On the morning of the fourth day, I was awakened by my mother’s wails. I was on my feet and downstairs before I’d even properly realised what I was doing, so scared was I that Morgan had returned. But Mam was in the inn, sitting at a table with the parish constable, Mr Trewin. His three-cornered hat was on the table, making me shudder as I remembered Morgan wearing a similar one. I flew to my mother’s side and she gathered me into her arms – an unfamiliar state of affairs as usually I shunned physical contact. Her face was blotchy with tears. Had they found Da? I wondered. Was this it?
‘Emily,’ Mam said softly. ‘Your father is gone.’
Mr Trewin nodded. ‘Your mother is afraid he has fallen from the cliff.’
I shook my head. That wasn’t what had happened. Again, I opened my mouth to speak, to tell them about the man with the white streak in his hair, and the blood on the cobbles, but again I couldn’t make a sound.
‘Emily,’ Mr Trewin said. He was using the tone people often used when they spoke to me. Many of the people from Kirrinporth believed me to be simple because I didn’t talk much and because I was much happier observing from the edge of life than being in it. ‘Emily,’ he said again. ‘Your mother says your father has been gone these last three nights. But the tide has turned so if he had fallen he would have washed up at Barnmouth.’
Desperately, Mam reached across the table and clutched the front of Mr Trewin’s coat.
‘We argued,’ she said. ‘We argued and he went off in anger. He wasn’t thinking straight. He could have fallen.’
Mr Trewin gave a small shake of his head. ‘But there is no sign of him,’ he said. ‘And if you argued, then perhaps he has just gone for some peace.’
Mam pulled Mr Trewin closer to her. He pulled back but her grip was strong. ‘You want to speak to Cal Morgan,’ she hissed. I stiffened at the mention of the name. ‘Because it was him we argued about.’
Mr Trewin stood up, forcing Mam to release his coat. ‘I’d be very careful what you say, Janey Moon,’ he said. ‘Spreading rumours like that.’
I stood in between Mam and Mr Trewin, looking at the man and trying my hardest to speak. But the only sound that came from my treacherous mouth was a kind of desperate croak.
Mr Trewin looked at me in sympathy. ‘Your da is alive,’ he said, speaking slowly and carefully as though it was my ears that didn’t work, not my mouth. ‘He has gone off somewhere.’ He gave my mother a sideways glance. ‘With another woman, no doubt. Who doesn’t argue.’
My mother began to wail again and Mr Trewin patted her kindly on the hand. ‘Janey, we men are simple folk,’ he said. ‘We are often not worthy of the love our women give us. Your Amos has let everyone down.’
There was a scratching at the inn door and with a disgusted glance at Mr Trewin, I went to let Tully in. He bounded inside, his claws clattering on the stone floor, and nosed his way around the inn.
‘He’s looking for Amos,’ my mother said, watching him through swollen eyes. ‘Amos would never have left without Tully.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mr Trewin, picking up his hat and putting it on his head. ‘But it seems he has.’
As though he’d understood every word, Tully sat back on his haunches, lifted his head up and howled mournfully. My mother followed, her sobs echoing round the empty inn. I tugged desperately at Mr Trewin’s sleeve, trying to get him to wait so I could get the pictures I’d drawn and perhaps make him understand what had happened. But he picked my fingers off one by one, as though I was dirty, and then brushed some invisible muck from his coat where I’d been clutching him.
‘I have to go,’ he said in that tone again. ‘Good day.’
Chapter 2
Phoebe
London, February 2019
I yawned and stretched at my desk, glad to be clocking off and not working the night shift. Saturdays were always challenging and I was pleased I wasn’t back in the police station until Monday morning now.
‘I’m heading off,’ I said to no one in particular, just as my colleague and friend Stacey – DC Maxwell – who sat next to me in the CID office, put the phone down and made a face.
‘Do you have to go now?’
‘What have you got?’
‘Missing teenage girl. Probably nothing, but uniform are all tied up with that brawl after the football.’
‘Where?’
‘Hanson Grove.’
I pulled my coat from the rack and put it on. ‘I’ll go on my way home,’ I said. ‘Who called it in?’
‘Her mum. But according to PC Malone, she sounded a bit funny.’
‘Funny how?’
Stacey shrugged and I groaned. ‘Give me all the details, and I’ll check it out.’
‘Will you be all right on your own?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
As I walked to my car, I read the paperwork Stacey had given me. The missing girl was called Ciara James, and she was sixteen years old. I frowned. She’d probably just gone off with her boyfriend somewhere. This was a job for the neighbourhood PCSO, not CID. Still, it was on my way and it would only take five minutes.
My car was iced up when I got to it. I had no scraper, obviously, so I had to improvise with my Tesco Clubcard and when I finally got inside, I had to peel off my wet gloves, and use them to demist the windscreen so all in all it took me ages to get to Ciara James’s house. It was gone 10 p.m. when I finally pulled up outside. There was a light on in the front room, though, so I knocked on the door.
A man looked out of the window, frowning. He was wearing a thick jumper and he had reading glasses on his nose.
‘Mr James?’ I said through the glass, showing him my warrant card. ‘DS Bellingham.’
He looked worried as he dropped the curtain and a few seconds later, the front door opened.
‘Is everything okay?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’
That was strange. ‘We had a call from your wife? She said your daughter Ciara is missing.’
A shadow crossed his face, but then his expression changed to look more confused than annoyed. ‘Ciara’s not missing,’ he said.
‘Where is she?’
‘Cinema, I believe.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Her friend’s dad is dropping her home. I don’t like her getting the bus this late. I worry about her being out on her own. There are some dodgy people around. I’d have picked her up myself but I don’t like staying up late on Saturday because I have to be at church early in the morning.’
‘But your wife said …’
‘She gets muddled,’ he said quietly. ‘She takes pills to help her sleep and sometimes they make her misunderstand things.’
I looked at him. He seemed totally genuine. And yet, there was something niggling at me. ‘Have you seen Ciara this evening yourself?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. I’ve been at my choir practice.’
‘At church? Which one?’
‘St John’s.’
I nodded. ‘And your wife was here?’
‘I assume so. When I got home she was in bed. Perhaps she took a pill and couldn’t remember where Ciara had gone.’
‘Can I speak to her?’
He made a face. ‘If she’s taken a sleeping tablet, I won’t be able to wake her.’
‘Could you try?’ I smiled at him. ‘I really should speak to her, or my boss will give me grief.’
I was still standing on the doorstep, and the evening was bitterly cold. I didn’t wait to be asked, but just stepped inside. He looked like he was going to say something and then changed his mind.
‘Wait here.’
I had a good nose round the hall while I waited. It was very ordinary. Dull, in fact. Neat and tidy. Ciara’s school photo on the wall, showing her to be a pretty but unremarkable teenager. Boots stacked neatly in a rack and three coats hanging from pegs. Three coats. I frowned.
‘Does Ciara have another coat,’ I asked as Mr James came downstairs again.
‘Pardon?’
‘Does Ciara have another
coat?’ I gestured to the coat rail. ‘I presume that’s hers? But it’s very cold outside.’
He screwed his nose up. ‘No idea, sorry. I don’t pay much attention to what she wears.’
‘Right. Is your wife awake?’
A nose upstairs made me look up. A middle-aged woman was coming downstairs, wearing pyjamas and looking pale and sleepy.
‘So sorry to disturb you, Mrs James,’ I said. ‘We had a call that Ciara was missing.’
She rubbed her eyes like a toddler. ‘Ciara is at the cinema.’
‘That’s right,’ her husband said. He looked at me and I saw a flash of something in his eyes – triumph? ‘You get back to bed.’
Obediently, Mrs James turned and went back upstairs before I could stop her.
‘Terribly sorry to waste your time,’ Mr James said with a smile. ‘I trust my wife isn’t in trouble.’
‘Not at all.’
We stood in the hall for a second. I looked at him and he looked back at me. All my instincts were telling me that something was off, but I had nothing. I wished Stacey had come with me. Another pair of eyes on this outwardly normal family would be useful.
‘If Ciara doesn’t come home, please call the station,’ I said.
‘Of course, thank you so much, Constable.’
I forced myself to smile instead of correcting him about my rank. ‘Call us if you need to,’ I said again, more sternly this time.
My car was already icing up again, so I blasted the heater and drove a little way down the road, before I parked up and called the station.
As I waited for someone to answer, I thought about calling uniform out. Being a bit forceful with Mr James. Pressing him. Checking Ciara did come home later. But then I shook my head.
‘Have a word with yourself, Phoebe,’ I said out loud. He was a boring bloke wearing slippers and corduroy trousers, who went to bed early on a Saturday night so he wasn’t tired at church. Uniform would probably laugh at me if I asked them to come round.
And so when my call was answered, I asked to speak to Stacey. ‘She’s not missing,’ I said when she answered. ‘She’s at the cinema.’
‘Okaaaay.’
‘The mum got confused, apparently.’
‘Fine,’ Stacey said. ‘Good.’
‘Can you flag the name?’ I asked. ‘And ring me if anything else comes in.’
‘I thought she was at the cinema.’
‘Just in case.’
‘All right,’ said Stacey amiably. ‘See you Monday.’
It was Monday morning when I got the call to say that Ciara James was gone. I felt my stomach plummet into my shoes, leaving me with a sick feeling that stayed with me for days and days as we searched fruitlessly for the missing teenager.
‘There’s definitely nothing on the parents?’ my boss, DI Blair, said on the Friday evening, fixing me with his steely glare across the room.
I shook my head. ‘I’ve been over it and over it,’ I said. ‘They’re just … normal.’
I twisted my hair into a ponytail in my hand and pulled it over my shoulder, the way I always did when I was thinking. ‘But it was all just misunderstandings. The mother – Molly – she can’t even remember phoning us last weekend. She’s in a state. Blaming herself. And the father – Steve – he’s the same. They were up early for church and it wasn’t until the evening that they realised Ciara was gone.’
DI Blair nodded.
‘I should have searched her bedroom,’ I said. ‘I should have pushed the mother more.’
‘You had no cause to search the house, and the mother sounds like she didn’t know whether she was coming or going,’ DI Blair pointed out.
I said nothing. I knew he was right, but I felt completely awful.
‘Do you think it’s the parents?’ DI Blair asked, looking at me intently. ‘What’s your instinct telling you?’
I shifted in my chair, feeling uncomfortable under his glare.
‘I just don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘My heart said they were to blame, but my head says no. They’re so …’
‘So?’
‘Nice.’
He sighed. ‘You know as well as I do that bad things happen in nice families, too.’
I bit my lip. He was right. Of course he was.
‘We should speak to them again,’ I said, firmly.
‘Sure?’
I shrugged. I really was at a loss. I’d spoken to everyone in Ciara’s life. She was a happy sixteen-year-old girl growing up in the suburbs of south London. Her teachers had no concerns. Her parents were normal. Her friends were sweet. There was nothing suspicious about the family whatsoever. Her mother didn’t sleep well but apart from that she was ordinary and her father – well, stepfather actually though he’d brought her up since she’d been tiny – was an all-round nice chap. But her parents being to blame was the only thing that made sense. Wasn’t it? I had no idea any more.
‘Focus,’ DI Blair said. ‘And let me know when you’re ready to decide on a next step. I might even come with you.’
He marched off towards his office and I sighed. He’d never been this bolshie or unpleasant to work with before, but I understood the strain he was under. Ciara’s picture had been on the front of every newspaper today. She smiled out at me on every news website, her drab school uniform unable to dull her youthful prettiness.
The rest of the team were looking at me, waiting for a decision, so I forced myself to focus.
‘Right,’ I said to two uniformed PCs who were helping with the door-to-door inquiries. ‘Benny and Joe, can you go through the information from the neighbours and friends?’ They nodded and I turned to another colleague. ‘Stacey, you double-check the reports from her school, and I’ll reread the parents’ statements. We must be missing something.’
There was a bustle of activity. Stacey – DC Maxwell – squeezed my arm as she walked past me to her desk, letting me know she had my back. I gave her a grateful smile. Eventually everyone settled down and silence fell as we all read through every bit of information we had about the girl’s disappearance.
Ciara’s mother, Molly, was a nursery school teacher, and the stepdad, Steve, had his own business doing accounts. He rented a desk in an office near the station and everyone there said he was always pleasant. As I already knew, they were both fairly religious – regular churchgoers. Upright. Moral, even. Steve, I’d heard, had turned down the contract to do the accounts for a local betting shop because he didn’t approve of gambling. Molly was sweet-natured and kind. No criminal records. Not so much as a speeding ticket. Nothing.
Ciara had been messaging a boy online – someone from a nearby school – and we’d originally thought she might have gone to meet him. But he’d been playing football the evening she disappeared, and he admitted – slightly sheepishly – that he’d never met her.
I put aside the statements from Ciara’s parents. This was getting me nowhere.
‘Phoebe, I spoke to the dad’s mates at his golf club,’ Benny said, appearing at the side of my desk. ‘I just uploaded the statements.’
‘Anything worthwhile?’
He shrugged. ‘Just what a nice bloke he is.’
‘I’ll have a look,’ I said half-heartedly.
I scanned the statements. This was so hard. There was just nothing to go on at all. Gut instinct went a long way in police investigations, even though lots of my fellow officers would deny it and claim it was all legwork and asking the right questions. But just now, my gut instinct was switched right off. I had unfounded doubts about the dad and that was it. All I could see was that Ciara was a nice, normal sixteen-year-old. In fact, I thought, she was even nicer than her parents made her sound – but that wasn’t unusual. I had friends who claimed their babies were absolute nightmares while smothering them with kisses. Maybe parents of teens did the same?
I sighed, looking at the statement from Steve’s friend. ‘Steve’s one of the nicest blokes I know,’ he’d said. ‘We all thought he was really good t
o take on Ciara as his own.’ Yawn. I rested my head on my hand, and scrolled on. ‘Considering,’ the friend had added. I sat up straighter. ‘Considering,’ I murmured to myself. What did that mean?
I pulled my phone to me and dialled the number on the bottom of the statement. The friend answered straightaway.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ I said. ‘This is DS Bellingham from Lewisham police station. I just wanted to double-check something in your statement.’
‘Right,’ the man said, sounding nervous.
‘When you said Steve was good to take Ciara on as his own child, considering … What did you mean? Considering what?’
The man laughed. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘You probably know more than me. But she sounds like a right handful. Always in trouble. Last I heard, she was messaging some lad. Steve was worried about it. Sounded like she was sending him all sorts, if you know what I mean?’
I had no idea. We’d found Ciara’s phone in her very tidy room – another odd thing about her disappearance. What teenager went anywhere without their phone? There had been the messages to the football-playing boy, and to her friends, and that was it. Nothing dodgy. No sexting, or inappropriate photos. Just a few sweet words saying how much she wanted to see the lad she’d been getting to know.
‘Is Steve a strict father?’ I asked.
‘He has to be, by the sound of it,’ the friend said. ‘That girl would be on the streets if it wasn’t for him.’
I thanked him for his time, and hung up the phone, shouting for Stacey as I pulled on my coat. We had to go and see the parents again.
From there on, it all unravelled. It turned out, Steve was more than just strict. He regularly punished poor Ciara for any perceived misdemeanour, from not stacking the dishwasher properly, to a poor mark on a test. And the messages from her new friend had tipped him over into disgust.
The Smuggler's Daughter Page 2
