as vain as you, Harry.”
Harry rolled his wide shoulders, and cracked his neck, almost a metre above her head. “I’m special. I got the rough, but hand out the smooth. Remember that.”
“Rough with the smooth? Grow up, Harry.”
They parked the car in the next street along, then walked back up the road. Arla rang the bell, Harry taking up position behind her. After what seemed like a long wait, the tall, shining black door opened slowly. A small, wizened old lady stood inside, dwarfed by the giant door, which extended a few inches above Harry’s head. Her leathery, lined cheeks hung over her jaw. She peered at them.
“Can I help you?”
Arla opened her mouth to speak, but the clickety-clack of heels over the marble floor stopped her. A woman appeared, dressed in a dark maroon skirt, and similar-coloured blouse with cardigan. She didn’t have any make-up on, and the attractive, late-forties face was pale and drawn.
“Go inside, Christy,” she said. “You must be the detectives.”
“Y
es, ma’am,” Arla said. They stepped inside and the woman shut the heavy door.
The hallway was wide, with a table in the middle that held a massive potted plant. The plant had white flowers that grew luxuriantly, and a few petals lay on the white marble floor.
“I am Mrs Burroughs,” the woman said. “Are you Detective Arla Baker?”
Arla took out her badge and held it up. “DCI Baker,” she said.
Mrs Burroughs stared at her for a few seconds. “This way,” she said eventually, barely glancing at Harry. They passed two lounge rooms on either side, past a sweeping staircase wide enough to fit an elephant, to the end of the hallway into a conservatory.
Tropical plants leaned over them, giving off a pleasant but humid smell. There was a dining table in the middle with twelve chairs. The windows were open and a summer breeze filtered in, playing with the luminous green leaves. The table was empty, and they pulled up chairs to sit down.
Arla took her first proper look at the woman. Her accent was not American. It was English and polished. Southern Home Counties, public school-educated, if she had to put her money on it. She was attractive, her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, large, hazel eyes over a sharp but small nose. Her mouth was generous with well-formed lips. She didn’t smile, and Arla could see the rings under the hollows of her eyes.
“Mrs Burroughs, we better start at the beginning,” she said.
“Before we do that, I would like to ask you something.” Her tone was pointed, and not just because of the emphasis she put on you.
Arla stiffened and she heard Harry clear his throat gently. She knew he was trying to warn her. Keep your cool.
“DCI Baker, did you know my daughter?”
Arla shook her head. “No, I definitely did not. Look, Mrs Burroughs, whoever left that note is either a prankster or a very sick individual. I intend to get to the bottom of it, I assure you.”
“Well, this individual knew that Maddy was...” She seemed to struggle for the word. “…Missing… and then wrote you would know about it. Seems like they were trying to tie you to Maddy.”
“Or trying to drop me in it,” Arla said.
“That is not my problem!” Mrs Burroughs lashed out suddenly, raising her voice. “Some weirdo who has a grudge against you could also be my daughter’s kidnapper.” She jabbed a finger at Arla, her jaw set tightly against her now reddening face. “That makes you responsible for what is going on.”
“Now hang on a minute,” Arla said, anger suddenly surfacing inside her. “What happened to your daughter has nothing to do with me. I understand that my name is involved here, but it could be a prankster from her school who dropped in that note. It could be anyone. All I’m doing is trying to help.”
She felt Harry’s hand on her arm. He said in a quiet voice, “Mrs Burroughs, we understand this is a very difficult situation for you. We want to do everything possible to get Maddy back home to you safely. To do that we need your help, and right now, this is not helping.”
Mrs Burroughs glared back at them, her chest heaving. Then a cloud seemed to pass over her features. She put her elbow on the table and held her forehead, closing her eyes. Harry and Arla exchanged a quick glance. They gave the woman a moment. She looked up at them eventually, and sat back in the chair.
“OK. What do you want to know?”
CHAPTER 11
Arla felt she was being judged, and it was not a nice feeling. Victims’ families could get emotional and angry: dealing with them was part of every cop’s job. But this was uncharted territory. She had to try and disguise the sense of unease she felt.
“Tell us more about Maddy, please. What sort of a girl she was, who her friends were, everything.”
Mrs Burroughs sniffed. She took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Maddy was just a normal, fun-loving, happy girl. She was captain of the volleyball team at school, good at her studies. The teachers loved her. We always had glowing reports.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“Tom is thirteen and goes to Ridley’s, a boys’ school in Dulwich. He is so sad about all this.”
Arla said, “We will need to speak to him as well. Do you have any other children?”
Mrs Burroughs shook her head. Arla asked, “Were you married or in a relationship before this?”
“No.”
Harry asked, “Did Maddy seem bothered by anything in the days before she disappeared? Was she upset, or did she get any phone calls? Anything that might seem out of the ordinary?”
She shook her head. “You know what young girls are like these days. She has her own phone and laptop, and she spends hours on it. The web server we have at home blocks adult sites, but who knows what she does outside?” She looked up at them, the defiance in her face appearing briefly. “But she wasn’t that type of girl. I know it.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?” Arla asked.
The diplomat’s wife pursed her lips. “Once, when she was in the shower, I went through her phone. She changed passwords often, but the new text was on the screen, so I could read it.”
She continued. “The text said something like I need to see you. Usual place. Love Michael.”
“When was this?” Arla asked.
“Maybe a month ago? Not more than that. She was very particular about her phone. I never saw it left with her clothes or on her desk. She kept it to herself.”
“You paid for it?”
“Yes. I got her a £20 card every month. Whether she topped it up, I can’t tell.”
Arla thought back to the case files. “She didn’t have her bag on her that night, did she?”
Her mother shook her head. “No. There was an end-of-year disco at the school, and then some of them went to the pub as it’s near the school. Maddy knew that she had to be back home by 10. I did tell her not to come home alone.” She paused and her head sank on her hand again.
Arla felt a flutter of sympathy. This poor woman was putting on a brave face to the devastation she was feeling inside. Her features were as thin as her bony hands. Arla doubted she was eating or sleeping much.
“Mrs Burroughs, would you mind if we saw Maddy’s room?” Arla asked gently.
The woman nodded and rose from her seat. They followed her up the winding staircase, their feet sinking in the soft carpet. The landing on the first floor was as wide as the hallway, with far fewer rooms. Mrs Burroughs turned right, and paused at the door before the larger room at the end of the hallway. The door of that room was shut, and Arla wondered if it was the master bedroom.
On Maddy’s door a sign proclaimed it as her room in red letters on a wooden board. Below it was a sign that read ‘No Entry’. Mrs Burroughs went inside, and Arla followed, pulling out gloves from her pocket.
“Has anyone apart from you been in this room?”
“No. I told the cleaner to stay away from it this week.”
“Thank you. Would you mind waiting for us downstairs while we have a look around?”
Mr Burroughs looked uncertain for a while, then nodded. Harry clicked the door shut when she left. Arla stared at the posters of boy bands on the walls, and framed works of art. Some of the artworks were beautiful, and she looked at them closely. They were signed Maddy. Arla was impressed.
“Quite the artist, isn’t she?” Arla pointed at the pictures. Harry came closer to inspect and hummed agreement. Arla moved to the table top, where the laptop was placed along with the usual teenagers’ mess. Piles of pens, notebooks and A4 ring binder folders were scattered on the desktop. Pink friendship ribbons poked out of a drawer, and a tube of red glitter nail polish was left half-screwed on. Arla looked at some of the exercise books, and found homework and school projects in various degrees of completion.
She looked up at the bookshelf, and found paperbacks of vampire novels, a series on a teenage detective agency, all with gaudy, bold covers showing a woman or a group of women. She took one of the books down and looked through it. She repeated the process with a number of books
, and stopped at a chick lit novel called My Little Secret. Inside there was a scrawl that said – ‘To Maddy, let’s do it again soon, Maya’. She moved her attention to the ring binders. They were labelled by their subject matter. She took down the psychology folder, and looked at the doodling on the inside of the hard cover.
Arla wrote the name down on her notebook. She tried to switch the laptop on, but it was out of charge. She turned around. Harry was on his knees, peering down below the bed. He reached inside and pulled out a gym bag. He unzipped it as Arla came and stood above him. There were two badminton rackets inside, and a volleyball. Apart from that the bag was empty.
Arla looked at the bedside table, drawers, and inside the dressing wardrobe. Apart from the usual teenage girl’s paraphernalia, she didn’t find anything else. Harry bagged the laptop and its battery, and they went downstairs. Mrs Burroughs came out of the conservatory.
“Did you find anything?” Her voice seemed hopeful.
Arla said, “We are still very early in the course of our enquiries, Mrs Burroughs. Please be patient with us. Is it OK if we take the laptop with us?”
The woman nodded. Arla said, “If you don’t mind, we would also like to see the phones of the rest of the family. So you, your husband and son, if he has one.”
Miss B seemed taken aback by this. Arla said smoothly, “It’s just to cross-check. We will get the call log off Maddy’s phone, and we want to make sure we have records of when you called her and vice versa.”
The woman hesitated, then nodded. “You can check my phone, no problems. But my husband might be more difficult.”
“Doesn’t he have a personal phone that he uses for family and friends?”
She shrugged. “Yes, he does, but sometimes I think he gets work-related calls on it as well.”
“We can ask him. By the way, does the name Cindy mean anything to you? As in, did Maddy have a friend called by that name?”
Miss B frowned, then shook her head. “I can’t recall.”
Harry asked, “What were the names of her close friends?”
