Mrs Blaski leaned back into the sofa opposite Jessica, sipping from her own teacup. ‘I’m so glad the police are still looking for my daughter,’ she said. Unsurprisingly, given the name, she was of Polish origin and carried some of the accent, even though her English was seemingly perfect.
Jessica tried not to wince. She’d used her police identification to get into the house and it wasn’t exactly true that the police were still looking for Henka Blaski. She supposed that she was now looking for Henka, even if unofficially.
After putting her teacup carefully on the sideboard, Jessica took out a notepad and pen and rested it on her knee. ‘I know you’ve been through this in the past,’ she said, ‘but could you possibly tell me about what happened on the night your daughter disappeared?’
Some people would argue about having to repeat themselves – some always did – but Mrs Blaski didn’t appear to mind. She sipped her tea and started: ‘It was two months ago – a Saturday night. Henka used to see her friends – she was nineteen, you know what girls are like at that age.’
‘I was young once.’
The woman smiled. ‘Me too.’ She was fidgeting on the sofa, tugging at her skirt and wriggling her shoulders against the backrest. With her skin tone and long dark hair, she looked a lot like her daughter. ‘She was going out with her friends,’ Mrs Blaski added. ‘They were supposed to be meeting at somebody’s house, but Henka never made it. You don’t know what to think. Our first thought was that someone had taken her, someone bad.’
‘Was there any sign of that?’
A shake of the head. ‘No sign of anything. All her things are still upstairs. She just went.’
‘Was there any build-up? Any arguments? Fallings-out with her friends or a boyfriend?’
‘No,’ she snapped, ‘and she didn’t have a boyfriend.’
Jessica wondered if she should ask ‘girlfriend’, but figured she was probably pushing it. The sudden annoyance had only appeared at the mention of a possible boyfriend.
‘Was there anybody else she might have fallen out with? A best friend, something like that?’
‘No. I did tell the police this. She was happy.’
Jessica reached into her bag and took out one of the missing posters she’d created with Bex’s image on the front. She passed it across. ‘I don’t suppose you recognise her…?’
Mrs Blaski fumbled along the side of the chair for a pair of glasses, putting them on and then staring at the picture. She peeped over the top towards Jessica. ‘Should I know her?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Is she English?’
‘Yes. She might be in Blackpool.’
The woman peered down at the picture again, then shook her head and handed it back. ‘Henka didn’t really have English friends. We’re a… tight community.’
Jessica didn’t ask her to expand because Mrs Blaski had spoken a little too forcefully.
The woman muttered something in another language and then blinked innocently when Jessica peered up.
‘Everything okay?’ Jessica asked.
‘My husband think the police don’t care because Henka’s Polish.’
‘That’s really not the case.’
‘He say you find the English girls first.’ Mrs Blaski glared at Jessica, daring her to confirm it.
After a moment, Jessica peered away, putting the picture of Bex back into her bag. This was an argument of which she wanted no part. There’d be no winners. ‘Can I look at Henka’s room?’ she asked.
‘People have been: men with gloves. They took stuff, then returned it.’
‘Can I look?’
Mrs Blaski finished off her tea with a flourish, tipping her head back and then clanking the cup back onto the saucer. ‘If you wish.’
Jessica liked Henka’s room a lot. Sometimes, when a person had gone missing, their living space would be tidied up by frantic parents, or spoiled by search teams. Here, the teenager’s room felt like something that a young person would live in. One wall was devoted to photographs that looked like they’d been taken on a phone and then printed on a sketchy inkjet. Henka was in most of them, smiling, carefree and happy. In many, there was another girl with her who had a similar skin tone and dark hair. They were in the park; on the beach; on the prom; at the Pleasure Beach. Doing normal things that kids did around the town. Perhaps unsurprisingly, given her mother’s bristling at the suggestion of a boyfriend, there were no males pictured, except for an older man Jessica assumed was Henka’s father. Jessica picked over the photographs, taking them in, looking for anything out of the ordinary, but it was simply a teenage girl being a teenage girl.
The only thing Jessica saw that was remotely noticeable was that Henka seemed to like wearing the same clothes. In at least a third of pictures, she had on small denim shorts and a red vest top with ‘BABYLON’ printed across the front in shimmering, presumably fake, jewels. From the look of her hair length and colour, the pictures had all been taken at around the same time, likely the previous summer. There was blue sky in the background, lush green grass and bright sandy beaches.
In a few others, Henka was wearing a green and white apron with some sort of bird logo stitched onto the front. She was sticking her tongue out to the camera in one and threatening to throw a tin of food at whomever was taking the photo in another. All the while, grinning, grinning, grinning. A happy-go-lucky young woman who had made England her home and was bloody enjoying it.
Around the rest of the room, there were soft toys, a sparsely filled wardrobe, trainers, some books and some candles. Jessica didn’t want to make too much of a mess, so she trod carefully, returning everything to where she’d taken it from.
When she was done, she headed down the stairs to find Mrs Blaski waiting at the bottom, arms crossed. ‘Are you finished?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Are you going to find my Henka?’
Jessica took a breath, so wanting to say ‘yes’.
‘I’ll try,’ she replied truthfully, hoping it was a promise she could keep.
Thirteen
Jessica left the Blaski house and set off walking in an increasing spiral around the nearby streets. Danuta insisted that her daughter had few non-Polish friends and, if true, it meant she must be known in the local immigrant community.
It didn’t take Jessica long to stumble across the ‘Polski Sklep’ next to a hairdresser’s a few streets from the house. There was a large green awning overhanging the pavement with a circular bird logo printed in the corners, plus an A-frame board at the front listing something in Polish. Jessica headed inside, breathing in the smell of drying meats and sausages. As well as shelves of items with non-English labels, there was a deli counter with hams and kielbasas hanging from the ceiling. Jessica had to sup back the drool that was beginning to coat her tongue.
The young woman behind the counter was unquestionably the same person as in so many of the photographs lining Henka Blaski’s wall. She was nineteen or twenty, slim, with similar hooped earrings to the ones Henka wore. She brushed down her green and white uniform with one hand, the long nails of her other click-clacking on the countertop as she flicked through the pages of a fashion magazine.
‘Can I help?’ she asked, peering up.
‘Do you know Henka Blaski?’ Jessica asked, knowing the answer.
The girl’s fingers were splayed open on the magazine pages and froze where they were, her shaped eyebrows curving down in concern. ‘Oh, God. You’ve not found a body, have you? Oh, God. Oh, God—’
Jessica held a hand up, shaking her head. ‘No, sorry, it’s not that.’ She took out her police warrant card, again feeling guilty for using it when she wasn’t working. The girl behind the counter barely looked at it and certainly didn’t question the fact that it said ‘Greater Manchester’ instead of ‘Lancashire’.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked.
‘I just want to ask a few questions,’ Jessica replied. ‘Nothing you won’t have al
ready gone over with the police.’
‘Oh… I thought…’ She tailed off.
‘What’s your name?’ Jessica asked.
‘Maryla.’
‘I’m Jessica. I gather Henka also worked here?’
It was a bit of a guess based upon the picture of Henka in the same uniform that Maryla was currently wearing, but the young woman nodded.
‘And you were friends?’
Another nod.
‘Good friends?’
‘I guess.’
‘Can you tell me about the day she went missing?’
Maryla chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. It was coated with a thin, glimmering pink gloss. ‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked.
Jessica took out the poster with Bex’s picture from her bag and held it up. ‘I’m looking for her and if I can find Henka, there’s a chance I might find my friend, too.’
Maryla stared at the picture of Bex, showing no recognition. ‘I told the police all I know. Henka was supposed to come to my house but never arrived.’ She peered back down to her magazine and flipped a page.
‘Her mother said she didn’t have many non-Polish friends.’
There was a snort of derision from Maryla. ‘Dan says lots of things.’
‘She also said Henka didn’t have a boyfriend.’
Maryla didn’t reply, flicking another page, even though she couldn’t have read the previous one.
‘I saw her bedroom,’ Jessica added. ‘There are lots of photos of you there. The pair of you – years of memories, but not a boy in sight. No ex-boyfriends, current boyfriends, wannabe boyfriends. Nothing.’
Maryla shrugged. ‘So?’
‘So… I was nineteen once and boys were my life. Maybe boys weren’t her thing, but being that age is about being crazy in love – even if that’s with someone completely wrong.’
Maryla was back to biting her lip again. She looked up slowly. ‘Boys were her thing.’
‘So who was he?’
They locked eyes and Jessica could see the glimmer of fear in the young woman. ‘I could get in trouble,’ Maryla whispered.
‘You won’t.’
Maryla tried to step backwards, but Jessica reached forward and gently touched her wrist.
‘It’s okay,’ she added.
‘You won’t get it,’ Maryla said.
‘Try me.’
‘You’re not… one of us.’
It could have sounded sinister but instead came out as if she was apologising.
Jessica kept hold of Maryla’s wrist, not squeezing, simply letting her know that she was there. ‘I’d like to find Henka, too,’ she added, emphasising the other girl’s name.
Maryla sighed, pulling her wrist away and crossing her arms. ‘His name’s Jacek,’ Maryla breathed. ‘You wouldn’t understand. Henka’s mum and dad are strict Catholics. Jacek’s are Orthodox.’
Jessica nodded in the direction of what she thought was the sea. ‘I think the Irish folks that live around here probably know a thing or two about Protestant–Catholic fighting.’
Maryla shook her head. ‘Both families were against them.’
‘But they saw each other on the quiet?’
There was another shrug, followed by a wonderfully defiant, fists clenched, eyes narrowed, bring-it-on declaration of: ‘If you like someone, you like ’em, right?’
Jessica couldn’t help but smile. ‘I’m not sure anyone could put it better than that.’ The cogs were beginning to turn slowly. ‘I’m guessing you were their cover?’
‘I was Henka’s – she’d tell her mum and dad she was out with me. Sometimes they’d call and ask to speak to her, so I’d say she was on the toilet, or whatever. Then I’d call her and she’d get back to them. I don’t know what Jacek told his parents.’
‘Did anyone else know they were seeing each other?’
‘Everyone thought they’d broken up.’
‘How long ago was that?’
Maryla unfolded her arms and counted on her fingers. ‘A year, maybe? Her mum pretended it had never happened. His dad thought the same, but they didn’t really talk about it. They were afraid of being found out.’
‘Were they together on the night Henka disappeared?’
‘The three of us were out together. We used to do that a lot, just in case we were spotted. Henka would say she was with me and that it was a coincidence Jacek was there. Nobody ever saw us anyway, but she was paranoid.’
‘Where were you?’
‘On the seafront, near the pier. We were walking and talking, eating candyfloss. Not doing much.’
‘What happened?’
Maryla took down one of the kielbasas from the rack behind her, slipped her hands into a pair of gloves and started chopping.
‘They were weird that night – both of them,’ Maryla said. She didn’t look up, but there was a hint of brightness to her voice. Jessica guessed Maryla hadn’t told this to anyone before. ‘I’d hang around and then drift off later in the evening. We’d go to the tourist areas, where there are no Poles. Sometimes I’d meet a boy while we were all out, sometimes I’d do my own thing. Usually they wanted me there in case we ran into someone who recognised us – but not that night.’
‘Did one of them say something?’
She shook her head: ‘There was this sort of vibe, like I wasn’t wanted. After a bit I went home by myself and left them to it.’
‘That was the last time you saw Henka?’
Maryla gulped and nodded.
‘What happened to Jacek?’
The atmosphere changed in a flash, as if someone had turned on a fan that was blasting cold air around the room. Maryla stared at Jessica, head at a slight angle. ‘I thought you’d guessed – that you already knew. I thought that’s why you’d come – because you’d put it together.’
‘Knew what?’
Maryla paused, biting her lip. ‘Jacek’s missing too.’
Jessica stared at her, trying to figure out what it all meant and then she knew. Jacek and Henka had been reported missing separately and no one had put the pieces together. Nobody had tipped off the police that they were once a couple because both families were trying to pretend it hadn’t happened. Maryla was the only one who knew.
‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’ Jessica asked quietly, immediately wishing she hadn’t.
‘They never asked.’ Her top lip flared, anger rising. ‘They always assume missing Poles have gone home to Poland, never bother to look. No one cares about us. What’s one missing Polish girl when you have nice, English ones to go looking for?’ Her eyes widened, daring Jessica to dispute it.
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Jessica eventually stuttered – but the delay had already said plenty.
Maryla picked up the knife again and started chopping another sausage, slamming the blade into the wooden block over and over. ‘If that’s true, then where are they?’ she spat.
This time, Jessica did not have an answer.
Fourteen
Jessica had been shaken by Maryla’s venom. Was it true that police forces, perhaps public bodies as a whole, put less focus on immigrant communities? She tried to treat everyone the same, but it was human nature to make certain assumptions about others who were different.
In other circumstances, she’d have phoned the local police and told them about the connection between Henka and Jacek. With everything that was going on – and DCI Fordham’s attitude towards her – Jessica doubted it would go down well.
Instead, she headed back towards the centre of the town, figuring she’d take Darren’s advice from the previous day. The Help the Homeless centre was hidden along a narrow, dusty alleyway a few streets away from the town hall. It might only have been a short distance but it may as well have been a different town entirely. Jessica found Blackpool to be a place riddled with confusion over its own identity. There were the illuminations, the bright shops, the attractions and the pubs. A shiny surface-dressing for those who didn’t know better.
Beyond that, it didn’t take too much exploring to find the boarded-up shops, the grimy pubs, the fly-tipped mounds of rubbish in the back ginnels. It was like two towns living on top of each other – one for the tourists, one for everyone else.
On the invisible border between the two towns lay the Help the Homeless drop-in centre. It inhabited an old pub that still had the faded sign high on the wall outside. Pinned to the door was a list of strict curfew times for when the place was locked for the night, plus a code of conduct saying that the staff who worked there were volunteers who would not tolerate abuse. Jessica headed inside, finding her appetite again as the smell of warm soup drifted around the enclosed space.
It took her a few moments to get her bearings, but the inside was warm and welcoming, teeming with people. The bar had not been removed from the pub and was being used as a long serving counter, with three people behind chatting to one another. There was a large metal urn with steam seeping from the top and a basket next to it. As Jessica watched, a man in a pair of jogging bottoms and a T-shirt walked across. He pointed to the urn, got a nod from one of the people behind the counter and then filled up a bowl with soup. He took a chunk of bread from the basket and then shuffled away to the corner, where he was sitting with a pair of other men around a small circular table.
Much of the room was laid out in the way it would have been when it was a pub. There were booths to the side and a dozen or so round tables with stools. People were sitting in small groups, some eating, some not, but all seemingly having a peaceful chat. Jessica soon realised that, as much as she was taking in the room, many of the people were watching her, too. Some would glance towards her, then look away; one or two were staring at her, silently asking who she was.
‘Can I help you?’
Jessica jumped slightly as she realised there was a woman at her arm. She stepped backwards as they each apologised to one another.
‘I’m Pam,’ the woman added. She was a few years older than Jessica, dressed in a long white apron with her auburn hair bobbed underneath a net.
Silent Suspect: A completely gripping crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Jessica Daniel thriller series Book 13) Page 8
