Gone Astray

by Michelle Davies

  The ease with which Umpire spoke to her on the phone made Maggie relax about what Belmar had told her the previous evening. If Umpire had been aware of what was being said about them his voice would’ve betrayed him with the same awkwardness he showed when certain female officers flirted with him. Instead, they seemed to be edging back to how they were before the Megan Fowler case changed everything.

  That case had been tough on everyone involved. Megan was only eight – the same age Maggie’s nephew Scotty was now – when she was strangled and her body dumped behind some garages near her home on the west side of Mansell. Some killers take trophies from their crimes and Megan’s had, for some inexplicable reason, hacked off her long blonde hair. It was a detail Umpire wanted to withhold from public consumption: he wanted to use the evidence to wheedle out anyone who claimed to have knowledge of the murder by establishing if they knew about Megan’s hair being cut.

  But that included not telling Megan’s parents. Umpire said he didn’t trust them not to divulge the detail, especially as they were making regular statements to the press about catching her killer. So, to maintain secrecy, he decided to delay them viewing Megan’s body so they wouldn’t see what the killer had done to her.

  As their FLO, Maggie disagreed vehemently with the tactic: Paula and Jamie Fowler needed to see their little girl as soon as possible so they could begin the grieving process. She pleaded with him, suggesting they cover up what was left of Megan’s hair with a shroud so the parents couldn’t tell the rest was gone, or swear them to secrecy. But still he wouldn’t budge.

  As the days dragged on, Maggie was horrified to see Megan’s mum Paula being driven to the cusp of a breakdown as her imagination conjured up scenarios of what the killer had done to Megan that were far worse than the reality. Again and again Maggie tried to convince Umpire to tell the parents why they couldn’t see Megan but he still refused. He couldn’t risk the killer evading arrest. After a long night wrestling with her conscience, Maggie cracked and told Paula the truth. To let her continue to suffer was a cruelty she simply was no longer prepared to inflict.

  Once the news had sunk in, Paula agreed to keep it a secret even from Jamie. She understood the enormity of what Maggie had done and what she was risking to ease her pain.

  Umpire remained unaware Paula knew until two days later, after he’d arrested Megan’s killer, a twenty-one-year-old man with learning difficulties who lived in the next street and had attacked the little girl because she was rude to him. He cut off her hair because he erroneously thought it would stop him getting caught.

  Maggie hoped that with the arrest made, that would be the end of it. But when Umpire turned up at the house to tell the Fowlers they had someone in custody, a distraught Paula let rip and accused him of playing God with her family’s feelings.

  Umpire’s anger towards Maggie erupted like a volcano. Not only did she remember every word he said to her, but other little details also stayed with her: the swollen vein in his temple that pulsed as he swore at her on the pavement outside the Fowlers’ house; the sensation of cold sweat trickling down her back as she absorbed his fury; the taste of the five cigarettes she’d chain-smoked afterwards to calm down.

  The memory of that confrontation made her shiver now as she stood in the Kinnocks’ warm kitchen. At some point she must find the courage to ask him why he had withdrawn his complaint, but for now she was going to enjoy the ceasefire.

  She checked the time on her watch, a chunky silver Seiko designed for a male wrist and a Christmas present given reluctantly two years ago by her parents, who didn’t understand why she didn’t want a ‘nice ladies’ style’ like the one Lou picked out. Maggie tried to explain she liked the weight of the Seiko against her wrist, the way it made her feel anchored, but her parents remained baffled.

  It was 7.40 a.m. and she was expecting Belmar to arrive by eight. She poured herself another coffee from the pot she’d brewed and checked her phone. She’d sent Lou a text earlier to see how she and the kids were, but imagined her sister was too busy getting them ready for school to reply. She’d try to call her later. She was dying to know how Scotty’s performance had gone.

  Although patrol officers were stationed outside Angel’s Reach and by the security gate, Maggie was the only police presence inside the house. A handful of Matheson’s techs were re-examining the back lawn but the search was now being concentrated beyond its boundaries, to the meadow where Rosie’s skirt had been found shoved into a bush and into Haxton village itself.

  She added milk to her coffee. The Kinnocks hadn’t surfaced yet but she doubted they were asleep. The worry would have kept them awake for most of the night. Just before midnight they had received the news that Matheson’s lab tests had confirmed the blood on the lawn was Rosie’s and it was a match with the blood on the skirt. Mack and Lesley took themselves off to their bedroom after that, rather than keeping vigil downstairs. Maggie knew not to judge – every family was different and there was no right or wrong way to behave in their situation. Some families liked to stay up all night discussing endlessly what was going on, as though voicing their fears somehow diluted them. Others, like the Kinnocks, preferred to keep their counsel.

  Maggie had slept on the purple sofa in the lounge. She’d been loath to make herself at home in one of the guest bedrooms without checking first and she would not disturb the Kinnocks for something she regarded as trivial. She’d spent enough nights crashed out on Lou’s sofa to know she could still function the next day on a few snatched hours and had found a throw in the laundry room next to the kitchen to keep herself warm.

  She’d lain awake for an hour before falling asleep though, replaying the moment Lesley saw Rosie’s skirt. She was angry with herself that she hadn’t reached the French doors first and even more so with the eager probationer whose bright idea it was to bring the skirt to Matheson rather than call him to the meadow where it was found so it could be secured as a secondary crime scene. Umpire was furious it had been removed from its hiding place and potential forensic evidence destroyed. The probationer was already off the case and back on traffic duty.

  Maggie returned the milk to the fridge. It was the biggest one she’d ever seen and must’ve cost thousands, yet its contents were at odds with the flash exterior: the shopping she’d unpacked for Lesley yesterday was mostly Tesco own-brand and the only luxury item, if you could call it that, was a Finest range ready meal of salmon en croute. Maggie imagined that if she had unlimited funds, she’d buy the best of everything: steak, lobster, champagne, you name it. All that money and Lesley still bought Tesco Everyday Value streaky bacon.

  ‘Is there any news?’

  She jumped in fright and turned to find Mack standing right behind her. He looked exhausted and the clothes he wore were the same ones he’d had on yesterday. She hadn’t heard him enter the kitchen and, glancing down, saw why: his feet were bare and wouldn’t have made a sound on the slate tiles.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said apologetically. ‘But DCI Umpire is coming over to talk to you and your wife shortly.’

  Mack stared at Maggie like he had no idea what to say. Mindful of Umpire’s warning that she must not mention the police were aware he’d only stayed one night at the Old Course Hotel, she kept the conversation light.

  ‘Shall I explain what it is we do as your family liaison? We didn’t really have a chance to go through it yesterday.’

  ‘Go on then,’ said Mack, his Scots accent lending his voice an abruptness Maggie cautioned herself not to take personally.

  She recited the statement she gave every family at the start of an investigation, give or take a word.

  ‘DC Small and I are here to offer you and your wife practical support such as helping you understand what stage the inquiry is at and providing all possible information where we can. There may be some things we aren’t able to share if they could jeopardize criminal proceedings but we’ll let you know if that’s the case and why.’ Unless my DCI refuses to let me, she
silently added. ‘What we can’t help you with – what I’m afraid neither of us is trained to provide – is counselling. But there are organizations such as Victim Support who can do that and we can contact them for you.’

  It was a distinction she hated making. She disagreed passionately with the no-counselling rule for FLOs, put in place to protect them from becoming emotionally overburdened. No, she wasn’t a trained counsellor, but she had ears, didn’t she? Most of the time that was all the families wanted – someone to listen to them. How could she be with them day in and day out and then excuse herself when they wanted to talk about how they were feeling? She’d happily listen to whatever they wanted to unload on her. But however dismissive she was of the rule, Maggie felt she had no choice but to stick to it.

  ‘I can call them now if you want,’ she said.

  Mack shook his head. ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  They all say that at the beginning, she thought. We don’t need any help. We can cope. That’s because they’re praying it’ll all be over in a few hours. But what if those hours stretch into days or even weeks? What then?

  ‘Well, it’s something for you to consider,’ she said. ‘I should also let you know that myself and Belmar will be making a note of conversations we have with you and your wife.’

  Mack frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s nothing to be alarmed about, Mr Kinnock. Logging our conversations makes it easier for us to check if there’s anything you need us to do, such as finding out certain information, or if you want to go over anything you’ve already raised.’

  She didn’t add the aside that always popped into her head at this point in her speech, which was that logging all conversations also gave them the opportunity to review any discrepancies in the family’s statements and flag up any suspicious comments or behaviour to the SIO.

  ‘I do have one question,’ he said. ‘About the skirt you found.’

  ‘Yes, about that . . .’ She cringed. ‘I’m very sorry—’

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant. Are you certain it’s Rosie’s?’

  Taken aback, she said yes, they were. ‘Your wife confirmed it.’

  ‘I know, but she’s very upset and could be mistaken. I’ve never seen it before and it’s not the kind of thing Rosie wears. I certainly wouldn’t let her wear something so short.’

  ‘Mr Kinnock—’ Maggie began, but he interrupted her, clearly agitated.

  ‘That skirt does not belong to Rosie.’

  Maggie could hear the desperation in his voice and faltered. Of course he didn’t want it to be Rosie’s. None of them wanted it to be Rosie’s.

  ‘Even if it does prove to be someone else’s,’ she said carefully, ‘as we told you last night, the lab tests have confirmed the blood on the skirt is your daughter’s. DCI Umpire will be able to explain more when he arrives.’

  Mack squeezed his eyes shut behind his glasses and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. When he opened his eyes again they were filled with despair. But instead of breaking down, as he looked as though he was on the verge of doing, he pulled his shoulders back and exhaled.

  ‘Okay. I’m going to take a shower now.’

  He left the kitchen as quietly as he’d entered.

  13

  Belmar arrived twenty minutes late and full of apologies, bowling into the kitchen carrying a pile of letters and a takeaway coffee cup. He looked as if he’d had a far better night’s sleep than she had and she was pleased. It wouldn’t help the Kinnocks or the investigation if they were both tired.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, I got waylaid on the way in,’ he said.

  ‘By the press? I hope you didn’t say anything.’

  ‘I’m not an idiot,’ said Belmar, smoothing down his tie, which was royal purple and the exact same colour as the shirt he also wore beneath his charcoal grey suit. He looked impeccable again and Maggie idly wondered if he was the type to iron his socks. She could only imagine what he must think of her Next suits and practical but mannish black loafers that hadn’t been polished since the day she bought them eighteen months ago.

  ‘It was two of the security guards who work for the company that has the contract for this street,’ he added. ‘They wanted to offer their services.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Join the search. They’re pretty cut up about what’s happened.’

  ‘I’ll bet. A girl going missing in full view of their supposedly sophisticated security system is hardly a great advert.’

  ‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,’ said Belmar, wagging his finger at her. ‘If Matheson’s right and Rosie went over the back fence, there are no cameras there that could’ve recorded it. The guards told me there’s a dispute over who should foot the bill. The council owns the pathway and the residents reckon it should pay for CCTV rather than them. But the council says it’s not a priority, so at the moment the area’s not covered while the decision’s being appealed.’

  ‘Umpire won’t be pleased when he hears that. So did they see anything?’

  ‘No. The firm is contracted to carry out three patrols a day – one at ten a.m., one at three p.m. and again at ten p.m. The first was done as usual and the guard didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but by the time the second was due our lot were already on the scene.’

  ‘Someone’s interviewed all the guards, I take it?’

  ‘I think the team’s got it covered.’ Belmar smiled benevolently. ‘They have done this kind of thing before, you know.’

  The dig annoyed her. ‘I’m asking because I’m still a detective, as are you.’

  ‘Maggie, I was teasing.’

  ‘It’s not funny,’ she snapped.

  The inference that being an FLO somehow made her less of a detective was the one thing that bothered her about the role. The two weren’t mutually exclusive. The way she saw it, being an FLO meant helping to solve a case from the inside out. You had to be a good detective to know what information provided by the family was worth following up.

  ‘Can you get Mack to go through Rosie’s room again to see if there’s anything missing? I had a look with him last night but I’m not sure how thorough he was. He mostly sat on the bed and cried.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Belmar. He dropped the bundle of mail he was holding onto the island counter. ‘I bumped into the postman on the way in too.’

  The envelopes fanned across the counter. Maggie peered at one half hidden beneath the others.

  ‘Is that crayon?’

  Belmar used his elbow to carefully push the other envelopes out of the way. The one that was left was white, standard size and marked for Lesley’s attention, with both her name and address written in crude capitals with red crayon. Maggie peered at the postmark. It was yesterday’s date and the stamp said ‘Mansell’.

  ‘You don’t think . . . ?’ Belmar faltered.

  ‘I’ll get them,’ said Maggie, sliding off her stool.

  She took the stairs two at a time and knocked loudly on the Kinnocks’ bedroom door. Mack was still pulling a T-shirt over his head as he yanked it open. Lesley hovered anxiously behind him in a cerise towelling dressing gown.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he demanded to know.

  ‘A letter has arrived for you that I’m concerned about. I’d like you to come downstairs to open it. Whoever sent it wrote your address in red crayon to make it look like a child’s handwriting.’

  Mack grimaced. ‘It’ll just be someone after money. We’ve had a few of them like that. I’ll throw it away like the rest.’

  ‘You’ve had others written in crayon or others in general?’

  ‘Both. After our win we had every scrounger in Britain asking for a handout. I’ve lost count of the number of begging letters we’ve received. Hundreds. Usually just pleading for cash, but sometimes you get threats.’

  ‘Do you ever report any?’

  ‘We don’t take them seriously.’

  ‘People think they can just stop you in the street and you’ll hand wads
of cash over to them,’ Lesley piped up over her husband’s shoulder. ‘It’s why I wish we’d never gone public about our win.’

  It was only fleeting but Maggie caught the warning look Mack shot his wife, who flushed red. Waiving their right to anonymity was clearly an unresolved point of conflict.

  ‘Even if you have received others, I’d still like you to open this one,’ she said.

  ‘Fine.’

  They trooped downstairs to the kitchen. Belmar had already fetched a pair of protective gloves from his car and the four of them stood in front of the island counter, upon which the envelope lay.

  ‘The letter is addressed to you, Lesley. Do you want to open it?’ he said, holding the gloves in her direction. Mack intercepted them.

  ‘No, I’ll do it,’ he said, snapping them on. The sound made Lesley flinch. Her eyes were underlined by thick purple streaks, the hallmarks of a sleepless night.

  Mack stared at the front of the envelope.

  ‘Yep, this is like the other crayoned ones.’

  ‘What did the previous notes say?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘The person wanted money for something but I can’t think what. I remember there was a lot of guff about how we didn’t really deserve our win,’ said Mack. ‘They harped on about the money being technically theirs. Nasty name-calling and stuff. It’s not theirs, before you ask. We had the only winning ticket for that draw.’

  ‘Were the notes signed?’ said Maggie.

  Mack stared at her, unsmiling. ‘Would you write an abusive letter to someone you didn’t know and put your name to it?’

  ‘Have you kept them?’

  ‘What would be the point? No, we throw them all away every week when the recycling comes. I don’t even bother to read them now.’

  Gloves on, he ripped the envelope open and pulled out the piece of lined paper folded up inside. The top edge was shredded, like it had been ripped out of a spiral-bound notebook. As he read the note, the blood drained from his face. Lesley, reading over his shoulder, let out a cry and clamped her hand over her mouth.

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Belmar urgently.