Ready or Not

by Thomas, Rachel

  Good luck to her, Kate thought bitterly.

  She was sure Stuart still had a key to the flat, although she had demanded he return all copies to her. It would have been far nicer of him, and uncharacteristically thoughtful, if he had just gone round there when she was at work and taken the bloody records, rather than bothering her with a phone call and unnecessarily dredging up a stream of unresolved differences. She would probably never even have noticed that the records were gone and would never have needed to know that he had been back in the flat. Sometimes what you didn’t know really didn’t hurt you.

  It was almost twenty minutes to eight. The couple in the corner were now kissing enthusiastically; unsubtle, full face clashing like rams in combat that made Kate turn her head away and focus on something, anything, outside the window. She had often regretted that it was beyond her police powers to confront couples like this and insist that they save their intimacies for a more appropriate time and place, but she had not yet put the idea into practice and didn’t expect it would be greeted with appreciation from the participants.

  Kate continued to stare out of the pub window, though still aware of the irritating scene playing out in the corner of the bar. Where was Chris? He wouldn’t have thought twice about confronting the couple, or suggesting they took their foreplay home. If there was one thing Chris could always be relied upon, if not his timekeeping, it was his frankness.

  As she looked through the window Kate saw a man waiting to cross the road just down the street from the pub. He stood with his back to the buildings, near the edge of the pavement, waiting for the lights to turn red so that he could cross. As he turned to check for traffic he stepped back slightly. There was a little girl standing beside him, a little girl in a dress that looked too thin for this weather, with no coat, only tights and a pair of fluffy boots to keep her warm. The child turned her head: a little mousey haired girl, about six years old, carrying a green rucksack shaped like a frog.

  Kate stood up swiftly, catching her knee against the table and sending what was left of her drink tipping across the floor. The couple in the corner paused from their flirting long enough to look over at her; the girl smirked and let out a snort before turning her attention back to the boy. Fortunately the glass hadn’t smashed and Kate picked it up and put it back on the table. She raised a hand in an apology to the barman and cursed under her breath.

  Outside, the cold air bit at her cheeks. The lights had turned red – the beeping noise signalling the green man still sounding in the street – and Kate ran to beat the red, getting a blast of horn from an angry driver clearly too important and impatient to wait an extra few seconds for the passing pedestrians.

  The man and the little girl walked amongst a small group of people making their way down the street. Kate darted between an old man who had just stepped off a bus and a group of teenagers hanging around outside an off-licence, catching a glimpse of the frog rucksack before it disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘Stacey!’ she shouted.

  A man at the back of the group turned his head briefly before continuing on his way. Kate caught up with him and muttered an apology as she side-stepped in front of him, narrowly missing the heels of a young woman who was pushing a pram. The little girl and the man were now feet ahead of her.

  ‘Stacey!’ she called again.

  The little girl with the frog rucksack turned her head, causing the man holding her hand to slow down. He turned when he saw the girl looking behind, craning her little neck to see who was shouting.

  The man looked back and, seeing no one other than Kate, turned to her and asked bluntly, ‘What?’

  Kate stopped suddenly, almost tripping over herself. She stared at the little girl, her big chocolate brown eyes looking back at her. It wasn’t Stacey, of course. Her hair was too dark – brown, not mousey – and her face entirely different, her features softer; her face a little younger.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kate spluttered, stumbling on her words. ‘I thought…’ She struggled to catch her breath and wondered when the hell she had become so unfit. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

  The man tutted impatiently and tightened his grip on the little girl’s hand. He shook his head, tugged at the child and turned his back on Kate. They walked away quickly, the child’s little legs moving quickly to keep up with the man, and without a second glance he and the little girl who wasn’t Stacey Reed disappeared into the crowd.

  Four

  Kate knew she’d get a bollocking if Chris or the Super found out she was questioning Dawn Reed and Nathan Williams again, but as far as she could see she was left with no other option. Everyone else seemed ready to accept them purely as victims, yet that was something that kept drawing Kate back; something as yet inexplicable. Dawn had been in and out of the station regularly during the past two months, and Nathan had been interviewed several times at the house. Kate had been told to ease off; she’d squeezed them as much as she could and, as Superintendent Clayton kept reminding her, Dawn and Nathan were the victims here.

  Really though? Were they really the victims here, she’d thought. From what she could see, Stacey was the victim. If finding the little girl alive and safe involved a slight harassment of her mother and mother’s boyfriend then so be it. As far as Kate was concerned it was a small sacrifice for the couple to pay in order to help progress on the case regarding their missing daughter.

  Anyway, Kate knew there was something more. There was something she couldn’t quite pinpoint: something that just didn’t feel right. She’d felt it the first time she’d been to Stacey’s home and she was bloody sure she’d feel it again; that hunch, that itch that just wouldn’t go away.

  Besides, it was healthy to break the rules now and then. That’s what they were there for, weren’t they?

  She paused at the Reed’s front door, checking for signs of life before ringing the bell. Inside, she heard the sound of laughter trickling from the front room and the TV glowed dull orange behind the cheap net curtains of the living room window.

  Kate rang the bell.

  A few moments later a young man who looked as though he’d washed his hair in the chip pan opened the front door. His skin was equally oily and his expression changed as he registered Kate. He sighed: a loud, exaggerated exhalation that said, ‘what now?’. Nathan Williams, Stacey Reed’s step-father. Kate had mistrusted him since their first meeting. If she hadn’t suspected him regarding Stacey’s disappearance she’d have suspected him of something else. He just had one of those faces. There was something about the greased hair, the easy, unmerited confidence and the lopsided sneer that she didn’t trust. The man smelled suspicious and he was too thick to know he was thick. If it turned out he had nothing to do with Stacey’s disappearance, Kate was sure there were plenty of other things she’d be able to nail him for.

  Nathan was wearing stained grey tracksuit bottoms and a misshapen T-shirt that had the words ‘Too sexy for this shirt’ printed on it. Kate noted the irony, but doubted he did. He looked Kate up and down silently. The sneer stretched across his face like an opening zip. He leaned a hand on the doorframe, a little too relaxed for Kate’s liking.

  ‘Mr Williams?’ she said, putting out a reluctant hand. ‘DI Kate Kelly. We met a few weeks ago.’

  Nathan nodded what Kate assumed to be an acknowledgement, not bothering to take the hand she’d offered him. She pulled it back quickly, remembering that men like Nathan Williams had little concept of traditional manners. It was all he could do to grunt an acknowledgement.

  In the first few weeks following Stacey’s disappearance, although he’d been questioned by a few officers, Nathan Williams had kept a low profile. He had appeared with Stacey’s mother at the police conference and at filming for the local television appeal, but beyond that he’d kept his head down. He had rarely been present at the station or when officers had visited Stacey’s home. It had quickly transpired that Stacey’s mother, Dawn Reed, had been committing benefit fraud by claiming the two di
dn’t live together and this was the excuse the pair used for Nathan’s regular absence whenever there was a police presence.

  Kate wasn’t interested in the fraud; not for the time being, at least. She was sure it would be relevant once Stacey was found and Kate had time to chase up Nathan’s string of misdemeanours, but for now her priority was finding Stacey and finding her as quickly as possible. The girl had already been missing far too long.

  As for the benefits fraud excuse, Kate just wasn’t buying it. Yes, they were probably guilty of it, both of them. But it was unlikely that Nathan’s reluctance to indulge in recent police presence was down to purely that.

  ‘Who is it, babe?’ Dawn’s voice came from the living room.

  ‘Can I come in?’ Kate asked, not waiting for a response before stepping past Williams and into the hallway.

  The house smelled of chips and vinegar, a smell that would usually make Kate’s stomach rumble but on this occasion only managed to instil a sense of nausea. Stacey’s Wellington boots – calf length and pink, decorated with yellow flowers and blue striping - stood by the front door; still caked in mud from the last time she had stepped outside in them. An array of coats and jackets hung from the pegs in the hall. The bottom four steps of the staircase were a mess of unopened letters, leaflets for local take-away houses and charity donation bags for clothing and books. Stepping further into the hallway, Kate could see that many of the unopened letters looked like final reminders: all addressed to Dawn and presumably left unopened in the hope that by remaining unread they would somehow cease to be a reality.

  Kate walked into the living room. Dawn Reed was curled up on the sofa in a spotted dressing gown that looked as though it could do with washing. So could she, for that matter. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail which pulled her face taut and made her features strangely feline. Yesterday’s make-up was smeared around her eyes, blending with the dark bags that sat upon her high cheek bones.

  Coronation Street blared from the TV. On screen, Deirdre puffed on a cigarette and Ken wore his usual bemused expression. Two plates of grease and chips lay abandoned on the largest of a nest of tables next to a half empty bottle of white wine.

  ‘Evening, Dawn,’ Kate said.

  Dawn Reed sat up hastily, pulled her dressing gown around her and put her slippers on. Nathan followed Kate in. Dawn distractedly ran a hand through her bottle blonde hair and smiled tiredly.

  ‘DI Kelly,’ she said, remembering her manners and standing quickly. ‘Is there any news?’

  Kate glanced at the TV, a cue for Dawn to turn the sound down. Dawn took the hint, reached for the remote and pressed the mute button, leaving the room bathed in the flickering light of silent moving pictures.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you so late in the evening,’ Kate said, though it was not yet half past eight and from what she’d seen so far she’d hardly walked in on anything important enough to be accused of interrupting. She had made her way straight to the Reed’s house after chasing an almost-Stacey look-a-like down the high street. How could she have just gone home after that and turned her own TV on as if there was nothing better, nothing more productive, she could have been doing?

  ‘No news, I’m afraid,’ she continued. ‘Not yet anyway.’

  She looked around the room slowly, feeling Nathan’s beady stare upon her back. The room was a mess. Chip papers lay on the floor by the sofa and an empty wine bottle lay abandoned beneath the TV. The carpet needed cleaning and a fortnight’s worth of ironing was piled in untidy stacks beneath the stairs.

  Kate glanced towards the open kitchen door. Dirty dishes were stacked haphazardly in the sink and yet more clothes had been abandoned on the floor next to the washing machine. Empty wine and beer bottles were lined on the window sill like trophies.

  ‘I was just wondering if you’ve managed to find Stacey’s bag,’ Kate asked, turning and directing the question at Dawn. ‘You said you couldn’t remember if she’d had it with her that day or not.’

  For the briefest of moments Dawn Reed looked blank. Suddenly her expression changed and she smiled weakly.

  ‘The bag,’ she repeated.

  She looked to Nathan for support. Nathan shrugged nonchalantly and came further into the room. He sat on the end of the sofa and rubbed the back of Dawn’s knee. ‘I didn’t know she had no bag wiv ’er,’ he said, eyeing Kate suspiciously. He looked to Dawn as though passing the buck. The look made Kate angry.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ Dawn said; her voice flustered. ‘Maybe she had it with her, I don’t know. I’m sorry. She loved that bag.’

  The green frog bag: the frog with the zip for a mouth they were selling in their dozens from the pound shop on the high street. The same sort of bag the little girl at the pedestrian crossing had been carrying just an hour ago.

  ‘OK,’ Kate said, meeting Nathan’s glare and holding it a moment longer than was comfortable for either of them. ‘Thanks anyway. If it does happen to turn up, please let us know.’

  ‘Why?’ Nathan asked; his piggy eyes narrowing as he studied her. ‘Why’s the bag so important?’

  ‘It may not be,’ Kate admitted, although she was beginning to suspect otherwise. ‘Just let us know.’

  *

  On the pavement outside the Reed house Kate stood looking back at the house. The curtains twitched and Kate knew she was being watched.

  She crossed the pavement and walked back to her car, which was parked at the far end of the street. She took her keys from her pocket and, unlocking the door, took a last glance back at the house. She wondered if the house was always in that state, or whether it was simply the result of Stacey’s absence. Ironing and cleaning would surely be the last thing on Dawn’s mind.

  But then, surely, take away fish and chips and a catch up with Coronation Street would also be way down the bottom on her list of priorities.

  In the car she took her mobile phone from the glove box and called the station.

  ‘Get a search warrant and get over to the Reed house,’ she told one of the PCs. ‘I know,’ she objected, when reminded that the house had been searched before. ‘Just do it again. I don’t know – anything. Just get over there and see what you can turn up.’

  She turned the car at the end of the street and drove slowly back past the house. Again the glow of the TV suffused the window and she heard the ringing of laughter, pretty sure that it would continue into the evening despite the absence of the child who should have been there. Kate didn’t have children of her own, but she was adamant that if her six year old daughter had been missing for almost two months, watching Coronation Street and enjoying a take away would be the last thing she would be doing. She wouldn’t be doing anything but looking for her, no matter the cost to her finances or her personal life. Everything would come second to searching for her child. She wouldn’t rest until she had brought her home.

  If they didn’t find Stacey, she was pretty sure they’d find that bag.

  Dawn Reed’s words echoed in her head.

  ‘She loved that bag.’

  The past tense echoed with finality.

  Loved that bag.

  Wednesday

  Five

  The morning after Kate’s debacle with the Stacey look-alike in Pontypridd, Chris phoned her from the station.

  ‘I’m sorry I made a no-show last night,’ he apologised.

  ‘No worries,’ Kate said. Something urgent must have happened to keep

  him from meeting her; Chris would never stand her up without good reason and especially not without calling to apologise.

  ‘Something come up?’

  ‘Body in a driveway.’

  ‘Jesus. Who was it?’

  ‘Accountant. Just a normal, everyday bloke, from what I’ve been told. I’ve just been to see his wife.’

  Kate paused at the end of the line, thinking about the task Chris had just had to undertake. She knew how much Chris hated this part of the job. Who didn’t?

  ‘How was she?’<
br />
  Stupid question, Kate.

  Chris sighed tiredly. He hadn’t got back home until almost midnight and had been back at the station by half seven that morning. He’d hardly slept in between thinking about the murder and about his daughter.

  ‘As you’d expect,’ he said. ‘Not good.’

  There was silence for a moment as each contemplated the events of the past twenty four hours. Nothing was ever simple. Whenever things seemed to be straightening themselves out, something else happened to throw the world and their lives back out of sync. When Chris had first started at the station years earlier, Kate had warned him to brace himself for a quiet ride. Nothing much happened in South Wales.

  She had tempted fate. Since then, it seemed, nothing much ever stopped happening.

  ‘Do you remember Jamie Griffiths?’ he asked.

  ‘Remind me,’ Kate said, not recalling the name.

  ‘Last year,’ Chris reminded her. ‘Caerphilly Road in Cardiff. Guy comes out of a pub and gets his skull smashed in with a hammer.’

  Of course Kate remembered. The sheer motiveless violence of the incident made it front page news for South Wales newspapers. The case had made national news for a while, until a premier league footballer was caught having an affair and the murder was casually pushed aside for this far more exciting and news-worthy story.

  A lot had changed since Kate’s career had started. She remembered when real people mattered and a time when the public cared about what happened to other people around them; other normal, everyday people like them. Now no one seemed to care about anyone who didn’t have a famous face. News was determined by celebrity and scandal and if you were famous enough, attractive enough, or rich enough – no matter how trivial the story surrounding you – you were more important to the press than some poor sod who’d been murdered after a night out.

  The murderer hadn’t been caught.

  ‘You don’t think…’