Then She Was Gone

by Luca Veste

  He looked back at the male detective who was still staring at him and decided to sit on the sofa. Settled on the edge. ‘Please, just tell me what you want to hear. I just want you to find her.’

  ‘We understand that. There are still a lot of unanswered questions, though, which is making our job just that little bit more difficult. So, how about we clear those up and then we will be in a better position to find your daughter. Sound fair?’

  Tim nodded, wrapping his arms around himself and leaning forwards.

  ‘You said you’d been with Lauren for just under a year,’ the female detective said, confusing him by changing tack. ‘Did she ever meet any of your family?’

  He was beginning to see how his answers were unlikely to help him. ‘No, she didn’t. There was no reason for her to meet any of them. I wasn’t close to them, so why would I introduce her to them?’

  ‘Did she meet any of your friends?’

  ‘I don’t really have any friends. I left all that behind a long time ago.’

  The detective made some sort of noise under her breath. ‘So, she wasn’t introduced to your family, or friends, yet you were living together and she became pregnant. Were you working at the time?’

  ‘Yes, I worked from home. Tech support for various websites. I have my own business.’

  ‘You don’t speak to your family, you have no friends, you work from home and your neighbours don’t know you exist. That seems a little like isolation to me. Is that intentional?’

  He didn’t know how to respond, so he shrugged his shoulders instead.

  ‘We’ve tried to locate Lauren from the information you’ve provided us with, Tim, but we’ve been unsuccessful.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’ Tim began, before being interrupted.

  ‘I’m saying, we’ve checked into every local and national database. We’ve also checked again at your previous address, with your old neighbours and anyone we could find. No one recalls a woman being there. No one recalls a child being there either. We can find no trace of anyone named Lauren Moran, born on the date you gave us, in the area – or nearby, in fact.’

  ‘That can’t be right.’

  The detective leaned forwards, placing her notepad to one side. She stared at him.

  ‘Did they exist, Tim? Either of them? What is the truth here?’

  Monday 21 September

  Three weeks she had been gone.

  That’s how long it took for him to give in and call for help. He hadn’t spoken to the group in years, but it was finally time.

  He waited until the train came above ground, leaving the tunnel which ran underneath the River Mersey, and then pulled out his new mobile phone.

  ‘It’s me . . . Tim . . . I need help . . . I need the club to help me . . . Yes, I know, again, but that’s what it’s for, right?’

  He could hear the exasperation from the voice on the other end of the line, but managed to set up a meeting for the next day.

  Tim was desperate. There was no evidence his daughter had ever existed as far as the police were concerned. Just his word, which wasn’t enough.

  He’d spent his time wandering around, hoping to catch sight of her. He was certain he would recognise her. There was a small mole, or birthmark, on her right earlobe. He could close his eyes and remember the touch of it on his finger, as he rocked her to sleep, stroking the side of her face and touching her ear. He was the only one who knew that was what would work.

  It was obvious to him what had happened. Lauren had found out where he’d gone, attacked him in that park and taken Molly somewhere. The problem was proving that he was right.

  The problem was proving their existence at all.

  How could Molly be unreal when every fibre of him ached? He felt incomplete and malformed without her.

  How could he have made her up?

  He blinked and had an image of Lauren cowering from him, as he stood over her. Another second and the image was gone. Replaced by the wheel spinning once more.

  He left the train at Moreton station and walked the ten-minute journey from there through a dodgy estate to his altogether nicer one. He pulled his coat tighter around him as the wind picked up and swirled fallen leaves on the ground ahead of him.

  He entered the street where the house he’d spent almost a year with Lauren was situated. He’d decide to move back – convinced Lauren would return there if she was going to come back anywhere.

  Flashing lights stopped him in his tracks. A police car was parked up outside his house. Another van was there, the words Scientific Support emblazoned on the side. He broke into a jog, which turned into a sprint as he covered the remaining few yards at speed. He stopped at the end of the driveway, almost barrelling into a uniformed policeman who was standing guard.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Tim said, already out of breath, but not caring. ‘Why are you here? Have you found her?’

  ‘You need to stay here for a second.’

  Tim tried to move past the police officer, but a burly arm blocked his path. He looked towards the house, squinting into the darkness, before a light was switched on in the hallway and two figures emerged.

  ‘Mr Johnson,’ a voice called out from the direction of the front door.

  ‘Have you . . . have you found her?’ Tim said, his words faltering as he lifted a hand to his mouth. ‘Is she OK? What’s going on?’

  ‘I need you to come with me,’ DC Hashem said, taking her hands out of the pockets of her coat. Tim saw the man standing behind her was the same one that had accompanied her to the other house.

  ‘Tell me now,’ Tim replied, words falling from his mouth without him being aware of them. ‘Just tell me, is she OK? Please tell me Molly is OK. Where’s my daughter?’

  ‘I just need you to come with us now. We’ll explain everything down at the station.’

  He didn’t think he could make the short walk to the car, but he was opening the door and getting in before he realised he’d started moving. Other people headed towards the house, wearing white overalls and carrying shovels. The male detective sat in the back next to him. The car pulled away, Tim looked back at the darkened house and he began to shake uncontrollably. He could feel the man’s eyes on him.

  He whispered to himself for almost the entire journey back to Liverpool.

  ‘Please let her be OK. Please let her be OK. Please let her be . . .’

  PART ONE

  PRESENT DAY

  An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind.

  Mahatma Gandhi

  I’m a fighter. I believe in the eye-for-an-eye business. I’m no cheek turner. I got no respect for a man who won’t hit back. You kill my dog, you better hide your cat.

  Muhammad Ali

  While seeking revenge, dig two graves – one for yourself.

  Douglas Horton

  You

  You’re consumed with hate.

  You think of nothing but desolation and the absolute need to devastate. To destroy. To satiate yourself in vengeance.

  You have lived your life in moments of desperation. Each day passing in a blur of perceived normality. Now is your chance to be something more.

  You plan. You want it to be perfect. There isn’t anything you haven’t foreseen and countered for. You cannot be stopped. Nothing will stand in your way.

  They must pay for what they have done.

  You want the violence. You feel it in every fibre of your body. The desire, the craving. You need to make things right. You need to redress the balance.

  You don’t see them as victims. You know others will, but that does not matter. You know the truth. You know the public will care little, instead waiting for the next instalment. A reality show to end them all. A true fight to the death, beamed into every living room. No one cares about the so-called victims. They just want the next part to begin.

  They’re just like you. They love to watch and vicariously experience the thrill of violence and suffering. You know it to be true.
r />   You want the world to die a slow, painful death.

  You want to be there to watch it die.

  There are faces you see every night, lying in the dark waiting for sleep to consume you. Appearing in your mind without invitation. Making your skin crawl, your stomach churn and hands shake. You feel anger, you feel afraid. You want those faces to disappear.

  You want silence. You want to switch off that part of your brain which keeps bringing them back.

  Instead of living in a constant state of terror, you decide to do something about it. To switch off those voices and make those faces evaporate. You have plans, you are in control. You know what to do. You have right on your side, you have the tools and the desire to do what is necessary.

  You want retribution for what happened.

  You want revenge.

  One

  There was a time when the issue of getting older hadn’t bothered him so much. He remembered that time with a fading clarity. Now it needled him, occupying his thoughts without reason. Another year about to come to an end – the onward march towards the magical age of forty.

  Aging was becoming wearisome.

  Detective Inspector David Murphy looked out across the River Mersey, leaning forwards against the promenade railings. He glanced down at his hands gripping the metal, his knuckles white and scarred, then stared back out across the water. He could see the ferry making its approach towards home in an early afternoon gloom. Darkened clouds were moving above him, moody and plentiful, casting the water below him with a grey shadow. The view across the river was a direct contrast to the one he would experience from the other side of the water: fewer iconic buildings, less industry and none of the bustle of modern life.

  Murphy turned and gazed up at the Port of Liverpool building directly in front of him. Its more famous sibling – the Royal Liver building – sitting next to it, the mythical Liver Birds perched atop, looking out over the same view as him. He craned his neck upwards to glimpse a sight of them. Took in the faded stone of the structure and felt a sense of calm wash over him. Some things stayed the same in an ever-changing world. They signified a past which was now being increasingly encroached upon by futurism – the new museums and office buildings growing ever closer to them. One of the newer museums lay to his right – fans of the Beatles given their own altar to worship at within. Further back, a black, glass coffin of a building lying between the waterfront and the city centre. The Albert Dock was visible further down the river, now filled with trendy bars and shops selling to tourists and excited youngsters.

  Yet, there were buildings that would always be part of the Liverpool city skyline.

  ‘I decided against it. Looks like it’s about to rain any second and there’s nothing sadder than eating ice cream under an umbrella.’

  Murphy turned to his wife, watching her climbing the few steps up to the promenade to join him, and smiled towards her. ‘Could be worse,’ he said, wrapping his arm around her as she reached him. ‘Could have forgotten the umbrella.’

  Sarah lay her head against his chest. ‘This is nice,’ she said, turning with Murphy as he looked out across the river once more. ‘Been a while since we’ve been down here.’

  ‘Everything’s changing.’

  ‘That’s modern life for you. Blink and they build something where you were looking last.’

  Murphy made a noise at the back of his throat and continued to watch the ferry cross the Mersey.

  ‘I love the fact I’m going back to university,’ Sarah said, lifting her head slightly to look around the waterfront. ‘But I really wish the holidays lasted a little longer. Could get used to meeting you on your lunch break and taking in the scenery around here.’

  ‘Don’t you think you get enough time off as it is? It’s like three months off in the bloody summer. More, in fact, than when you were teaching. I’m lucky to get three days off in a row.’

  ‘Should have become a teacher instead then. I’d love to see you try and control a classroom full of six year olds.’

  Murphy shuddered at the thought. ‘You’re OK. I’d rather deal with criminals any day of the week.’

  There was still a period of adjustment going on between them, now Sarah had left work as a teacher. She had decided to go back to university, following the trauma they had experienced fifteen months earlier. A violent attack in their home, which had almost resulted in both their lives being ended.

  Sarah had wanted to understand what could drive someone to do what had been done to them, so she had decided to return to university and study psychology and criminology. Murphy just wanted to forget.

  ‘You thought about where we’re going to eat later?’

  Murphy pulled away and looked downwards at Sarah. Sometimes the height difference bothered him, sometimes it didn’t register. There was almost a foot between them, he was well over six foot tall, she was not much over five. It led to some odd looks sometimes, especially as she had kept her pre-thirties looks. Whereas he was becoming more weathered by the hour. ‘I thought you’d decide for once.’

  Sarah began to shake her head before Murphy cut in again.

  ‘I’ve chosen where we’ve eaten at least the last six hundred times.’

  ‘You’ve kept count, have you?’

  Murphy couldn’t help but smile. ‘Smart arse.’

  ‘I’ll think of something. Probably in town. I’m not going to be done in Liverpool One until late.’

  ‘Well, don’t spend too much money . . .’

  Murphy stopped as he received an elbow in the ribs from Sarah. ‘I’m spending what I like, knobhead. I’ve not done any shopping in bloody ages and I need to fit in with the other students. They’re all going to be at least fifteen years younger than me in that university. And I’m using my own money anyway.’

  ‘First, ow,’ Murphy replied, making a show of rubbing his side, ‘bony elbows. Second, I wasn’t exactly being serious. I just like seeing you react to my sexism.’

  ‘You’re just a wind-up merchant, you are. Anyway, aren’t you best getting back?’

  Murphy rolled up the sleeve on his suit jacket and checked the time. Looked up at the Liver Building and saw the same time peering down at him. ‘You’re right. I’ll speak to you later, once you’ve bought half of the stuff in the shops, and bought me something two sizes too small because that’s the size you wish I was . . .’

  ‘I never–’

  ‘Course you don’t,’ Murphy replied, smiling down at Sarah and then planting a kiss on her forehead. ‘You all right getting back from here? I’m going to flag a cab down if you want dropping off?’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ Sarah said, giving Murphy a squeeze and then stepping away. ‘I don’t mind walking up.’

  Murphy made his way towards the Coffin-Building, turning to wave back at her, the smile on his face fading as he moved away. There was something to be said for taking off during work hours and having a blast of normality. Mostly, it just made it more difficult to go back to work.

  Within a few minutes, he was in the back of a black cab, winding through the traffic on the outskirts of the city centre, passing the never-ending roadworks on Leeds Street, sweeping round Liverpool John Moores University and eventually turning into St Anne Street.

  The too-familiar brown-brick building came into view, Murphy stopped the cab a few yards past and over-tipped the driver.

  Five minutes later, he walked into the main office of the Major Crime Unit. He took a deep breath and made his way to his desk, passing the various detectives under his auspicious command.

  ‘Nice lunch?’

  Murphy mocked a salute towards DS Laura Rossi and sat down. ‘Very. One of those where you don’t want to come back to this place.’

  ‘It’s why I try and eat in the building as often as possible. Not from the canteen, of course.’

  Murphy pulled his chair closer to the desk and moved the mouse, causing his computer monitor to come to life. ‘What was on the menu from Mama Rossi toda
y?’

  Rossi ran a hand through her long, almost black hair, sweeping it away from her face. ‘Just some mortadella, olives and mozzarella on ciabatta. Nothing special.’

  Murphy rolled his eyes at her. ‘Of course not. Bet it was bloody delicious.’

  ‘You always think that, but that’s only because you’re used to the shite they pass off as sandwiches in here.’

  ‘Got that right,’ Murphy replied, signing into his computer and checking his emails. ‘Missed anything?’

  Rossi shook her head. ‘Still waiting on uniforms to pick up that lad who tried to hold up a post office this morning. Shouldn’t take them too long, given he had to take off the crash helmet to be understood. DC Kirkham is taking a witness statement from that assault from last night–’

  ‘The domestic?’

  ‘Yeah. Going to try and do the bloke for attempted murder. CPS probably won’t go for it.’

  Murphy grunted, reading through the subject lines of a few emails for anything of interest. ‘Is she still talking?’

  ‘For now,’ Rossi replied, shifting paperwork off her desk and into a drawer. ‘Wants him done for everything. Bastardo tried to strangle her, so that’s sparked something in her.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing at the moment. Although the boss has been on the phone for the last five minutes. Doing the pacing up and down thing as well. Got a feeling something is going on . . .’

  He made to reply when the door to DCI Stephens’s internal office banged open. Murphy rolled his eyes at Rossi and turned to look towards the boss.

  ‘David, Laura, when you’re ready.’

  Murphy glanced at Rossi and shook his head. ‘Just when we thought we were going to have an easy afternoon.’

  Murphy and Rossi shuffled into DCI Stephens’s office and closed the door behind them. The office was as neat and ordered as usual. A single filing cabinet, large desk and leather chair took up most of the space. The only personal touch – a photograph of the boss’s family – faced outwards, so those coming into the office couldn’t help but notice it.