A Private Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  No-one reappeared for longer than it ought to have taken, and both detectives listened. They could make out the woman’s voice and its scolding tone but not the words she was saying. There was no answering male voice that they could hear. Serena saw Murray’s giant hand reach into a jacket pocket and check for something, and she wondered what that might be.

  Then there were steps on a landing above followed by feet coming down the stairs, two sets, the woman first and then what had to be Stephen Sweeney. The mother was silent but she presented the youth like a surprising discovery – and Serena was surprised. Sweeney was taller than expected, well-built and good-looking in a dark, quiet way.

  She said, ‘Are you Stephen Sweeney?’

  Just a single nod, looking directly at her. No concern, no apprehension, no fear.

  ‘I’m Detective Constable Butler, and this is Detective Constable Murray. We’re making some routine inquiries and your name was mentioned. We’d just like a word. Can we come in for a moment or two?’

  Murray was already inside but neither of them noticed, or objected if they did. The woman walked further into the house, and her son followed her – Murray and Butler exchanged another look and went after them. The place was barely lit and probably unheated – cold, dark and furnished in post-war style, circa the early 1950s. Mrs Sweeney led them into a sitting room with a high-backed sofa and matching armchairs, the ghastly floral coverings of large red roses complete with antimacassars. There were glass-fronted cabinets full of porcelain figures and decorative glassware. An ugly, dark dining table that was too large for the room had several ancient, hand-embroidered placemats around a central vase full of silk flowers – flowers that had faded and gathered dust as fine as pollen from the stale air. The room had curtains over a window that would look out onto a back garden, but they were drawn.

  Serena Butler said, ‘Mrs Sweeney, it’s only Stephen we need to speak to. And he’s not in any trouble that we know of, so you can…’

  The woman nodded but if this was intended to convey any form of understanding, it failed. She remained planted firmly by her son’s side, hands joined in front of her like a girl taught deportment in Sunday school.

  ‘Alright, then. Stephen – we’re trying to find a girl called Zoe Johnson. I’m sure you’ve heard about it on the news. She’s from the estate, she lives just up the road. I think you know Zoe, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  One syllable, but often it’s enough, though we find that difficult to explain. Stephen Sweeney is good-looking Serena told herself, and though the house was cold, he was wearing a short-sleeved vest that showed strong arms – but in answering the first question much more than that had been revealed. And now Mrs Sweeney’s eyes were directly fixed on Serena, to see whether she had understood.

  ‘Thank you. I think you’ve been to Zoe’s house a few times, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When was the last time you were there? Can you remember?’

  ‘Yes. Friday the first of December, in the afternoon.’

  More than three weeks – Serena reflected that she would need to think carefully to remember what she’d been up to three days ago. Sweeney’s voice was somehow flat, lacking the intonations that we do not notice until they are missing. Instinctively she began to recalibrate the questions she needed to ask.

  ‘So did you speak to Zoe that day, Stephen?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see Zoe on that Friday? Was she-’

  ‘No. Mrs Johnson told me to go away.’

  An awkward silence then, with Mrs Sweeney’s expression apparently unchanged, but her eyes were saying something new and angry to Serena. She, Serena, wanted to ask why Mrs Johnson had done that but the result might have been too awkward for the boy’s mother, too painful to hear.

  ‘Have you seen Zoe since that day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, Stephen. Just tell me about the last time you saw her.’

  He did, and when he had finished Detective Constable Butler found that her mouth was half open. Then she closed it and looked at John Murray. He stared impassively at the boy for some seconds and then he looked at Serena. She had asked the question, and so it was her call.

  She took a deep breath and said to him, ‘I’ll just go outside and get in touch with the station.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alison Reeve’s new office had a window. This is a perk of rank at Kings Lake Central; as one rises up the ladder, one rises up the building, and the views tend to become more impressive and panoramic. For no reason that Smith could discern, Reeve got up from her desk and walked across to this window, as if she had forgotten to check on some ongoing situation out there; he watched from behind her right shoulder as she processed what he had just told her, and then she said, ‘Is this for real?’

  ‘That was pretty much word-for-word what Serena told me. She’s a bit barmy sometimes but she wouldn’t joke about this.’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t. She thinks he’s autistic?’

  ‘Well, that’s not a diagnosis, obviously. But he’s on some sort of spectrum, she had no doubt about that.’

  DCI Reeve came back to her desk and sat down. She was still not looking directly at Smith – what he had told her was enough to be dealing with for now.

  ‘Mrs Johnson never said anything about that. She never even gave a hint of it.’

  ‘Perhaps she didn’t think it was important.’

  ‘And they’re bringing the boy and his mother in?’

  ‘They won’t be more than a quarter of an hour I’d say.’

  ‘I’ll sit in with Serena if she wants to do it. He must have an appropriate adult present. His mother will do but I’ll need to speak to her myself beforehand to make sure she fully understands the situation. Also, I need to ring Norwich to get some advice. I expect there’s an autism liaison expert or someone like that…’

  Reeve’s voiced trailed away. Smith looked out of the window and saw a small flock of starlings wheeling away to the north east, looking for all the world like scraps of charred paper rising up from a bonfire. The great open beaches of the north Norfolk coast would be deserted on a bleak day like this, or maybe a solitary dog-walker would be there on the strand in the far, far distance. Little flocks of sanderlings would run in and out with each falling wave, and there would be a curlew calling somewhere.

  ‘And this boy followed Zoe into the Railway playpark on Monday night?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. That’s what he told them not half an hour ago.’

  It was almost an hour later that the formal interviewing of Stephen Sweeney began. Terek was not back in the building – Reeve had spoken to him and told him about this development but they must be turning over Sadik’s flat item by item. That’s how Wilson does things if he thinks you’re the one; the resemblance to a closely-shaven, be-suited British bulldog is more than skin deep.

  Alison Reeve asked Smith to observe live through the monitor in the recording room, and he brought along John Murray without asking for her agreement – the more experienced eyes on this, the better. As they watched the DCI going slowly and thoroughly through the legal preliminaries, Murray said, ‘Have you ever done one of these, DC?’

  ‘Something similar, about fifteen years ago. You?’

  ‘No. Had a few funny ones, like we all do. I don’t know – there seems to be a lot more of it these days. Seems to be something about it on the news every week. Asperger’s is the latest thing, isn’t it?’

  Though the interview would be recorded, Smith still had his notebook in front of him. He pressed it flat so that he could write one-handed if need be.

  ‘I know what you mean. I’m not sure it hasn’t always been there, but awareness changes, and things get new labels. I don’t think Asperger’s is the same as autism – there’s some sort of difference but I’m no expert, either.’

  There were four women in the interview room with Sweeney – his mother, DCI Reeve, Serena Butler, and Ann
Crisp, the family liaison officer, who had taken a seat off to one side. Undoubtedly Reeve had done this intentionally, calculating that a presence like Murray’s could be physically intimidating, and that the irony and humour of certain other officers would be, as she might put it herself to spare his feelings, tactically inappropriate in this case.

  Smith said, ‘I know one thing though, John. People like Stephen Sweeney are much more likely to be victims than perpetrators. I’ve seen a few of those situations over the years.’

  Then Reeve said, ‘Right, then. I know this sounds silly, Stephen, but before we begin, can you confirm for me that you are Stephen Sweeney, of 11 Churchill Close, Kings Lake?’

  Something about that made him smile, and he looked shyly at his mother. Then, instead of looking back at the detective chief inspector, the boy stared directly up at the camera and said in the wrong voice, ‘Yes, I am!’

  Smith had no idea whether there really was such a person as an autism liaison officer at Norwich, and even less idea how one might qualify for the role, but if Reeve had found and spoken to him or her, they had advised her well. She was patience personified as she gradually teased out the story of what had happened involving Stephen Sweeney and Zoe Johnson on Monday evening. Mrs Sweeney remained alert but she relaxed visibly as the senior detective took charge of the interview, instead of simply sitting in, as she had suggested she would to Smith earlier on. Serena was happy to stay back and Smith could detect none of her usual impatience – this was a valuable learning situation for any young officer.

  Stephen went out for long walks every day, sometimes two or three times a day. He had set routes which never varied, and his mother knew what these were. He had a simple mobile phone which he knew how to use but never did; there was one number in it which he was to ring if he was worried, and that was Mrs Sweeney’s. Murray saw Smith making a note of that – if necessary, the phone might be able to confirm Stephen’s locations that evening.

  Walking along Nelson Road, which was one of the main routes through the Dockmills and therefore well lit, Stephen had seen Zoe Johnson leave her house ahead of him. No – he did not think that Zoe saw him because if she had she might have said hello. He explained that Zoe was one of the people who sometimes said hello to him, and after that there was a short, poignant silence on both sides of the camera lens.

  He walked behind Zoe for a little way because Nelson Road was one of his regular routes but then she turned off along the path down to the playpark. When he reached the same place, he stopped. He did not know what to do. Zoe had gone into the park. He did not go there anymore because the children were not very kind, but Zoe was on her own and it was dark and she might not be safe. The presence of Mrs Sweeney became an issue then, and it took Reeve some minutes to get Stephen to say that eventually he had followed Zoe into the park, leaving one of the routes that he knew he was supposed to follow.

  Smith frowned and looked at Murray, who said, ‘It was dark. If he lost sight of her, how did he find her again?’

  Smith shrugged and said, ‘Maybe he didn’t.’

  Reeve said, ‘So, Stephen, you went into the park to make sure that Zoe was alright – that’s OK, that’s what friends do. When you went into the park, was Zoe there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you speak to her? To make sure she was alright?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It must have been dark, Stephen. Could you see Zoe? Did you… Could you see Zoe, Stephen?’

  ‘I saw the phone-light. It went round and round. I saw her face in the phone-light going round and round.’

  Smith could see Reeve trying to puzzle it out. They knew that Zoe had sent the messages to Gemma Powell from the playpark, so her phone would have been lit up and visible from a distance – and her face as she wrote the texts. But why was anything going round and round? Then he saw Serena lean closer to Reeve and say something that microphone could not pick up.

  Reeve said to Sweeney, ‘Stephen, is there a roundabout in the playpark? Was Zoe sitting on a roundabout?’

  ‘Yes. She pushed it round and round.’

  ‘This is very helpful, Stephen. What did Zoe do next?’

  ‘She got up and walked away. Nobody answered on the phone and it went out. The light went out. Zoe went into the dark.’

  ‘Zoe did not leave the park the way she went in?’

  ‘No. The other way. Into the dark.’

  For the first time, Stephen seemed to become agitated by Reeve’s questions, and she sensed it and left a longer pause before she said, ‘What did you do after that, Stephen?’

  ‘I went back to the road.’

  ‘You went back onto Nelson Road. Did you go home then, or did you finish your walk, Stephen?’

  Even through the camera, Smith and Murray could sense the change in Sweeney. He seemed to be trembling, and then Mrs Sweeney put out a hand, stroking his shoulder before putting it onto his thigh – his left leg was shaking uncontrollably. He looked down at the floor and mumbled something to his mother.

  Mrs Sweeney said to Reeve, ‘Stephen says he came home. He did, I can remember him being upset that night but he didn’t tell me why. That’s not… Well, it isn’t unusual.’

  The DCI smiled sympathetically and said, ‘We’re almost finished, Stephen. Can I ask you one more question?’

  Mrs Sweeney said something to him, again inaudible, and the boy nodded, unable to engage anymore with the two women across the desk from him. His mother’s hand was back on his shoulder, and Smith thought, nineteen years and counting – she’s probably not even halfway through the life sentence she’s been handed.

  Reeve said, ‘Stephen? Did you see anyone else as you walked along Nelson Road, or anyone else in the park? Anyone else at all?’

  Now his head was moving slowly from side to side, and still his gaze was down at the floor, but he was saying something, just the same two or three syllables over and over. Mrs Sweeney listened and said to Reeve, ‘He says it was too dark.’

  Reeve ended it there, thanking them both and asking if there was anything they needed before she arranged for them to be taken home. It took a while to get Stephen Sweeney up onto his feet, and still he was unable or unwilling to look anyone in the face. Smith said a silent prayer of thanks that Wilson hadn’t been in the room or even in the recording suite.

  Alison Reeve thanked Mrs Sweeney again, as warmly as she could, but Smith was watching her son. Stephen’s hands had grasped each other and he was swaying slightly, repeating the same words over and over. He was still saying very quietly ‘Too dark. Too dark. Too dark…’ Was he stuck there, still answering the last question? Or was he somewhere else now, describing his own private darkness, seeing Zoe Johnson disappearing into it on an endless loop?

  A group of people stood around DI Terek’s desk. Most of them could and should have gone home by now but you don’t when it’s like this – you hang around, you make a call or send a text to a partner if you still have one, you wander down to the canteen – or a vending machine – and buy something unhealthy to eat. You drink more coffee or tea than is good for you, and you keep on talking it through.

  Wilson had seen the interview now. He said, ‘Any parent backs their kid up in these situations. It stands to reason, and we’ve all seen it before. She admitted he was upset, OK, but would she have told us if he was covered in mud, soaking wet, with a scratch or two? Would she?’

  Serena said, ‘I looked for that. There was nothing on his hands, nothing on his face or neck that I could see.’

  ‘But she didn’t tell us what time he got home, did she? Might have been an hour later than usual. Nobody asked, did they?’

  Smith had kept out of this one up to now. He regarded Wilson, saw the heavy wedding band on the thick third finger and wondered about his wife, whom he had never met. She must be a remarkable woman in many ways – he had no doubt that the vows of love and devotion had taken on the nature of accusations at some point in the ceremony.

  The ever-fa
ithful O’Leary said, ‘He definitely got a bit wobbly when the DCI asked what he did next, didn’t he? Didn’t look normal to me.’

  Wilson nodded agreement, O’Leary smiled and then Smith saw Serena Butler bristle.

  She said, ‘And you’re the expert on normal, are you?’

  Mike Dunn laughed and Murray’s eyebrows, raised in Smith’s direction, conveyed something like, here we go… Terek did the right thing and cut it off immediately.

  ‘Stephen Sweeney is a valuable witness – be in no doubt about that. Any talk here about whether he is ‘normal’ or not is entirely inappropriate. I thought the interview was handled very well under difficult circumstances. If anyone disagrees, they can take that up with DCI Reeve in person.’

  Smith thought, well, he’s tougher than he looks, our Simon. A few hours ago he seemed as if he’d stepped on his own wicket and everyone knew it, but now he’s hit a very nice straight drive for four. We’ll take this silence for applause.

  Terek went on, ‘The fact that nothing was found at Mr Sadik’s premises doesn’t mean he is no longer a person of interest. We might need to interview him again, and for that reason we need a full account of the searches we made today. John, by the end of tomorrow?’

  Wilson nodded, and it was long odds that anyone other than O’Leary would get that job. Terek moved on.

  ‘The search in the town today will make us headline news tomorrow. No-one makes any comment to the media, Superintendent Allen has asked me to make that clear. We have a good picture of Zoe Johnson’s life before this event now, but nothing in that is helping us to find her, so we have to look again at what we do know about the night she disappeared. Who’s leading on the burger van business?’

  Waters was the only one still at his desk. Smith saw him look up and intervened, saying, ‘That’s my lot. We have a list of licensed traders and we’re working our way through. It’s a long list, though.’