Finding Lucy

by Ernesto Lee

“A little respect please, Sergeant McMillan. Sir David is ninety-three years old and in extremely poor health. This is his last chance to find out what happened to his daughter. I realize that after this length of time, it is going to be difficult to give him the answers he is looking for but, given that you and DC Swain are the flavor of the month currently, the Home Secretary has personally requested that this case be assigned to you. What do you think, Sean? Are you up for the challenge?”

  Morgan has only given me very limited information and I haven’t seen the contents of the case file yet, but it makes no difference. I am a newly promoted Detective Sergeant and flavor of the month apparently. It’s not like I am in a position to say no.

  “Yes, of course, sir, we will give it our best shot.”

  Morgan stands up and smiles. “That’s great. I will let the Home Secretary know that you are on the case. I suggest that you both head home and get your things together.

  DS Gray has made arrangements for your hotel. You can make a start on reading through the case file on your drive up to Lincolnshire.”

  Before I can say anything, Sarah Gray hands me two copies of the case file and then passes me a white envelope.

  “The hotel details are in there, Sean. It looks nice enough. I have booked you in initially for two weeks. If you need longer just call and let me know. If you make a move now you should get there by five or six this evening.”

  I had expected my first day back at work to be interesting, but I had not been expecting to be shipped up north to investigate a nearly half-century old missing person case. My look gives away what both Cath and I are thinking, and Morgan reads our minds.

  “Don’t look so shocked, you two. You can’t investigate a Lincolnshire case from down here in London. All of your leads, suspects, and surviving witnesses are in Lincolnshire. No need to worry, though, I hear that they stopped human sacrifices in the north of England years ago. Now, go on, time is ticking on this one.

  “Sergeant McMillan, DC Swain, good luck and keep me updated on progress.”

  Without another word, he turns to DS Gray and they start to discuss another open case, which is our less-than-subtle cue to leave.

  In the lift down to our office, we don’t speak until the doors have closed and then I ask Catherine what she thinks.

  “I think that we have just been handed a big bloody ticking hand grenade, Sean. That’s what I think. If we solve this case and find out what happened to the missing girl, the Home Secretary gets to help out one of the old boys’ club and we get to put the pin back in the grenade. But If we get nowhere, I have a feeling that this big bloody grenade is going to go off with one almighty bang in our ears,” she says, adding sarcastically, “Like you said, though, we will give it our best shot, Sergeant McMillan.”

  Her nervousness at taking on this case is completely understandable. Very few of my other colleagues would be keen to go anywhere near a forty-six-year-old missing person case and particularly not one that comes with the added pressure of the involvement of the Home Secretary.

  The role of Home Secretary is a senior-level government position within the British Cabinet and, amongst other things, is responsible for policing in England and Wales, matters of national security, and the Security Service MI5. Little wonder then that she is nervous.

  Being given this case also worries me, but our recent success in bringing down ‘The Network’ makes us the obvious candidates to take on this one. It’s too late to worry now anyway – we have accepted the case and we need to get moving on it.

  “Let’s not worry about that grenade just yet, Cath. Maybe after forty-six years the mechanism will have seized up.”

  She doesn’t look impressed at my poor attempt at humor, so I try another.

  “So, do you think that they have booked us twin beds or a double? A double would probably be better if we want to go undercover. Do you prefer Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Jones?”

  “You bloody wish, Sean. I am way out of your league and if these tight bastards haven’t paid for two rooms, I will be turning the car around and heading straight back to civilization.”

  By the time the doors open at our floor, we are both smiling and ready to get moving. Catherine collects her laptop computer and a few other pieces from her office and then we head down to the garage to collect our cars. Before we separate, we make arrangements to meet up later.

  “Okay, Cath, it’s just after 1 pm now – how long do you need to get ready?”

  “By the time, I get home and get a few things packed, I think an hour should do it, Sean.”

  “That’s perfect. Pick me up at my place at two-thirty,” I tell her.

  She looks confused, so I fill in the blanks.

  “Oh, sorry, Cath. I thought I had mentioned it already. You’re driving. It will give me a chance to go through the case file on the way up.”

  Less than impressed, Cath turns up her sarcasm levels to full.

  “And will I make you some sandwiches and a flask of tea for the trip, Sergeant McMillan?”

  “Aw, that’s a lovely offer, Cath, but there’s really no need – although if you’re making some for yourself, ham and mustard would be perfect. Just don’t skimp on the mustard!”

  With a parting, “Cheeky bastard!” from Cath, she gets in her car and heads home. Twenty minutes later I arrive back at my own place and pick up the folded sheet of paper that has been pushed under my door. Without even needing to read the note, I can guess already who it is from.

  The handwriting is by now all too familiar and this note is one of many that I have received at home and whilst I was still in hospital. Along with the numerous calls and visits, Ben is determined to speak to me.

  Hey, Sean,

  It was good to see you at the ceremony this morning. You were looking well, and it is good that you are getting back to work. I know that you have been busy, but it has been nearly two months since we met in 1994. We need to talk about our situation. I have tried calling and have left you notes. I know that you must be getting them. I know that this is a messed-up situation that neither of us asked for, but let’s not forget who caused this. Like it or not, you are my dad and because of you I am also a dream traveler. Please call me and let’s meet soon. I can’t talk to mum about this, but maybe I should?

  Here is my number again – 07767 44534921.

  Your loving son,

  Ben ‘McMillan’ Pinto 

  The cheeky little shit hasn’t just inherited my ability to dream travel, he has also inherited my sarcasm and straight to the point attitude. I can live with his sarcastic reference to McMillan in his name, but I can’t have him talking to Maria about us.

  I don’t have time to talk to him, but I send him a WhatsApp message to say that I’m going away on a case but will call him as soon as I get back.

  Naively, I hope that this will keep him off my back for a few weeks, but within seconds my phone beeps to signal a new message.

  How long will you be away for? We need to talk about this, Sean.

  For a second I consider ignoring the message, but then I think better of it and send a reply.

  Possibly for a couple of weeks. We have been assigned a case in Lincolnshire. I promise that as soon as I get back, we can meet up for a pint and talk about how to handle this.

  My message is read immediately, and I can see that Ben is typing his reply. It is a few minutes before his message comes through and I am surprised when it just says, Okay, thanks. I will wait to hear from you.

  He must have reconsidered and deleted whatever it was he was typing for so long, but I am just happy to be able to end the conversation and I put my phone back in my pocket.

  Forty-five minutes later I have packed a bag, showered, changed suits and cooked myself a frozen pizza. I am halfway through it when Cath calls to say that she is waiting outside for me. I stuff another slice of pizza in my mouth, pick up my bag, and head down to join Catherine.

  “So, where exactly are we going, Sean?”

&n
bsp; “Hang on, let me check the booking confirmation, Cath,” I reply. “Okay, it’s called the Winchester Hotel in a place called Tyevale on the Wold.”

  “That sounds a bit fancy, Sean.”

  “Yep, it does Cath, which as we both know, probably means that it is a complete shithole. Wonderful.”

  Cath punches the address into the GPS, and we set off towards the M1 motorway. If the GPS is accurate, it is 102 miles and two hours, twenty minutes away, so we should get there comfortably before five.

  With Cath concentrating on the road, I get to work and open the file. It is jam-packed with interview notes, witness statements, photographs, newspaper cuttings and, helpfully, a short summary of the case provided by the lead detective prior to the case being closed in August of 1974. Keeping a missing person case open for more than two years in the seventies would have been highly unusual and this alone speaks volumes for the influence that Lucy Partington-Brown’s father must have had back then.

  I had been wondering why we were being sent to Tyevale on the Wold and not Spalding, but it makes sense now. This is where the Partington-Browns were living at the time of Lucy’s disappearance and this is in fact where they are still living.

  As Cath reaches the outskirts of the town, I am still working my way through the file, but I close it and put it away.

  Far from being a shithole, Tyevale on the Wold is almost picture postcard perfect and has a name that wouldn’t be out of place in the medieval Domesday Book commissioned by William the Conqueror in 1085 AD to record, amongst other things, all the towns and villages in England for the purpose of confirming accurate tax collection.

  Whether Tyevale was or wasn’t included in the Domesday Book, it is a lovely looking town and is surrounded by lush countryside and farmland made all the better by the beautiful spring weather.

  A few minutes later, Catherine brings her car to a stop in the courtyard of the Winchester Hotel and we are met at the entrance by a well-dressed young woman who escorts us to the reception to check in.

  When the young man behind the reception desk confirms our reservation and hands us the key cards for two rooms on the fourth floor, Cath smiles and looks at me with puppy eyes.

  “Aww, boss. So sorry about that, you really were hoping for just one room, weren’t you … Mr. Smith!”

  The guy on reception looks both bemused and slightly embarrassed at Cath’s joke, which has gone right over his head. To save him any further embarrassment we head straight up to our rooms. In the corridor, we make plans to meet later.

  “Okay, I have a couple of calls to make, Cath. Let’s meet in the bar in about an hour. I’ll take you through what I know already. Sound good?”

  “Yep, sounds good, I might just grab a shower and get changed. I’ll see you down there around 6, Sean.”

  “Great, just call me if you need anything. Maybe I could hand you a towel or some extra shower gel,” I joke. “You sure you don’t want to go undercover? It might help the case.”

  “Yep, I’m sure, Sean. I also think that once we get back to London, you need to get yourself laid. I’m guessing that nothing happened with your nurse friend?”

  I ask her what she means.

  “You’re a man, Sean. If anything had happened with her, you would never stop talking about it. Even I could see how hot she was.”

  Cath laughs as my face turns red with embarrassment and I turn away to put my key card in the slot, but Cath hasn’t finished punishing me yet for my towel and shower gel comment.

  “So how long has it been, Sean?”

  “Sorry, how long has what been?”

  “How long since you got laid? Don’t go all coy on me now, not after that feeble attempt to see me in the shower just then. If I was easily offended, I might easily interpret that as sexual harassment from a senior officer.”

  I may be a detective, but Cath is incredibly smart and now has me completely flustered.

  “No, no, I didn’t mean anything by it, Cath, I was just joking.”

  Catherine bursts out laughing and takes the card from my hand and uses it to open the door for me.

  “Sean, calm down, mate, I’m just messing with you. Jesus, the look on your face is priceless.”

  I can hear her laughing all the way down the corridor to her room and I feel like a prize twat as I close my door.

  She is right, though; I do need to get laid. It’s been way to long since I was last with a woman. From my recollection, the last time was in 1994!

  The room is nice enough. From the fourth floor it has a pleasant view across a beautifully manicured garden. At most other times of the year it would probably be fairly grim and deserted, but in the middle of April the weather is starting to warm up and the flowers in the garden are in full bloom.

  The ground-floor bar opens out onto a paved terrace area and I can see that four or five of the tables are already occupied. Regardless of cracking this case or not, there are certainly worse places I could think of to spend the next couple of weeks.

  I unpack my bag and hang up my spare suit and shirts and then I call my mother to let her know where I am and that I won’t be home for at least two weeks. Under normal circumstances, we would generally only speak once or twice a month and it would be a rarity for her to visit my apartment, but since the shooting, she has gone back into overly protective mother mode. We talk for five minutes and then I grab a quick shower and change into jeans and a t-shirt. It’s just past five-thirty and Cath will be expecting to see me in the bar at six, but there is something I need to do first.

  I want to dream travel tonight, but my clothes would stick out like a sore thumb in 1972. I should of course have thought of that before I left home, and I had been wondering what to do about it when a possible solution presented itself on the way into Tyevale in the form of a couple of charity shops on the high street.

  The high street is just a two-minute walk from the hotel. With twenty minutes to spare until closing time, I push open the door to a mid-sized branch of Oxfam and am immediately greeted by an officious-looking woman with silver hair who looks to be in her late sixties or early seventies.

  “We shut at six, young man. Is there something that I can help you with?”

  Looking around the store at the numerous racks of suits, dresses, shirts, and other items and given the fact that I am not an expert on seventies fashion, I am grateful for her offer of assistance and I flash her my best smile.

  “Thank you, some help would be wonderful. I have a fancy-dress party coming up soon and it’s a seventies theme. I’m looking for a suit and some shoes with a matching shirt and tie if possible.”

  My mention of the seventies makes her smile. If I am right about her age she would have been in her late teens or early twenties at the time. Perhaps then the reason for her smile is fond memories of her youth. She steps from behind the counter and guides me towards a rack of men’s clothes. I am hopeful that she will be able to help me out, but then she turns back towards me.

  “Oh, no, I thought that we had a nice three-piece suit from the mid-seventies, but I just remembered that we sent it across to our local theatre group last week. I could call around to some of our other branches for you, but that might take a few days. How soon do you need it, love?”

  “I was hoping to have something today if possible,” I reply.

  She thinks about if for a minute, then she smiles again and asks me to wait. “We don’t have any suits in stock at the moment but let me have a look in the back to see what we do have. What are you, a 34-inch waist and 46-inch chest? Am I right?”

  I confirm that I am, and she smiles at me again. This time there is more of a twinkle in her eye and it is blatantly obvious that she is flirting with me.

  “Yes, I thought so, I’m not usually wrong about men’s sizes. I’m generally correct, give or take an inch.”

  For the second time in as many hours, I find myself blushing and I am thankful when she turns and disappears into the stock room.

  A
few minutes later and with the color of my cheeks nearly back to normal, she reappears holding a pile of clothes, a pair of brogue shoes, and a pair of platform boots, which she lays out on the counter. I am truly lost for words, but she is extremely pleased at her selection and is keen for me to try them on.

  “Well, what do you think, young man? This look would have got you all the girls back in the seventies. Would you like me to help you try them on?”

  “Actually, I think they will be okay. To be honest, I’m in a bit of a hurry,” I reply.

  Being in a hurry is not a lie. It’s nearly 6 and knowing Cath, she will already be in the bar waiting for me.

  Looking slightly disappointed, but accepting my explanation, my new-found admirer folds and bags the clothes and then asks me about the footwear. “Which do you prefer, the boots or the shoes?”

  In truth, both are absolutely ghastly, but I tell her I will take both.

  “I can wear the boots with this outfit and if it’s okay, would you mind calling around to see if you can track down a suit for me that I can wear with these shoes?”

  She agrees, and I jot down my name and number on her notepad and then I hand her a fifty-pound note for my items. Despite the bill only coming to thirty I tell her to keep the change in the hope that she will find me something decent that I can wear on a later trip. She hands me my bags of shopping and I swear that her hand deliberately brushes over mine longer than is needed. If I am in any doubt, there is more than a hint of flirtatiousness in her last statement and the unnecessary way that she draws out my name.

  “Before you go, Sean. Take one of my cards and don’t hesitate to call if you need anything else. Anything at all that is. It’s really no problem.”

  Like a teenage boy caught looking at the top shelf magazines in a newsagent, I blush for the third time today. I leave as quickly as I can and make my way back to the hotel.

  From the reception, I can see Catherine sitting at the bar. Fortunately, she has her back to me, and I am able to make it to the lift without her noticing. I head straight to my room and drop my bags onto my bed and then I take the man-eater’s business card from my pocket.