by David Evans
“Gill, have you finished those returns yet?” a voice on the edge of her awareness was saying. Before she could reply, the voice went on, “I said, have you finished those returns yet? Mr Adams needs them for this afternoon’s management meeting.” It was Sally Dobson, the director’s PA.
Gillian looked up into Sally’s face then down onto her desk and began rummaging through some paperwork in several files. “Yes,” she finally responded. “I’ve just got to finalise the projections and I’m done. I’ll …” At that point, her phone rang. “I’ll bring them along in half-an-hour.” She picked up the receiver.
“Make it twenty minutes,” Sally said before flouncing off.
Gillian grimaced behind her disappearing back, drawing a chuckle from a colleague at a work station opposite.
“Gill? Are you there?” came a disembodied female voice from the handset.
“Sorry about that,” Gillian said, “Can I help you?”
“Gill, it’s me, Alison.”
“Oh, Alison, hi.” Gillian lowered her voice significantly. “Sorry, I was just in the middle of something with Miss Frosty-Knickers here.”
“You sound busy.”
“Just got to get something finished before lunch.”
“So, not too busy for a bit of lunch and a gossip, then?”
“Well … no,” Gillian hesitated. “Actually, there’s something I could do with your opinion on.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It may be something and nothing but I’m a bit worried about …” Gillian broke off as Sally came back through the office door. “Look, I’ll see you in Garcia’s at half twelve. Got to go, see you then.” Gillian hurriedly put down the phone and busied herself with paperwork as Sally passed by, a scowl on her face.
Garcia’s was one of a new breed of trendy wine bars that seemed to have sprung up on every High Street in the land. Situated just off the Bullring, its interior boasted plenty of polished wood, stainless steel and etched glass which gave an almost clinical feel to the place. This was in sharp contrast to the cosy, smoky, town-centre pub it had once been in a previous incarnation.
The bar was buzzing with the incessant chatter of a score of conversations as a broad spectrum of clientele exchanged all the news, gossip and scandal of the day. Alison Hewitt took her dry white wine spritzer from the bar and found a circular table that had been fixed around one of the retained cast iron columns when the place was refitted the previous year. She placed her drink carefully on a mat on the surface which was just the right height for an elbow and awaited her friend’s arrival.
Alison was in her mid-thirties with shoulder length dark hair and dressed in a smart two-piece suit over a sheer white blouse. It was warm in the bar so she unbuttoned her jacket, drawing admiring glances from a group of business men standing nearby. As an attractive woman, she was used to that. However, taking account of their initial reaction, she decided against making any attempt to sit on one of the high bar stools, realising her tight skirt would ride up to reveal what many considered her best feature, a shapely pair of legs.
Just then, Gillian appeared in the doorway, looking flustered, caught Alison’s eye and mouthed an offer of some drinks. Alison gestured that she was fine, so Gillian made her way to the bar.
“God, I need this,” Gillian said, after weaving her way through the throng to join her friend and taking a sip of her lager. “What a morning.”
“You sounded up against it when I called. Are you sure you can afford the time?”
“Oh no, don’t worry about that. I just had to get out of there. I’ve finished what I had to do for that cow anyway.”
Alison smiled. “Which ‘cow’ is that?”
“Sally ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ Dobson, that’s who. The boss’s PA. PA, phfaa! That’s a laugh. Supposed to be his personal secretary, the only things she’s ever filed are her nails. Everybody knows she’s shagging him but boy, has she mastered one snooty, aloof expression.” Gillian stopped her rant suddenly. “Oh, sorry, Alison, just ignore me. Like I say, it’s one of those days.”
“No, that’s all right,” she chuckled, “Don’t hold back on my account, you just tell it like it is.”
Gillian smiled briefly before looking serious. “Well never mind that, there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”
Alison leaned forward. “You’ve got my full attention.”
“I’m worried,” Gillian began as she related her fears about her sister, Susan. “It’s just so out of character,” she concluded, “I’m going to have to go round there after work to see what’s wrong.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing wrong.”
“But not to visit Dad? That was the clincher for me when I found that out this morning. She’s never missed a Sunday.”
“Well maybe she’s out with a new boyfriend or something.”
“No, not Susan.”
“It’s not so far fetched. She’s just about to start a new life with her university course, so why not new friends too?”
“No, I’m telling you, if there was anything like that, Susan would have told me, she wouldn’t just disappear.”
“Listen, if she’s had an accident or something, you’d have heard by now. There’ll probably be some simple explanation.”
Gillian grew agitated and gulped the rest of her drink. “No … no, there’s definitely something not right, I can sense it.” She began to shake slightly.
“Well there’s no point getting all worked up about it.” Alison took hold of her friend’s hands in hers. “I’m sure everything’s fine.” It was no good, despite holding her gaze, she could see Gillian wasn’t persuaded. “I’m talking cods aren’t I?” she sighed.
Gillian’s expression said it all, a slight laugh and then her eyes moistened.
“OK,” Alison said, “This is what we’ll do …”
5
Souter was intrigued. The call from Alison that afternoon only requested the pleasure of his company at an unfamiliar address just off Flanshaw Lane. There was no explanation as to why she needed him but, no doubt, she had good reason. He’d met Alison Hewitt earlier in the year whilst writing a major story. Despite the circumstances surrounding their first meeting, his relationship with Alison had blossomed.
He was sitting in his car, parked on the fringes of the sprawling council estate, listening to the travel reports, when Alison pulled up in her Saxo behind him. Glad he wasn’t on the M1 or M25, he switched the radio off and got out to greet her.
“So what’s the big mystery?” he asked, following Alison down the scruffy path to a door on the side of what appeared to be a large semi-detached property.
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” She gave the doorbell two sharp pushes.
Almost immediately, he could hear footsteps descending a staircase on the other side and realised the door would lead to a first floor flat, the building split into four units, two on the ground floor and two on the first.
A woman in her mid-thirties, with blonde hair cut short in a bob and wearing a black mid-length coat, opened the door. She appeared agitated, anxious.
“She’s still not here,” she blurted out.
“Gillian, this is Bob,” Alison said.
Gillian gave him a quick glance before turning her attention back to her friend. “But this is six days now.” She seemed close to tears.
Alison took hold of Gillian’s hands and guided her inside. “Why don’t we go upstairs and talk about this calmly?” She motioned for Souter to follow and close the door behind them.
The top of the stairs opened to a hallway with five doors leading off. Ahead, lay the sitting room, where Alison led Gillian.
The early evening sun was streaming in through the double window. It should have given a bright, cheerful atmosphere but the effect was diminished by the faded and dated wallpaper and the unfashionable furniture that filled the room. Although in good condition, it just seemed to have been lost in some sort of time warp for
the past thirty years or so.
“Come and sit down.” Alison gently eased her friend onto the green velour settee. “Now, I’d like you to tell Bob here everything you told me earlier while I make us all a drink.” Alison then addressed Souter, “Gillian’s younger sister, Susan, seems to have gone missing and she’s very worried. I thought you might come up with some ideas to help.” With that, she disappeared into the kitchen.
A feeling of alarm hit Souter at the news of another missing woman but he hoped his expression didn’t show. He made his way slowly round the room, catching himself in the dark-framed mirror above the fireplace. He casually observed the collections of pottery and crystal in the cabinet against the wall behind the settee and scanned the titles on the bookshelves next to it, before settling into an armchair in front of the window. He looked across at Gillian, who was wiping her eyes with a tissue. “From what you said just now, Susan was last seen six days ago, is that right?”
“Well,” Gillian said, “it was last Wednesday when we spoke on the phone. I haven’t actually seen her since the Sunday before that.”
“And when you spoke, everything seemed normal?”
“Yes. She was going into Leeds to have a look round the University Library. She’s starting a degree course in September; Broadcast Journalism. She’s really looking forward to it. She’s done really well when you consider what she’s had to cope with, poor kid.”
“So how was she getting there? Bus, train or what?”
“She’s got herself a little car, a Nissan Micra. She’d probably go in that, I mean, it’s not outside.” Gillian looked scared. “Oh, God! Supposing something’s happened with the car, she’s had an accident or something.”
“Let’s not get carried away, here,” Souter said calmly, “I think you’d have heard about anything like that already. We’ll take this one step at a time.”
He got to his feet. A photograph in a plain frame on the sideboard opposite had caught his attention. He picked it up. Two people were laughing at the camera. A woman with dark hair and sunglasses had her arm around a plain-looking, fair-haired teenage girl.
“Is this Susan?”
“And Mum, yes. That was taken in Scarborough ten years ago on the last holiday they had together before …” Gillian became tearful again then quickly regained her composure. “Sorry, it’s just … that was just before Mum was diagnosed with cancer. She died three months after that trip. She was only forty-seven. Susan was fourteen.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”
She nodded. “I tried to help out where I could. I’d been married for two years by then. We were living in Dewsbury and I was expecting our Robbie just after. Mum never got to see her grandson.”
Souter remained standing, leaning against the wall. “So, just Susan and her dad live here now or …”
“Just Susan. Dad began to show signs of Alzheimer’s within a few months of Mum’s passing. He’s a bit older than Mum. At first, we just thought it was the strain but … things didn’t improve. I’d begun to notice he’d repeat himself, asking the same questions, that sort of thing. He’d forget things more and more. I know we’re all forgetful as we get older but this was getting serious. Susan would tell me about coming home and finding the front door open; taps left turned on full pelt; saucepans burned dry. She’d sometimes have to search for him; he’d be out and forgotten where he was going.
“With all the strain, Susan’s schoolwork suffered and she eventually left at sixteen with a few mediocre GCSE’s. She went through a succession of brain-numbing jobs just so she could be around to look after him. I couldn’t spend any more time with him than I already did. I mean looking after Robbie was a full-time job.”
“I’m not here to make any judgements, Gillian, I’m just trying to build up a picture of Susan’s life.”
“I know, it’s just … it was me who was reluctant to move Dad into a home. Every time I go over those events, I can hear people criticising – you could have done more; fancy leaving a sixteen year old girl to cope with that. Not that they were saying those things, it’s just … I suppose the hard fact is I feel guilty for not having listened to Susan with all that was going on and spending more time helping her with Dad.”
Alison came into the room with a tray of tea and picked up on Gillian’s comments. “Come on, now,” she said, placing the tray on the coffee table and sitting down next to her friend, “you couldn’t have done more. No one has ever said anything remotely like that about you. You had Robbie and your Phil to look after. They were your priority. And anyway, you sorted out the home place for your dad.” She handed out a mug to Gillian and one to Souter. “And look how Susan’s turned out. She knuckled down, went back to college and got her A levels and she’s off to university soon.”
“But we don’t know where she is,” Gillian said, exhaustion evident in her voice.
Alison cast a worried glance to Souter.
“Look,” he said, “I think it’s time we call this in. From what you tell me, she’s a sensible girl, you’ve not heard from her for nearly a week, no-one has seen her and her car’s missing. Now I’ve got a very good friend in CID. I’ll give him a call and see if he can help us.” Souter began to dig out his mobile phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, then paused. “Has anyone checked the phone?”
“She’s not answering. It’s switched off,” Gillian replied.
“Not her mobile, the house phone.”
The women looked puzzled as Souter scanned the room before spotting the telephone on a small table by the side of the television. He got up and lifted the receiver. As he suspected, the tone indicated messages.
“Has anyone made any calls from here in the past few days?” he asked.
“I rang Phil when I got here this afternoon,” Gillian answered.
Souter was disappointed. Now he had no easy way of checking the last call that Susan had made. He dialled 1571 anyway and listened to the three new messages that Gillian had left over the past few days then heard the one Susan had saved prior to setting off on her ill-fated journey. He listened, twice, then saved it again before making the call to his life-long friend, Colin Strong.
6
Susan gradually became aware of blackness. Not the big darkness of unconsciousness but blackness due to a lack of light. She’d opened her eyes, she was sure of that, despite the fuzziness. The pain in her head shot through the rest of her system as she moved slightly. That competed directly with the searing pain from her left leg.
Over to her right, she thought she detected something. A movement; a shape, she couldn’t be sure. “He… hello?” she hesitated. “Is there anyone there?” She winced as she tried to move. “Please, help me. Please,” she said before the big darkness came again. In that big darkness, she was sure she could hear voices. Quite, soft, young.
“Do you think she’s okay,” said one.
“I don’t know,” came the other. “She looks in a bad way.”
Then shuffling, like bare feet on bare earth.
“She’s bleeding from her head,” the first voice said, closer now.
“And her leg looks nasty too.”
Susan was in a daze. A conversation was playing out around her and she couldn’t join in. But was it around her, or was it only in her head?
“Do you think she’s come to take us home?” the first voice said. “It’s been ages since anyone came here.”
“Not since that … that man.”
“I don’t want to talk about him!”
“I’m sorry, Mary, I didn’t mean to upset you. But he hurt me too.”
Mary? Who’s Mary? Susan thought.
“Do you think anyone will still be looking for us, Jennifer?” Mary asked. “It’s been a long time.”
Jennifer? What’s going on? She was confused. If only she could talk to them.
“Someone will come. Someone will find us,” the other girl replied, without any real conviction.
“Perhaps that la
dy was looking for us before she fell.”
“I don’t know.” Susan thought Jennifer was attempting to keep the desperation from her voice.
“Perhaps someone will come looking for her and find us,” Mary said, brightly.
“Let’s hope so.”
There was silence for a while before soft sobbing noises began. Louder, they grew into a loud wail.
“Look, don’t cry, Mary,” she heard Jennifer say. “It’ll be all right, I promise.”
Through sobs Mary struggled to speak. “But you’ve been saying that for ages. I want to go home.”
“I want to go home too.” Jennifer said.
Susan was terrified but she made a huge effort to open her eyes once more. “So do I,” she said.
She heard gasps.
“Please, so do I,” she repeated.
Susan blinked and moved her left hand to her face. More pain from her right elbow stopped her using both. She rubbed her eyes; they felt gritty. After a few seconds, she thought she could make out shapes from the direction of the voices. Definitely two forms, one taller than the other but still indistinct. One came closer.
“Have you come to take us home?” the voice she recognised as Mary asked.
Susan was puzzled. The images were speaking to her. “I … I didn’t know you were here,” she replied.
The taller shape moved forward to join the other. “So why did you come?”
“Well … I … I can’t really remember,” Susan managed to say. The shapes began to take form and she could distinguish two young girls. The taller, the one she took to be Jennifer, had long blonde hair falling down in ringlets over her white smock dress. She was bare footed. The other, Mary, was some six inches shorter with dark hair cut close to her head giving her face a boyish appearance. She was wearing school uniform, a white blouse under a grey pinafore dress. She also had nothing on her feet.
