Missing Persons (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 5)

by Sean Campbell

Faye chewed her lip and then said, ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘And where did you see him last?’

  ‘At home,’ Faye said.

  ‘Where is home for you?’

  ‘We live on a narrowboat. The Guilty Pleasure. We’re moored up a little east of here on the Islington Canal Basin.’

  Macklemore rested his pencil behind his ear. ‘I know it well. When was it you last saw him?’

  ‘Sunday night. I went to bed first, and he wasn’t there the next morning when I woke up.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘I thought he had gone to work. I slept in late, you see.’

  Macklemore popped the pencil from behind his ear and wrote that down. ‘How late did you sleep in?’

  ‘Til midday.’

  ‘Don’t you have a job to go to?’ Macklemore looked at her disapprovingly.

  Faye cast her gaze downwards and said through gritted teeth, ‘I’m between jobs.’

  She watched as he scribbled “Unemployed” next to her name. ‘Right. Where does Mark work?’

  ‘Berryman Financial Services. He sells IT services to other companies. But he never made it to work yesterday. I checked.’

  ‘How does he get to work? Does the boat always stay in the Islington Canal Basin?’

  ‘We move all the time–’

  ‘You’re continuous cruisers, then? We see a lot of them around here. Does Mark take the tube in to Bank?’

  Faye thought for a moment. ‘Tube. Bus. Boris Bikes. Whatever.’

  Macklemore stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Does he work in the same office all the time?’

  ‘What do you mean? They’ve only got one office.’

  ‘I mean, does Mark go out on sales calls? Could he have gone to visit a client?’ Macklemore asked.

  ‘They noticed he hadn’t turned up. He was supposed to be pitching a new client, and he didn’t show up,’ Faye said. ‘One of the other project managers got his commission.’

  ‘So, it’s not like him to miss being in the office? Has his routine always been the same?’

  ‘I...’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I don’t know. We only moved in together a week ago.’

  Macklemore arched his eyebrow in disbelief. ‘A week ago? Hmm... Based on what you’ve told me, Mark is what we call low-risk. He’s an adult, and we don’t have any evidence of anything untoward. I’ll take his mobile phone number and a recent photograph, and we’ll get him on the system.’

  ‘I don’t have a photo. Is that really all you’re going to do?’

  ‘For now. Have you called ‘round local hospitals? Beyond that, tell his family and friends, keep an eye out for him, and look after your boat.’

  ‘And our cat.’

  ‘Exactly. Here’s my card. Call me if anything changes.’

  An hour later, Faye was at home, turning over Macklemore’s card, when a thought struck her. Whatever had happened to that nice lady from Sapphire Unit who had once given her a very similar-looking card?

  Chapter 6: Home Sweet Home

  Tuesday 14th June, 19:30

  The flat was tastefully decorated, but so minimalist that it looked barely lived in, as if the owner worked long hours and barely had time to crash before going straight back to work. Ashley Rafferty had been fortunate in her timing. She’d bought the flat just before the students and the hipsters began to take over the Elephant. It had once been a family home, which was then subdivided into two apartments. It was in the heritage zone, a stone’s throw from the Imperial War Museum, and still had the original single-pane windows.

  Rafferty shivered as she hung her coat on the hook just inside the door, kicked the thermostat up to twenty, and pressed the big button on her landline phone.

  ‘You have one new message. BEEP.’

  Rafferty sighed, kicked off her sensible work flats, and hit play on her answerphone as she made a beeline for the kitchen. After the day she’d had in court, she needed a large glass of Malbec.

  ‘Miss Rafferty? It’s Faye Atkins. You gave me this number a long time ago and told me that if I ever needed someone, it would be okay to call you. Can you call me back on this number, please?’

  Rafferty played the message again, jotted down the number from caller ID, and then wrote down the name Faye Atkins. Faye Atkins – where did she know that name from?

  She paced up and down for a moment, desperate to recall where she had heard the name before. It was no use. She plonked down on her sofa, took a glug from her wine glass, and rubbed at her temples.

  Atkins. Atkins. The surname rang a bell.

  The image of a flat in Ilford flashed before her eyes. A woman with a black eye, an abusive thug with a history of being in and out of prison, and a girl of no more than fifteen cowering in the back room with panda eyes. That Faye. The same Faye who had called her once before when she got into trouble, the young girl who had gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd. If Faye had been born anywhere but the Pembarton Estate in Ilford, she might have stood a chance.

  Rafferty picked up the phone, carefully dialled the number, and waited. It was answered almost immediately.

  ‘Faye Atkins? This is Ashley Rafferty. I’m returning your call.’

  The voice that answered was high-pitched, girlish, and hesitant. ‘Miss Rafferty? I’m sorry to bother you. I didn’t know who else to call. I’ve got nobody.’

  And over the next fifteen minutes, Faye relayed the story of Mark’s disappearance.

  ‘I’ve called everyone I know, but nobody has seen him!’

  ‘Keep calling the police station. They will be looking for him, I promise,’ Rafferty said, though she didn’t quite believe it herself. A grown man who disappeared for a day or two would never warrant a search party through central London.

  ‘But I’ve tried that. Can’t you help me? Please?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Chapter 7: Anything but Paperwork

  Wednesday 15th June, 09:45

  Rafferty made it to work late that morning. The memory of that little girl had weighed heavily on her conscience, and sleep had not come easily. It wasn’t any of her business, except for an off-hand promise she’d made several years earlier.

  She found the boss in his office. Morton had obviously been there a while. There was a copy of the day’s The Impartial newspaper discarded in his wastepaper bin, and a long-cold coffee sitting on his desk.

  ‘Morning,’ he said without looking up. ‘How’d it go in court yesterday?’

  ‘Dreadful.’

  ‘At least it’s over. Not that today’s paperwork is going to be any more fun.’

  ‘Damn! I’d forgotten about that.’

  Morton looked up. He knew that was a lie. Rafferty never forgot the paperwork. He surveyed her carefully. ‘Something tells me you think you’ve got something better to be doing.’

  ‘It’s this girl. I knew her from way back when–’

  ‘When you were in Sapphire,’ Morton finished for her. Rafferty had spent years working sexual abuse cases before becoming a parole officer and then finally being poached for Morton’s Murder Investigation Team. ‘One of the victims you dealt with?’

  Rafferty nodded. ‘We could never prove it. Her old man was a right piece of work, but we never nailed him for it. He went down for dealing, and then so did she.’

  Morton took a sip of his cold coffee and pulled a face. ‘Yuck. I’m not hearing a case, here. What’s she got to do with us?’

  ‘She got out of Holloway a week ago. Two days ago, her boyfriend of several years went missing. She needs help. The locals aren’t giving it much cop. He’s a grown man who’s barely been gone for two days.’

  ‘Sounds about normal,’ Morton said. ‘Any sign he’s in danger?’

  ‘No, but–’

  ‘Then you know we can’t deal with it. We’re not Missing Persons. We’ve got no jurisdiction until such time as–’

  This time it was Rafferty’s turn to interrupt Morton.
‘As there is substantive reason to suspect life has been taken or is under threat. Don’t quote me the rulebook. I know the rules.’

  Morton folded his arms. ‘My hands are tied. If you want to spend time chasing down a missing boyfriend, you’ll have to do it on your own time. You’ve got accrued leave. Use some of it.’

  Rafferty brightened. ‘Really? But what about my mountain of paperwork?’

  Morton sighed. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Chapter 8: Moving On

  Wednesday 15th June, 11:00

  Faye’s stomach rumbled. With Mark gone, her prison release money wouldn’t last more than a few days. She nibbled at an apple, desperate to make it last. She was standing out on the deck, leaning against the boat. It was a beautiful day, and the canal was crowded.

  Another narrowboat owner waved at her as he approached. ‘Oi! Did you hear anything last night?’

  ‘N-no.’

  ‘Bloody thieving bastards. Some git done in my window and made off with my laptop last night. You’re lucky you ain’t been done, nice boat like this and all. You’d best be moving on if you’ve got any sense about you. It’s safer down Maida Vale way.’

  ‘Thanks. I guess you’re right.’

  Faye headed inside to check the canal route Mark had planned out. It was all there on the table: a map, timings, bridge numbers, and his favourite spots to moor up circled in pen. He’d listed a few options to head towards next: Camden, Maida Vale, and Alperton. The latter had been circled in bold, as if it were somehow important to him.

  Maybe it was time to move on. The thought of steering The Guilty Pleasure without Mark scared her. Up ahead was the Islington Tunnel, almost a thousand yards of pitch black darkness. Mark had only let her have the briefest of tries behind the tiller. She recalled his instructions.

  ‘It’s not like a car, babe. You move the tiller, the stern swings out. Keep her in the middle of the canal unless you need to pass another boat, and use the engine in reverse if you need to slow down. Keep her going very slowly when you’re turning, because she moves from the middle, not the ends. Three miles an hour is more than enough.’

  It couldn’t be that hard, could it?

  ***

  Faye finally psyched herself up enough to do it.

  With surprisingly little ceremony, she unhitched the boat from the shore, brought aboard the mooring pins and rope, and kicked off from the towpath with one big push.

  The boat began to arc away from the bank where she’d pushed, and Faye fired up the engine much too quickly. She felt the boat swinging behind her as the front and back, a whopping seventy feet apart, swung as if there were an invisible pivot located dead in the middle of the narrowboat. It was something like driving a really a big car in icy conditions without snow tyres.

  She hit the reverse and dragged the boat towards the centre of the canal. So far, so good.

  A horn rang out as another boat approached. Faye pulled left, trying to allow the other boat to pass. It seemed to be coming towards her in slow motion. In her mind, it was inevitable that they would crash into each other. And then the other boat passed on by, mere feet from the starboard side of The Guilty Pleasure. Faye breathed a sigh of relief.

  The tunnel was upon her in no time. She glanced down it, checking, as Mark had told her to, for a light that would mean someone was coming the other way. When none could be seen, she lit up her own light and eased towards the tunnel.

  The mouth of the tunnel soon approached, and the towpath ended. The darkness folded in around the boat. The farther in she got, the more distant the lights at either end of the tunnel seemed to be. What little light her own lamp offered was scant comfort. The walls began to close in. Faye’s breathing became rapid, shallow. Her eyes slowly lost focus.

  And then, before she knew it, it was all over. The boat was suddenly through the tunnel and farther along the canal than she had thought possible.

  The next challenge was on her almost immediately. St Pancras Lock was one of the busiest in central London, with boats going up and down the Regent’s Canal constantly. It should have been easy. It wasn’t Faye’s first, after all. But the first one had been quiet, and there hadn’t been slack-jawed tourists staring at her.

  The lock cottage, itself a tourist attraction, loomed large as The Guilty Pleasure drew closer to the lock. Faye slowed down. There was a queue ahead of her. She felt her heart pulse as she drew closer to the lock.

  There were two gates: one going from high water to low water, and another going from the low water to the high water. The mechanics were simple, even if they looked intimidating. Faye had to drive The Guilty Pleasure into the lock, shut the gate behind her, fill up the lock with water, and wait.

  The first problem was the lock gate itself. Faye moored up just in front of the gate and jumped off to check that the top paddles were shut. Once she had done that, she proceeded to hand crank by the bottom paddles. The handles would open the bottom panel of the gate and let out all the extra water that the previous narrowboater had used to climb to the higher water.

  Faye strained against the handles. They were stiff by design to stop the gate accidently opening, and Faye felt her hands begin to sweat. She lost purchase on the handles and practically tripped over her own feet as she struggled.

  ‘Want a hand there, missy?’ a gravelly voice said from behind her. Faye turned to see an elderly gent standing on the towpath. ‘Only you’re holding us up a bit.’

  Faye glanced back to the east. The queue behind The Guilty Pleasure had begun to grow.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Okay. You go get on your boat, and I’ll handle the gates for you. How’s that sound?’ He gave her a gap-toothed grin.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Faye quickly boarded The Guilty Pleasure. The gate opened quickly under the strength of the old hand, and Faye began to slowly guide the boat forward. It was a small space to slide such a large boat into. The stern swayed behind her as Faye fought to keep her straight. More than once, she clunked against the sides of the lock before finally coming to a stop inside the lower half of the lock.

  She saw the old man arch an amused eyebrow at her mishandling of the boat. He waved her off as she turned to shut the lower gate. ‘I’ve got it! Make sure you stay clear of the front lock gate, miss. You don’t want to get snagged and sink that beauty, so back up a smidge.’

  No sooner had Faye reversed a few feet than the lock gate closed behind her, and the old man turned on the taps to let the water in. It dribbled in slowly, and The Guilty Pleasure began to rise with Faye still standing at the helm. She kept a hand on the tiller to ensure she didn’t slip forward, her confidence growing with every passing moment that she hadn’t crashed.

  The higher part of the canal to the west came into view. The water here was thick with a covering of algae, and green shrubbery grew along the banks. The frame of a Victorian water tower rose fifty feet in the air to the right. A handful of narrowboats were moored up to the left.

  ‘Right, you’re set, miss. I’ll open the front gate for you, and then we can all be on our way.’ He gave a small nod to the queue behind them, which was now several narrowboats long.

  Faye made her way out of the lock, delighted to have made it through without incident. She set off at a heady clip, throttling up to three miles an hour. When she arrived in Alperton, she found a secluded spot to moor up and sighed in relief. Moving the boat was stressful. Mark had been right not to let loose too early. She hammered the mooring pins into the firm ground beside the canal, tied off the ropes, and headed inside to check her phone.

  She had a dozen missed calls.

  Chapter 9: Long Time, No See

  Friday 17th June, 10:00

  Faye finally returned Rafferty’s phone calls on Friday morning. Rafferty had veered between worrying that something had happened to Faye and wondering if Faye was wasting her time. Two days of searching for Mark had yielded nothing. Without access to police resources, Rafferty was reduced to merely retraci
ng Faye’s footsteps to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. She knew the brother was moored up in Maida Vale. She found the offices of Berryman Financial Services and confirmed Faye’s information. She even called around the hospitals with his name and description.

  They arranged to meet up at the boat, which Faye had moved since her original phone call. Faye told her to head to Alperton Underground Station and look for her between bridges sixteen and seventeen, just to the east of the tube.

  She was easy enough to find. The Guilty Pleasure was larger than most of the narrowboats on the canal, and newer too. Her glossy olive-green hull and walnut colouring stood out amongst the boats moored up on the Paddington arm of the Grand Union.

  Faye was waiting in a deck chair laid out on the bank. She had an old novel in her hands and looked as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  ‘Faye?’ The young woman seemed not to hear her. ‘Faye? It’s Detective Inspector Ashley Rafferty.’

  Then, as if struck by a manic energy, Faye leapt up. ‘Miss Rafferty!’

  It was the same Faye that Rafferty remembered. Her deep blue eyes were unmistakeable.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Miss Rafferty.’

  Rafferty smiled. ‘That’s okay. Permission to come aboard?’

  ‘Please.’ Faye folded up her chair, placed it askew on the roof of the boat between two potted plants, and led Rafferty inside.

  It was Rafferty’s first time on a narrowboat. She ducked her head as she was led down the steps into the main cabin. She had expected it to be cramped, but she had not expected how much stuff had been crammed into every nook and cranny. The interior walls had been painted white, making the small space feel much roomier than it should, and long windows that had been covered by blinds were spaced along the length of the boat. A tiny sofa was in the first compartment. No cushions, Rafferty noted. It was quite obviously a man’s space.

  ‘Have you been here long?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘In Alperton? Or on the boat?’

  ‘Either. Both.’

  ‘I had to move the boat because of break-ins up on the Islington Basin. This was the next stop on Mark’s plan. I thought he’d come find me here.’