‘I don’t know what’s happened to the girl any more than anyone else, but my gut feeling is that it’s serious. I’d like to know a lot more about the family circumstances, for a start.’
Terek said, ‘You think it’s family related? The statistics-’
‘Sixty per cent in cases where the victim is under sixteen – I don’t operate solely on hunches. No, I’m not saying I think it’s that but we don’t know enough, and what little I do know comes from the family liaison officer. And all I know about the girl is what she was wearing that night and what her ex-best friend has told us. That’s not enough. To catch a killer, study the victim or victims. I hope to God that’s not what we’re doing here but the point remains. Why her and why now? We should be spending as much time looking at where the girl came from as we are looking at where she went.’
In the ensuing silence Smith moved on and around the inspector’s desk. Waters was sitting up straighter, still apparently viewing his laptop but he must have heard this exchange with Terek.
Terek said, ‘DCI Reeve is meeting Mrs Johnson as we speak. I’m sure we will have a more detailed picture as a result of that.’
‘Yes, so am I. If I get anywhere with this picture, I’ll let you know.’
Chapter Eleven
The one who was older was not nice – the English would say a nasty piece of work. He had a shaven head like a bullet and a scowl made worse by his heavy face and the dark shadow where a thick beard would grow if it had been allowed to do so. A thickset, powerfully built man, he stood too close to you, as if at any moment he was going to take hold of you, as if he expected you to run away because he was a policeman and you must be guilty of the things he was asking you questions about. This was the one who was in charge and the other one was doing as he was told.
‘So my colleague is just going to take a look around, Mr Sadik. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?’
Mehmet knew something about English law, everybody does because it’s famous, the English are famous for their law all around the world. There is the thing called the warrant which is a piece of paper that gives them the right to search your home – or your business, it must be just the same – but this policeman didn’t have a piece of paper. He was not asking for permission either, just saying that the other one was going to “take a look around” – was that the same as a search? And what did all this have to do with the girl they were asking about?
‘Good – I didn’t think you would. Mike, give it the once-over out the back.’
The friendlier policeman went behind the counter and through into the private part of the shop. As he did so, the front door opened and a woman came in from the street, someone that Mehmet recognised as an occasional customer. She would want two lamb shish and-
‘Sorry, love – he’s closed at the moment.’
The woman looked at Detective Sergeant Wilson as if he might be robbing the place, and she asked Mehmet Sadik if he was alright. Mehmet nodded but didn’t look convincing. Wilson took a couple of steps towards her and held out his warrant card.
‘He’s closed. It’s a police investigation into a serious matter.’
The woman nodded and backed out of the doorway. Mehmet thought, a serious matter? He is telling people this but I am not under arrest and I have answered all the questions. Now she will tell others…
‘Can’t have people wandering in and out of a potential crime scene, can we?’
The thought of lost business seemed to have given Sadik a shot of desperate courage.
‘What is this you say? Crime scene? This is crazy! I answer the questions, I give you the CCTV. I cooperate with the police!’
Now the detective was smiling.
‘You’d better calm down, sir. If there’s any risk of you assaulting an officer as he goes about his duty, we have the right to restrain you.’
In my own country, thought Sadik, the police are not so subtle but they are the same the world over. This is a dangerous situation now, in here alone with this man who has presumed I am guilty of something terrible, and Emir has not come to put the new thing in to make the camera work again. There would be no witnesses.
The second policeman reappeared behind the counter, looking at the first one and shaking his head. Then he said, ‘A kitchen, a storeroom, fridge and a couple of freezers. There used to be some sort of flat upstairs but it hasn’t been used in years, I’d say. It’s a lock-up, that’s all.’
The shop door opened and another plain clothes policeman came in – this was obvious because the others recognised him. This was a big man who looked at Mehmet in a not unfriendly way before he said to the one in charge, ‘There’s a traffic cam at the far end. If it’s twenty-four hour, it might show us whether she walked out that way. Nothing else.’
Wilson said, ‘Alright, John. Round up the rest and we’ll head back. Nothing on the girl’s photo anywhere?’
John Murray shook his head, turned and left the shop.
Then both the remaining men were looking at Mehmet as if it really was his fault they had been told there was “nothing on the girl’s photo anywhere”.
‘So, Mr Sadik. I am inviting you to come to Kings Lake Central police station with us now, to answer a few more questions. Correction,’ with a grin at the other one, ‘a lot more questions about Monday evening. I hope you’re not going to make this difficult. A teenaged girl has gone missing and you were one of the last two people known to have contact with her. We need you to make a formal witness statement, and the best place to do that is not in your shop. Find your keys and lock up, or hand them to my colleague and he’ll do that for you. And if you have a mobile phone, I’d like you to bring that along as well.’
They had not arrested him but they seemed to be giving him no choices. That invitation was just an order in disguise. Was this how it was done under the English law? Should he call Emir, just in case? Would this take all night? What about prayer, Salat al-’asr? He was going to miss the early evening trade, too, maybe two hundred pounds’ worth of business… Who has visited this upon him?
‘No, no, no, no, no! Why you do these things to me? Why you come here to tell me things like this?’
Dolly Argyris had decorated her desk for Christmas – strands of garishly red and green tinsel hung from the corners, and an internally-illuminated plastic Santa Claus seemed to have fixed its disturbingly manic stare upon her visitor. Smith had no idea that Greeks celebrated the season of goodwill in such fine style.
The hand that had theatrically covered her brow as she received the news of his imminent departure from the police service now began to wave about with its companion as she elaborated a little on her fears for the future of the town without him.
‘Why is this retirement? You are a man in the prime, I tell you this often. Always! You need proof, I can give you proof! Greek women have great respect for experience in all things… Who else gonna keep the women of this Kings Lake safe, eh? So they can sleep safe in their beds at-a night?’
Smith had no illusions about Dolly. She would be sorry to see him go because he was a very useful contact for her inside the force – she ran a business which needed periodic relicensing, and although that was a local authority matter, a quiet, unofficial word from law enforcement was always helpful. But they had known each other for a long time, too, and maybe she would miss him and their comical dance as he evaded once again her attempts to seduce him. She had never been serious, of course, but despite the fact that in three weeks he would be a free man as far as professional distance was concerned, he was not prepared to risk a playful suggestion that their time together had arrived. Discretion is the better part of valour, and it would take a braver man than him to meet Dolly Argyris after business hours.
Smith said, ‘Dolly, you’ve met John Murray, one of my detective constables. I’m going to ask him to keep an eye on you. You’ll be fine.’
‘Eh? Which one is this? Not that skinny boy? A skinny boy is no good to me!’
‘No, not Wa
ters. Good God! Perish the thought! John’s the big chap who doesn’t say much.’
‘Oh, him?’
Dolly looked thoughtful. The winds that blow through the islands of the Aegean Sea have always been fitful, taking the ships and heroes of myth and legend to strange and unexpected destinations, so Smith was not surprised to see a faint smile dawning on Dolly’s round and generous face. She used her two hands to measure the height and breadth of the imaginary Murray as she continued, ‘This is a big-a man. Yes, OK. He is married?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
There was absolutely no need to explain that technically John Murray was still available.
‘OK. All the good ones are. Never mind. When you gonna bring him around, make the formal introductions?’
‘On my very next visit. That’s if we can actually get on to what I asked you about half an hour ago, Dolly. This girl? Your drivers? Monday evening?’
Smith was holding up his phone, the picture of the man in the kebab shop towards her. Dolly waggled her fingers impatiently and he handed the phone to her.
‘Don’t know him. Not one of my boys. How you know he’s a driver?’
‘We don’t. It’s just somewhere to start, Dolly.’
‘How old you say this girl is?’
Smith took back the phone, found the picture of Zoe Johnson and showed it to her as he said, ‘Fourteen.’
She looked at the image for quite a long time, and her face gradually darkened. Then she said, ‘Still a child.’ She pressed a button on the ancient, complicated base unit for her landline and a man’s voice answered through an intercom.
Dolly said, ‘Terry, Monday night. Who we have on? Anybody sitting on their backside at The Crescent all the evening?’
Terry said he would find out, and Dolly handed the phone back to its owner. She said, ‘You need a taxi when you have no job, you ride with me for free. And you need a job because you have no money, you drive for me. But you must get new car first. I can’t have that old thing with my name on the side.’
Smith thanked her for the offer, which he knew she meant. He wouldn’t need the money but he had a sudden moment of doubt about retirement – the latest of quite a number now – because one just had to wonder how the time would pass if he wasn’t doing this. The gardening, the idling about on the coast, the learning of new riffs that he had been meaning to get around to for the past thirty years could only take up so many hours, and none of those things could act as a compass point, could they, giving life a sense of purpose and direction? There was Jo, of course, but a relationship isn’t going to work if it becomes a substitute for a job…
Terry’s voice came back through the intercom.
‘Dolly? Albert was on Monday night, and he had a couple of pick-ups from the rank at The Crescent.’
She said, ‘OK. Sergeant Smith here going to give him a call. You got his number?’
‘No need. He’s out in the yard. Want me to send him up?’
Albert King had a taxi driver’s paunch of classical proportions – by the time he reached the top of the stairs that led to Dolly’s office he was half-winded and red in the face. He nodded to Smith and then listened to Dolly’s explanation as to what was going on. Then he looked at the picture of the man in the kebab shop and shook his head.
‘I don’t know him. If he’s a driver, he’s a freelance.’
‘You see, like I always say! Freelancer is nothing but trouble!’
In Dolly’s mind, this had convicted the mystery man of all possible crimes, but Smith had no intention of getting involved in the internecine wars that drivers-for-hire had been conducting in Kings Lake for the past decade.
Smith said, ‘Thanks, Albert. That’s a start anyway. Was there anyone else about who might have seen him? Taxis from other firms?’
Albert wheezed a little before he spoke, and Smith noticed the nicotine stains on the pudgy fingers. He was definitely giving up for good.
‘There was a Wings cab there for a while. I could have a word… What’s this bloke done, then?’
‘Almost certainly nothing, but we’re eliminating people who were in that area on Monday evening. A girl’s gone missing and we need witnesses. We know she was in The Crescent at around half past nine.’
And that is why you have to be in the room. Albert King’s face altered then as he looked at Smith, at Dolly and then back at the policeman.
‘Is this about the kid who was on the news tonight? It was on the radio not half an hour ago, about them searching up at the Dockmills. Like I said, I was listening on the radio in the car, so I haven’t seen no picture but… She was in The Crescent?’
Smith was already swiping right across the screen of his phone while keeping his gaze fixed on the taxi driver. Then he held up the photograph of Zoe.
Albert said, ‘Jesus Christ! She’s the one?’
Smith said, ‘Yes. Zoe Johnson. She’s the missing girl.’
The blue eyes were zeroed in on those of the driver with an unnerving intensity, watching for the dilation that could only be a fraction of a millimetre but which can speak volumes to someone who understands the secret language of guilt.
‘Jesus effing Christ… Sorry, Dolly. But I spoke to her myself Monday night. She was at the burger stall. I spoke to her.’
‘Alison, your job is straightforward – find the girl. Mine is somewhat more complicated at this moment in time – I have to find the resources for you to find the girl. Tell me what you need, or think you need, and I’ll tell you whether we can afford it. I know that sounds brutal but it’s a calculation that has to be made in every investigation. Especially these days, as you well know.’
Detective Superintendent Allen used both hands to adjust the position of the entirely superfluous blotter on his desk, and DCI Alison Reeve wondered whether he had stored on his mobile a picture of how that desk was supposed to look at the start and end of each working day. Every item seemed to be placed with mathematical precision and perfect alignment.
Allen added, ‘And as far as we can tell, the girl hasn’t come to harm. That is something that I have to factor in in these cases. I appreciate how distressed families can become, and I know that you have just spent time with the mother, but we have to weigh up the matter dispassionately. Fortunately, we don’t have other significant calls upon resources at present. However…’
Reeve let him talk on for a few more seconds. Like any decent officer, she disliked the talk of resources when people were suffering, but she was a realist, and the realities of senior management had certainly become clearer since her last promotion. But this was not what was uppermost in her mind this morning – it was not the cost of the current operation that was worrying her but its sudden momentum and scale. She had taken the final decision on the search of the area between Dockmills and The Crescent and now seventy officers were out there in waterproofs, with dogs and drones and an ambulance crew on standby. There had been a helicopter flyover before the search began and that alone had cost thousands, never mind the hourly rate for all those people.
And all that was just one aspect of this operation. She had not formed any doubts about Mrs Johnson but more needed to be done on the family background – social services needed speaking to and that was very delicate, always, and so it was something else she had better do herself. Hopefully, DC’s team would sort out the mother’s boyfriend and the youth who had been hanging around the Johnson house for a few weeks previously. Had Wilson’s team been thorough with the CCTV? She didn’t have time to check that herself. The kebab shop owner was more than a witness now, he was a person of interest. Was there more that needed to be done at the school? Would there be a deluge of information after the media appeals? To call this a roller-coaster ride would be to incur the cliché-wrath of Smith but she had to admit it to herself – she hadn’t been this high or fast before and it was scary.
Allen finished with, ‘So, what’s the next move?’
Reeve thought, he’s a slippery customer al
right, it’s no wonder certain individuals don’t get on with him. ‘The’ next move, not ‘your next move’ which would have been blatant, and not ‘our next move’ which would have suggested a willingness to share the responsibility. The superintendent’s words had been carefully chosen to distance himself just enough – or maybe she was simply experiencing a touch of paranoia.
Her mobile pinged with a text, and she was grateful for the interruption – reading it in front of him wasn’t rudeness, of course. This is how busy detectives communicate half the time these days. She looked at it and said, ‘From DC. He’s found a taxi driver who spoke to Zoe on Monday evening.’
Allen said, ‘Ah. The man in the kebab shop?’
‘It might be – he doesn’t say. He’s bringing him in to make a statement. I ought to…’
‘Yes, go. You need to be all over this, as they say. It’s lucky that…’
Allen ran out of words, and Alison Reeve waited halfway between his desk and the office door.
‘You have some good officers, Alison. You know their strengths. Make the most of their experience.’
Priti Patel was already doing an emergency type and print of Albert King’s statement – Smith had had to flutter his eyelashes a little to get this done but it should only take a few more minutes. The idea was to get the taxi man to sign it before he left the building. In the meantime, DCI Reeve and DI Terek had watched the video recording of the interview, along with Smith himself.
Reeve said, ‘So? What do you think?’
Smith answered, ‘My first instinct is that he’s alright. We have to remember that he’s already been screened by Dolly Argyris.’
The detective chief inspector looked at Terek, who couldn’t be blamed for not knowing these things, and said, ‘The same Dolly Argyris who has herself been the subject of various investigations. How can I put this delicately? Some unconventional business practices resulting in some of her competitors leaving the industry and possibly the country as well?’
A Private Investigation Page 11
