by Ben Cheetham
Grace was fifteen years old when she’d gone missing on the sixth of February 1997. Her mother, Linda Kirby, had reported her disappearance after she failed to return home from school. Most of Grace’s clothes were gone from her bedroom, along with several hundred quid her mother had kept in the house, leading officers to conclude that she was a runaway – a belief reinforced by the fact that she’d gone missing on two previous occasions. The first time, she’d returned home of her own accord after twenty-four hours; the second time, she’d been spotted after a couple of days in a fast-food restaurant by a family friend.
Because of her history, Grace wasn’t classified as a critical missing person. Constables spoke to Jay Longford, the boy she was last seen with – he claimed not to know where she was – but a full-fledged search wasn’t initiated until three days had passed. Police and volunteers trawled the city streets, fliers were posted, dozens of people were questioned. All these efforts had generated only one paper-thin lead. Grace’s favourite hangout at the time was a playground at the corner of Wellington Street that was a popular haunt for skateboarders and drug dealers. A week before her final disappearance, she’d been seen there by a school friend named Tara Riley talking to someone wearing a grey mac. Unfortunately, Tara hadn’t seen that same someone’s face. An appeal had been made for whoever it was to come forward, but it went unanswered.
A runaway fifteen-year-old with limited resources can only stay off the police radar for so long. So when Grace still hadn’t been found after several months, the obvious conclusion was that an adult or adults were keeping her hidden. The question was whether she was being kept willingly or against her will. If the latter, chances were she would never be seen again – at least, not alive.
Over the next few months there were several reported sightings of Grace in Sheffield, but none of these leads came to anything. The case remained open, but by the end of the following year, with no new leads, active investigation was closed. Apart from the man in the mac, only one other ‘person of interest’ was mentioned in the case-file – Ron Kirby, Grace’s father. At the time, Ron was a groundsman at Hillsborough Stadium. He was also an alcoholic with a criminal record that included convictions for drink-related crimes such as common assault, disturbing the peace, criminal damage and indecent exposure. On several occasions Grace had turned up at school with suspicious bruises and burn marks. Her teacher had reported the matter to social services after her parents refused to come to the school to discuss it. Social workers had also met with a wall of silence. In the end, although they were well aware Ron Kirby was a hard drinker with a violent temper, they’d decided not to pursue the case.
Jim studied a photograph of Grace’s parents. Ron looked like an aging football hooligan – burly tattooed forearms, close-shaved grey hair. Like her daughter, Linda had obviously once been beautiful – far too beautiful for a Neanderthal like her husband – but her beauty had been worn away by life, leaving a timid shadow of its former self. Her face was thin, almost gaunt, and there were dark shadows and deep lines under her eyes. With her hunched shoulders and large, damp pupils, she looked like a frightened mouse. Not exactly the type of woman to speak out about abuse she and Grace might have suffered at the hands of Ron.
Jim’s gaze returned to Grace. Was it possible she was still alive? It came back to the same basic questions as in ‘97. Had she been abducted against her will? Or had she been picked up and groomed for sex? If the former, statistics indicated that she was long dead. If the latter, there was a small chance she was still alive. He’d seen many times how easy it was for children from loveless and abusive families to fall under the sway of someone who offered them affection. Like a junkie, they sometimes came to crave that affection so much they were willing to do anything for it.
Jim’s line of thought was broken by breakfast being set down. With a smile of thanks, he reached for his knife and fork.
‘So what happened with Reynolds?’ asked Amy. Between mouthfuls of bacon and egg, Jim recounted the details of their meeting. When he’d finished, Amy said, ‘Do you think he was telling the truth about Baxley?’
‘Was he bollocks. There was something between those two, some sort of bond that went beyond friendship. I’m certain of it. The question is, what is it that connected two blokes who moved in such different circles?’
Amy indicated Grace’s photo with her knife. ‘Maybe if we can find her, we’ll find the answer.’
‘Maybe. But even if by some chance Grace Kirby is alive, how the hell are we going to find someone who’s managed to stay unfound for the past fifteen years?’
‘I don’t know, but I’d say the best place to start looking is here.’ The tip of Amy’s knife moved to Grace’s parents.
Looking at Linda Kirby’s grief-stricken face, Jim sighed at the thought of stirring up all the old hurt and anguish. But even worse than that was the thought that they would also be stirring up hope – hope that was almost certainly false. Suddenly he was no longer hungry. He pushed his plate aside. ‘Come on then, let’s go do some work.’
‘Shouldn’t we report to the DCI first?’
‘What for? So he can put someone else on this?’
‘We’ve only glanced through the case-file. There might be other angles to this we don’t know about. We should really speak to someone who worked the case.’
Amy was right, Jim knew. But something within him urged him to act without delay. He had the sense that time was running out. Grace Kirby’s been missing fifteen years, an inner voice said. What difference will a few hours’ delay make? The answer was obvious – none. But this wasn’t only about the case clock, it was about his own internal clock. He could almost hear it ticking in the centre of his brain, pushing him, compelling him. He tapped the photo of Grace’s parents. ‘You said it yourself, Amy, this is the best and only place to start looking. If you want to talk to Garrett, fine. But I’m moving on this now.’
Picking up the files, Jim approached the counter to pay. Amy frowned after him. With a slight shake of her head, she stood and followed him to his car.
Driving against the flow of rush-hour traffic, they headed out of the city centre along the Penistone Road. The Kirbys’ house was a two-up two-down mid-terrace in the shadow of Hillsborough Stadium, its stone front black with industrial-era soot. ‘You think they still live here?’ asked Amy as they parked up.
‘People like them don’t move house.’
Jim knocked on the door. A moment later, Linda Kirby opened it in a dressing-gown and slippers. She looked the same as in her photograph, except the wrinkles around her eyes and the sadness in them had deepened with age. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could do so a man’s voice boomed down the stairs. ‘Who the bloody hell is it knocking me up at this time of the morning?’
‘Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Kirby,’ said Jim. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Jim Monahan. This is Detective Inspector Amy Sheridan.’
‘This is about my Grace, isn’t it?’ Linda’s voice vibrated with anxiety, but Jim noted that she didn’t seem particularly surprised by their presence.
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve found her, haven’t you?’
‘No, but some new information concerning her case has come to light. Do you mind if we come inside?’
Looking as though she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, Linda motioned them into the house. ‘Are you deaf, woman?’ came another roar from upstairs. ‘I asked you a bloody question.’
‘It’s the police, Ron,’ replied Linda. ‘They’re here about our Grace.’
The detectives followed Linda into a neat little living room furnished with a three-piece suite that was as old and worn as its owner. The fireplace had been turned into a shrine to Grace. Dozens of framed photos of her cluttered its hearth and mantelpiece. More hung on the wall above. In some of the pictures Grace was a chubby-cheeked toddler, in others she was a smiling young child, and finally she was a sulky-eyed teenager. Linda took a pack of ci
garettes out of the pocket of her dressing-gown. She lit a cigarette and spoke through it. ‘So what’s this new information?’
‘We believe your daughter’s case may have some bearing on another case we’re investigating,’ said Jim. ‘I’m afraid as it’s an on-going investigation that’s all I can really tell you right now.’
‘Back at the door you seemed to think we’d found your daughter,’ said Amy. ‘May I ask what led you to that conclusion?’
‘I know Grace is alive. She phoned me last night.’
Jim and Amy exchanged an astonished glance. ‘What did she say?’ asked Jim.
‘She didn’t say anything.’
‘So how do you know it was her?’
‘I know because I know. It’s a mother thing.’ She turned her watery blue eyes on Amy. ‘Have you got children?’
‘Two. A boy and a girl.’
‘Then you know what I’m talking about. I didn’t have to hear her voice. I just knew.’
‘What time was the call made?’ asked Jim.
‘About eleven o’clock.’
‘Did you get the caller’s number?’
‘Yes. I think it’s a mobile phone number.’ Linda took a scrap of paper with a number written on it from the mantelpiece and handed it to Jim. He jotted it down, then passed it to Amy, who did likewise before returning it to Linda.
‘Have you tried ringing it?’
Linda shook her head. ‘I know my Grace, she won’t answer if I do. She’s a very independent little girl, and she’s stubborn too…’ she glanced towards the hallway, her voice dropping low, ‘like her dad. When she’s ready, she’ll call again.’
At the words ‘little girl’, a glimmer of sympathy passed through Jim. Linda was obviously unable to picture her daughter as anything other than the child she’d been when she disappeared. Her mind was stuck in limbo, frozen in a moment that existed only in history. He wondered whether, if Grace suddenly turned up alive, Linda would even be able to accept her as her daughter. ‘Is this the first silent phone call you’ve received?’
‘Yes.’
‘If it was your daughter, why do you think she would suddenly decide to get in touch now after all these years?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe she’s thinking about coming home. Maybe she just needed to hear her mother’s voice.’
‘Is she giving you her guff about Grace phoning?’ The voice came from the doorway. Jim turned towards its owner. Ron Kirby had put on a fair bit of weight since his case-file photo. He wore a string-vest that bulged like a sack of grain over tracksuit bottoms. His broken-veined cheeks, craggy nose and rheumy eyes told of a diet of alcohol, cigarettes and greasy food. His brawny arms were tattooed with, amongst other things, Sheffield Wednesday’s blue owl insignia and a list of the club’s honours. Lines of meanness spread from the corners of his eyes as he looked from his wife to the detectives.
‘I take it you don’t think it was your daughter, Mr Kirby,’ said Amy.
Ron grunted out a phlegmy laugh. ‘Course it bloody wasn’t. It was just some dirty little perv.’ He prodded a thick, tobacco-yellowed finger at his wife’s head, causing her to wince. ‘That’s the only place Grace is still alive.’
Linda lowered her eyes, fidgeting nervously with her cigarette. Jim felt a prickle of anger, both at Ron’s callousness and at Linda’s apparent inability to stand up for herself. Keeping his voice carefully businesslike, he asked, ‘What leads you to believe your daughter’s dead, Mr Kirby?’
Ron gave Jim a frowning smile, wagging his finger as if the question was a trap he didn’t intend to fall into. ‘Oh no, you’re not leading me down that rabbit hole. I had a gutful of your lot’s snide little questions when Grace first ran off.’ He jerked his chin at Linda. ‘It took me and her years to get back to some kind of normal life. So unless you’re here to tell us something new, you can bloody well bugger off and leave us alone. Do you hear me?’
‘I hear you and I understand.’ Jim vainly tried to catch Linda’s downturned eyes. ‘Thank you for talking to us, Mrs Kirby.’ He proffered a card with his name and number on it. ‘If you get any more strange phone calls, or if anything else out of the ordinary happens, or even if you just want to talk, please don’t hesitate to contact me.’
Ron snatched the card out of Jim’s hand. ‘Why would she want to talk to you? You lot are about as much use as tits on a nun. You proved that back in ‘97. If we get any more of them calls, I’ll deal with them my way.’
Jim shot Ron a brief, hard look. His eyes softened as they returned to Linda. ‘Sorry to have bothered you. If and when we do have something new to tell you, we’ll be in touch.’
The detectives made their way to the front door, which Ron slammed emphatically behind them. ‘He’s a real piece of work,’ said Amy. ‘I think I’d have run away too if I had a dad like him.’ She sighed. ‘Christ, it depresses me to see a woman like that waste her life on a tosser like him. Why do you think she stays with him?’
‘Who knows? Maybe her parents were the same way. I sometimes think these things are passed down through families like diseases.’ Jim sparked up a cigarette, lifting his face to the pale morning sun.
‘What do you reckon to this phone call business?’
‘I reckon we should look into it. It’s probably just a coincidence, but it’s all we’ve got to go on right now.’
‘Pretty big coincidence, don’t you think? News goes out about what went down at the Baxley house. A few hours later, Linda Kirby gets a silent phone call. I’m thinking, what if the news spurred Grace into getting in touch?’
Jim squinted at Amy. ‘Do you buy into what Mrs Kirby said about being able to sense it was her daughter?’
‘As a cop, no. As a mother, I’m not sure. I can tell you this, often when one of my two needs something from me, they don’t even have to say it, I just know.’
Jim took a thoughtful drag, then flicked his cigarette away. As they drove to the station, tiredness settled over him like a thick blanket. Catching a glimpse of his red-rimmed eyes in the rear-view mirror, Reynolds’s words came back to him. Sleep. That’s the secret to a healthy life. A wry smile crossed his lips. Reynolds was the last person in the world he’d ever expected to be taking advice from, but he was right. If he didn’t get some sleep soon, he’d be no use to anyone. ‘Does your offer still stand?’ he asked.
‘You mean about covering for you?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Sure, go home, get a few hours’ shut-eye.’
‘Thanks, Amy.’
Jim dropped Amy at Police Headquarters, then turned in the direction of home. By the time he got there, he was almost asleep at the wheel. He dragged himself upstairs, undressed and crawled between the sheets. But when he closed his eyes, his mind began to empty itself of the night’s events. He saw the burnt and bloody bodies. He saw Mark Baxley’s desperate, agonised eyes and Linda Kirby’s tired, sad eyes. But most of all he saw the basement, the naked figures and their victims. Over and over, the sickening footage looped through his brain.
With a sigh, Jim got out of bed and retrieved his cigarettes. As he smoked, he booted up his computer and googled ‘SB Engineering’. He clicked a link to the company’s website. According to the PR bumf, SB Engineering was one of the UK’s leading contract manufacturing companies. The ‘About’ section boasted that the company had expanded rapidly since it was founded in 1996, and currently employed 230 people in 160,000 square feet of hi-tech workshop space.
Jim navigated back to Google and scanned further down the list of links. One entitled ‘SB Engineering: Does Their Success Prove The Government Was Right?’ caught his eye. It led to an article on a financial blog published on 18/03/2010. The article began, ‘Thirteen years ago I wrote about how Stephen Baxley was granted a multi-million-pound interest-free government loan to help get his then fledgling company, SB Engineering, up and sprinting. The loan, whose exact amount and repayment timeframe has never been made public, matched capital raised from priva
te investors. With the general election looming, I thought it would be a good time to revisit the issues raised in that article.’ The author went on to question whether it was right for governments to use tax money to kickstart businesses, congratulating SB Engineering on its success, but stressing that it had not changed his opinion that politicians driven by short-term electoral pressures were poorly qualified to pick long-term investment prospects.
The author was someone called Peter Nichols. Jim signed up to receive email alerts when the blog was updated, reflecting that Nichols would probably soon be publishing another article about SB Engineering, along the lines of ‘I told you so’.
Jim made his way downstairs to the sofa. He lay studying the printouts of Grace and Mark’s faces. His thoughts returned to Margaret. They’d intended to start a family but had always found reasons for putting it off. At first it was money – or rather, the lack of it; then it was their careers. And then, suddenly, it was too late. He wondered, as he often had, whether Margaret would have left him if they’d had children. He sharply dismissed the thought. It was pointless. She was gone and that was all there was to it. It was up to him to find something to fill the hole she’d left in his life. But what? When Margaret had first walked out, things had got so bad he’d sought help from a counsellor. The counsellor had told him that over time his pain would ease, but it hadn’t. Even now after five years, the hole was as cavernous as it had ever been.
Jim flipped through his notepad until he came to the phone number Linda Kirby had given him. He stared at it, brow furrowed. It would be a crazy move to ring the number without even knowing if it was registered to a name, and especially without the back-up of recording and tracing technology. At best it would put the phone’s owner on their guard, at worst it would prompt them to get rid of the phone. But in his mind the clock was ticking like a bomb, pushing him to make something happen. He picked up the photo of Grace. If she was alive, what had become of her? Had she got away from her abusers? Or was she still caught up in their sick fantasies? If the former, maybe news of Stephen Baxley’s possible death had given her the confidence to consider coming out of hiding. If the latter, maybe she was looking for a way out, a way back to the life her abusers had stolen from her. Either way, Jim wanted her to know the path was open, and that if she took it, she would get all the help he could give. Slowly, he picked up the phone and dialled.
