A Private Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  She looked him straight in the eyes, insolent because of the youth thing.

  ‘So you want something to eat, you tell me. That’s what we do here, we sell food.’

  There was a smile on her face now but it was meant in mockery. She looked around the shop, made a point of leaning to the side so she could see behind him before she responded.

  ‘We? Can’t see no-one else. You look like a bit of a loner.’

  He pointed to the menu on the wall behind the counter.

  ‘This place isn’t a bus shelter, neither. You want some food, OK. You can stay in here and eat at the table. But you don’t sit here all night with one drink.’

  She took her time reading the menu, and then she stood up, shaking her head. She kept him waiting, lifting her hair out of her coat collar, and then slowly pulling up the zip. Trying to be like a lady who has just declined tea at The Ritz.

  ‘No thanks, mate. I don’t fancy any of that foreign muck. I think I’ll have a burger instead.’

  She left the door open so that he had to go and close it. He stood watching through the glass panel as she walked across the road. She said something to the man in the van and straight away his hands were busy as he chatted back to her. Mehmet thought, this rain is getting worse. I might as well go home.

  The girl ran a line of sauce down the hot-dog sausage and then another line back up to where she had begun. She put down the bottle and picked up the other one, the mustard, and ran a line of that down the opposite side. A smile because she knew he was watching her, he wasn’t hiding that at all, and then a pause, probably because she was wondering how to eat it with any delicacy in front of him; she could just walk away but it was raining harder, and she was getting a little shelter from the awning that pulled out over the serving hatch.

  He said, ‘Mustard, eh? You like it hot!’

  She knew what sort of talk that was – her Mum and Roy were at it all the time, thinking she didn’t understand.

  ‘Yeah! You got any chilli sauce, I’ll have some of that as well!’

  ‘I think you’ve got enough sauce…’

  He had a nice smile and really white teeth, and a tan like he’d been on holiday somewhere sunny. Long fingers with clean nails, just one heavy gold band on the ring finger of his right hand – which is also called the digitus annularis. She remembered that from a magazine which told you how to learn things about people from their hands. She was interested in human biology and Mrs McBride had said she had potential if she paid attention in the lessons. Maybe she would be a nurse.

  He said, ‘You’re getting wet.’

  ‘S’alright, my coat’s waterproof.’

  ‘Go back and sit in the kebab shop ‘til it stops. He’ll love that!’

  ‘No, he’s a dirty old man.’

  He liked that she could see, her not being afraid to say it.

  ‘Girls that look like you have to watch out for them.’

  She took another bite but found it hard to swallow; that was a proper compliment, without being rude or anything. So she shrugged as if this was the sort of thing a girl has to put up with these days.

  A cabbie came across the road, a big man with a stomach to match. He knew the burger man, called him by his name but she didn’t catch it properly. They talked about the weather, and the girl stood and listened as two burgers with cheese and extra onions were finished off. Before he went, the cabbie looked at her and said, ‘You alright, sweetheart? What you doin’ out on a night like this?’

  ‘Eating my dinner.’

  ‘I see! Sharp enough to cut yourself an’ all! Well, watch this boy. I reckon he could charm the birds out of the trees.’

  The cabbie went back to where three taxis were parked up. Then another car pulled in behind them, and the driver got out and went into the kebab shop, one of the young, smart-looking Asian boys. The girl saw a face that she recognised looking out from the rear window, Alana something from the year above at school. This girl turned away and must have said something because then another girl’s face appeared – she was in the same class as Alana – and both were staring at her. Surprised to see her out at this time of night, talking to a man who paid compliments and could charm the birds out of the trees. After staring back for long enough, she turned to him and said she might even have another one of these, and he laughed. Give them something to talk about, wouldn’t it? She didn’t bother turning around again until she heard the car drive away.

  Then he was saying, ‘Look, you’re getting soaked. I’m here for another half an hour before I go into town for the clubs. You can come inside and sit on this stool. Fry me some onions, maybe you get one for free, eh?’

  Roy was all over her as usual after a few beers, but what is a woman to do? He’d probably been above the limit driving back from the town and he couldn’t risk his licence, not with his job, so Penny Johnson told him he could stay the night, and that had quietened him down for a few minutes. She went upstairs and made sure the kids were asleep. Holly and Bella were in their bunk beds. The room’s a tip, she said to herself, but they’d obviously been playing alright. Next, she went into Jack’s room and turned off the monitor – when she touched the controls one of his computer games sprang back into life with a burst of automatic gunfire but he never moved or made a sound.

  Zoe’s bedroom door was a few inches open, and she could see the flicker of the TV screen. It wasn’t on very loud and it wouldn’t wake the others. Penny Johnson hesitated and took her phone out of her pocket to check the time – almost midnight. Too late for the TV, what with school tomorrow, but if she went in there’d be another row. She didn’t need another row, not with Roy waiting downstairs, and so she pulled the door to as quietly as she could. She would have words with her eldest again in the morning.

  Chapter Four

  Detective Inspector Terek liked to hold a briefing every morning when the teams were on days; this might be because the novelty of his being able to do so had yet to wear off, or it might now be a permanent addition to the department’s routine. The location of the briefing, however, was still a problem. The detectives’ usual working area was open-plan and a little too large for a meeting there to be relaxed and informal – addressing the troops here meant raising the voice whilst trying not to shout at them first thing in the morning. The alternative, Smith guessed, was to hold the briefing in one of the smaller rooms but that would involve everyone walking back and forth, making the whole enterprise more of an event, even though there would usually be nothing of importance to add to the briefing they’d had the day before. The other option was not to hold a briefing unless one was required, but Detective Inspector Terek liked to hold a briefing every morning…

  John Murray had put his own chair next to Smith’s, and while they waited Smith said, ‘Well, what was the house like?’

  ‘Not bad at all. It’s the first one we’ve seen but Maggie’s keen to have another, proper look at the weekend. She’s phoning the estate agent this morning. And the bank as well.’

  ‘Oh dear. It’s done and dusted, John. Where is it?’

  ‘Terrington Way, out towards Gorsefields. Three-bedroomed semi with a big garden.’

  ‘I know it. Almost out in the countryside. Sounds ideal.’

  Smith pictured it – John mowing the lawn in that big garden, Maggie hanging out the washing – some people still do that, don’t they? – and young William toddling about. It was a pleasant picture and he spent a little time watching it, making it come to life. Then he thought about Diarmuid and Mairead in Belfast, and their own addition, due sometime in March. He hoped that his own grandchild might have a garden to play in, and felt a little downcast because there was nothing he could do to make that happen.

  Lost in those thoughts, he missed the beginning of the briefing. Terek liked to stand as he made his address. The first arrests in the push on shoplifting had been made by Wilson’s team yesterday afternoon – great work, John – and Detective Superintendent Allen sends his regards. We ne
ed to get the message through that these people are not welcome in Kings Lake, and they had better take their business elsewhere. Which is fair enough, I suppose, thought Smith, but it’s a bit like throwing the dog’s mess into next door’s garden rather than putting it into the bin. Also, said Terek, he wanted the primary files in the Sokoloff case up to scratch by the end of tomorrow, that’s Wednesday; the Crown Prosecution Service have indicated that they will pursue murder charges against all three men – Vince, Fisher and Williams.

  Smith and Murray looked at each other, two minds with but a single thought.

  Smith said quietly, ‘Williams is still out on bail, isn’t he?’

  ‘Last I heard.’

  ‘There’s never enough to make a murder charge stick on Mark Williams, apart from the fact it’s just wrong.’

  ‘Someone should have a word.’

  But who? Alison Reeve should be aware of the dangers of an overenthusiastic new DI who didn’t know how to influence a CPS decision but she and Smith hadn’t had a meaningful conversation in weeks. For the most part he had accepted this as inevitable, the feeling of gradually being pushed aside as events overtake you, but then something like this happens, something unjust. Williams had never planned the murder of Bernard Sokoloff, not in a million years. And Smith had said to Julie Shapiro, Williams’ aunt, that if Mark went inside at all, it wouldn’t be for very long. Justice, to be justice, has to work both ways; we have to protect the nearly innocent as well as convict the very guilty. In the past, just a look at DCI Reeve would have been enough but she wasn’t in the room; to put this right he would need to make a point of going to see her, and that was awkward because then it looked as if he was going behind Terek’s back. Or he could just leave it be. Soon enough it wouldn’t be his problem.

  DI Terek was saying, ‘And finally, we have or might have a missing girl. Apparently there was a phone call from a worried mother this morning. A uniform patrol car has gone out to, er, where is this? Dockmills?’

  A couple of people nodded – Terek was still unfamiliar with much of Lake’s geography – but nobody looked surprised.

  Terek went on, ‘Anyway, I don’t suppose-’ and then the door swung open and Detective Chief Inspector Alison Reeve entered the room. Smith saw the slip of blue paper in her hand and knew what it meant.

  She said, ‘Sorry to interrupt but I wanted to catch you all before the end of the briefing.’ She looked at Terek who said, ‘Please, ma’am, go on.’

  ‘Thank you. Have you mentioned the missing girl?’

  Terek nodded.

  ‘Right. I’ve just been speaking to one of the uniformed officers who went out to the Dockmills this morning. She says she thinks this girl’s disappearance needs looking at straight away. The girl’s name is Zoe Johnson. She’s fourteen and she might have been missing since last night.’

  Terek said, ‘Might have, ma’am?’

  ‘It isn’t clear from what I’ve been told so far.’

  Smith and Murray exchanged another glance – one that said, of course it isn’t clear, it’s the Dockmills for a start.

  Reeve said, ‘I don’t want to disrupt what’s already been organised for this morning, but you all know that speed is of the essence in this sort of thing. I’d like someone out there in the next half an hour.’

  Detective Inspector Terek was already eyeing the room. Smith thought, someone older, someone who’s likely to have done this before, someone who can, in the first instance both reassure the frantic mother and see quickly beneath the surface of the domestic situation; almost invariably that’s where the answer lies.

  Terek said, ‘Chris and Serena, then – you’re not directly involved in the shoplifting. John and DC can take over whatever it is you were about to do this morning. Off you go. Report back to me as soon as you’ve made an assessment, please.’

  Within seconds the pair of them were on their feet and back at their desks, getting what they needed. Serena would probably take charge but Smith didn’t know whether she had any direct experience of this type of thing – he did know that Waters did not. And as they headed for the door behind DCI Reeve, it was Waters who glanced back at his sergeant for a fraction of a second, as if to apologise.

  Smith watched Reeve then – was she making a point of not looking in his direction? Terek ought to have passed down a matter of routine deployment to a sergeant but he was still new and keen to impress, to look decisive in front of the assembled men and women who made up the detective force at Kings Lake – he had even told Waters and Butler to report back to him directly. And then Smith had to wonder whether the DI had prioritised getting the paperwork done for the CPS and his senior officers over a first look at a missing teenager.

  John Murray said to Smith, ‘Fourteen? Ten to one she’s gone off in a strop and turns up by lunch-time.’

  ‘The odds are more like a hundred to one that’s what’ll happen, John – thank God.’

  Murray didn’t say anything else but he must have wondered; Smith had been the senior investigating officer on the Andretti case when the last two girls disappeared. You don’t get over that, and every teenaged runaway story must be an echo of those awful events. As the SIO, you get the glory if he’s caught in time, and you get the blame if he isn’t. Forever and a day, you will be asking yourself, what did I miss? Could we, should we, have caught him sooner?

  Smith didn’t know whether Terek had given the signal or not but people were drifting away to their desks. He said, ‘Right, John. We’ve got some bullet-pointing, proof-reading and digital filing to do.’

  Murray gave him the appropriate look, and nothing more was required. Between them, they had more than fifty years of investigative experience. They had caught a serial killer, murderers, rapists, armed robbers, drug barons and people smugglers. They had been beaten up more than once for their trouble, and Murray had even managed to get himself shot through a door. They both had commendations for their work as detectives and medals for their bravery, and they were going to spend the rest of the morning preparing ‘paperwork’ which would be emailed to a junior lawyer in the Crown Prosecution Service.

  Make sure you get a look at the girl’s bedroom, her private space – she’s bound to have somewhere like that by the age of fourteen. Get the mother’s OK and do a quick initial search. Find out what she was wearing, and the details of her phone, because, again, she will have one by the age of fourteen. Probably by the age of four on the Dockmills… And a computer or an iPad. Social media accounts. A photograph, just in case. Take a really close look at that photograph, Chris. What is it telling you about Zoe Johnson?

  When was she last seen, a precise time, and where? Did she say where she was going, did she mention a name and has that person been contacted? Do not assume that any of this has actually been done – you would be amazed. Does she have a boyfriend?

  Has there been a family row, and does she have any history of this sort of behaviour? Is there a man in the household, and is he her natural father? If not, pay particular attention to that and get some detail about him that we can check. Also, don’t forget to…

  Smith sighed in irritation because his head was full of it, every time he tried to focus on Serena’s mobile phone reports and data tables. He had fought off the temptation to text the key points to Waters, to phone even, and hadn’t he been saying to himself for weeks that it was time for them to show more independence?

  His watch told him that the two of them had been gone for more than an hour, and the Dockmills is only a ten-minute drive from Central once the morning rush is over. He could see Terek, with Wilson at his desk. There had been no sign that Terek had had any phone calls. Then as he watched, he saw Terek open his mobile but he was making a call, not receiving one, something to do with what Wilson was talking about.

  Moments later Smith’s own mobile was in action, and he could see straight away that it was Chris Waters. Murray had stopped writing – he was watching before Smith had answered. After Smith’s question – �
��Right, what have you got?’ – he followed one side of the conversation, working out the rest.

  Smith said to Waters, ‘Where are you now?’ and then ‘Yes, well he’s on the phone. I can either take a message and ask him to ring you when he’s done, or you can tell me what’s happening!’

  Murray smiled and hoped for Waters’ sake that he was about to make the correct decision – the sarcasm could get much more painful than that. Then Smith was listening, with just a couple of ‘Goods’ and a ‘You’ve seen her bedroom?’

  Waters must have talked for another couple of minutes and Smith was listening, and writing things on the notepad in front of him. Murray looked up and saw that Terek was still involved with John Wilson.

  Finally, Smith said, ‘Alright, so far, so good. Describe the photo to me.’

  Another silence and then, ‘Have you got the name of the other girl in it? Good. You said Zoe looked older – how much older? Fair enough. Funny how they never look younger.’

  And that last comment was directed as much to Murray as it was to Waters.

  Smith said to the phone, ‘Sounds as if the two of you have done a decent job. Now, you’re the man on the ground. How do we play this?’

  Terek, of course, would never have asked the question, but Murray understood why Smith had done so. Sooner or later, every officer must learn to use his judgement out there; not everything can be brought back to the station for further discussion. Chris Waters was clever but sometimes he liked the luxury of time, and you don’t always have that. In the end, he might become one of the backroom boys rather than a front-line officer – Murray wasn’t sure as yet.

  Smith said, ‘It’s your call. You can have a ride round for an hour or two and see if she turns up, or you can press the alarm bell now.’

  Smith was looking directly at Murray – it was perfectly plain what the detective sergeant himself would do though he had had only five minutes’ telephone conversation in the office.