A Private Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  Terek said, ‘Fine. If you need more hands on it, let me know.’

  Which was a polite way of saying get a move on, and that was fair enough. Then the detective inspector told them there was no overtime available, and he quite understood that if they needed to be somewhere by now that was OK, but if they didn’t… And everyone wandered back to their own desks to see what more could be done.

  Smith went to Waters’ desk and picked up the first page of the list of licensed street traders – these were the older ones and he could use a bit of common sense to get through them quickly. Waters said that no-one was answering, he was mostly leaving messages but Smith knew that he didn’t need to remind him never to rely on that – Waters had always been thorough.

  Ten minutes later Alison Reeve came back into the main office. She spoke to Terek – things looked friendly enough – and then made her way towards Smith. She said, ‘Are you busy? Can I have a word?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes, you’re not in any bother. Well, not by your standards.’

  ‘Oh, good. I knew I’d get the hang of this job in the end.’

  ‘I meant to catch up with you after I’d met Mrs Johnson the first time.’

  ‘Alright. Have a seat, ma’am – no need to stand on ceremony.’

  She pulled over a chair from Murray’s empty desk – John having finally relented and gone home to Maggie and the baby – and looked as if she needed five minutes. Smith knew that she would be here until everyone else had gone, and she would be back first in the morning. In between, she wouldn’t sleep much. That’s how it is. In other jobs, you can catch up on those files tomorrow and if you’re behind with laying bricks or a bit of wiring, well, you’ll get paid all the same in the end and no-one’s life depends on it. But in this job, as the senior investigating officer in the disappearance of a teenaged girl, how do you leave that behind? You can’t go home, make a nice cup of cocoa, put your feet up and watch a bit of telly. Every waking moment is haunted by that mother’s face.

  Smith said, ‘So, what sort of woman is Penny Johnson?’

  ‘You know perfectly well. She asked me about the detective she found wandering around the playpark on his own last night. Even if she hadn’t remembered your name and given a description, I’d have known who it was.’

  ‘She gave a description? I suppose I shouldn’t ask, but…’

  ‘“Sort of alright but a bit weird for a copper.” Very apt, I thought.’

  Smith rubbed his chin speculatively before saying, ‘At my time of life, “sort of alright” will have to do, I suppose. What state was she in this afternoon?’

  ‘As you’d expect – keeping it together for the sake of the other kids but torn to bits inside. Why did you go down to the park last night? I know you weren’t expecting to find her.’

  Of course not, he said. He’d wanted a sense of the place where she’d been, wanted to refresh his memory of it as much as anything. He told Reeve that he had then gone along the old railway into town, wondering how long it would take and how easy it would have been for Zoe Johnson.

  She said, ‘Really? On your own after dark? It’s bandit country, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe. But I didn’t have a lot on me they could have nicked. The remnants of professional pride were at risk if I’d been mugged, I suppose. After thirty years as a police officer, I’d have received one of those helpful letters explaining how not to be a victim of crime. I’d have it framed and up on my wall if I got one now.’

  Reeve smiled vaguely and looked as if she’d like to take a short nap at his desk while he kept watch. When he had gone, who else was left with whom she could lower her guard even for two minutes?

  He said, ‘What about social services? Anything there?’

  ‘No. There’s a file but it’s only about the oldest boy, Jack. He’s ten and he’s had a few more scrapes and bruises than usual. The school reported it and a social worker went round. They didn’t find anything of concern. There’s the usual daily domestic chaos, I’d say, but no worse than millions of others.’

  ‘What about the father? I know he left the scene a long time ago but he might have contacted Zoe. Or she might have found him. Kids can be amazingly persistent with that once they’ve got it into their heads.’

  Reeve nodded her own head.

  ‘I know. I’ve told Simon to get someone on it tomorrow, just to eliminate it. Zoe’s behaviour before she disappeared doesn’t point in that direction. Whether she had arranged to meet her dad or to set off to look for him, I don’t see her hanging around the playpark sending texts and then going into town for a hot chocolate and a burger. Do you?’

  Smith had already thought along those lines, and his silence after her question told the DCI that he agreed with her conclusion. Waters was talking to another person on his phone, working his way through the list, and Smith felt guilty that he wasn’t doing the same with his half of it. It occurred to him that if they found the man in question, they’d have an excuse to go out and sample his wares – he hadn’t eaten since midday.

  Reeve made a move, ready to go, and then stopped, looked at him and said, ‘What’s your feeling about this?’

  ‘Well, I think it’s nice we can still have these little chats.’

  ‘You know very well what I meant.’

  He took his time in answering her. A responsibility goes with it, because she would take note of whatever he said, and that might influence the way she directed things tomorrow. It’s one thing to be cocking up an investigation of your own and quite another to cause someone else to do so, especially someone whose work he had grown to respect.

  ‘It’s a difficult one. Zoe is old enough to get noticed – Stephen Sweeney, Mehmet Sadik, Albert King, the burger man – they all noticed her in their different ways, didn’t they? But I don’t think she’s old enough or streetwise enough to be able to deal with it. There are changes in friendships at school, so she’s probably a bit lost, a bit emotional about that. There’s no father figure and mum’s got a new boyfriend; that’s a classic trigger for teenage trauma. But I can’t be optimistic, if I’m being honest. I don’t think she suddenly took it into her head to run away. I don’t think she ate her burger and then hopped on a train to Kings Cross.’

  Reeve had listened intently.

  ‘No, neither do I. I think it’s bad.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She stood up properly this time, and took a deep breath.

  ‘OK. I’m going back to my office. I’m going to sit down, and then I’ll go back to the beginning again. I’ll get some bits of paper, scribble little notes on them, throw them up in the air and see how they fall. Does that sound familiar?’

  He smiled and then she turned and walked away. He wanted to say, well, if you need some company, but it was too late for any more of that. It’s a cross that you bear alone. Instead he turned his attention to Waters.

  ‘Oi! I’m starving! Haven’t you found him yet?’

  ‘No… I just had a whelk stall, though. It’s been in his family for three generations.’

  ‘Brilliant! Should I inform Superintendent Allen or go straight to Assistant Commissioner Devine? Do we need to send an armed response unit to bring in this master criminal? I’m serious. Whelks are the one sort of seafood I cannot abide. Evil things. The people who purvey them should be locked up.’

  Waters wrote something down then, and Smith thought, another idea for a leaving present, no doubt. He picked up a pencil in one hand and his half of the list in the other. The first name on it was B Sallis, followed by an address. Smith remembered a Sallis from years and years ago – he sold fish and chips from a mobile van on the market place. The fish was mostly batter and the chips were greasy. Surely he wasn’t still in business, he’d be a hundred and fourteen by now. No point in ringing that number… But he did. No stone unturned, young Smith, not even the tiniest little pebble.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the end, Christmas comes down to a couple of cardboard
boxes that you keep in the attic. They were still on the kitchen table where he had put them on Monday, thinking that he really should make some sort of effort before Jo came again, and now she was coming this weekend. If he’d been asked to guess, he would have said that she wasn’t the sort to get excited about tinsel and turkey but he would, he now knew, have been wrong. It probably all goes back to whatever sort of childhood you had – most things do in the end.

  He moved the boxes to the side of the table and sat down with a sandwich and a mug of tea – he still had tomorrow night to make the place look a bit festive, even though he didn’t remotely feel that way himself. And there was the initial thing of taking out those decorations one by one and remembering, because some of them were thirty years old, bought for the first Christmas that he and Sheila had spent together. That string of silver bells would tinkle again just as they had three decades ago, and sounds, like smells, catch us unawares and transport us back to forgotten moments in an instant. Making himself aware of what was to come like this would not make it any easier.

  A ham sandwich. It was very good ham but he hadn’t eaten properly this week – another sign of a case that was taking all his attention. This will be Zoe Johnson’s third night away from home, and everyone who has ever worked such a case knows that with every night that passes, a little hope fades. The change is inexorable and frightening, but the world slowly adjusts to someone not being there. This is true for us all. After a week or two, people will walk down Nelson Road past number fifty-two, and they’ll say to each other, or maybe they’ll just think it, that’s where Zoe Johnson used to live.

  A piece of red tinsel was hanging out of the corner of one box, and the two lines of thought joined together – the Johnson family Christmas without Zoe if the police were unable to find her. Trying to make it special for the younger ones and failing because they’re all of an age now to sense there has been a tragedy even though they could not tell you the meaning of the word. Mrs Johnson disappearing into the kitchen or the bedroom every few minutes. Friends, neighbours and relatives calling round and not knowing what to say for the best. Presents that they would have bought for Zoe, just in case…

  The sandwich had lost its appeal and he didn’t finish it. He managed to drink the mug of tea, and thought about a glass of the Aberlour eighteen years – it was a nice thought but then he’d have to stay up for an hour longer or suffer the consequences in the middle of the night. Also, there was the day’s entry into the notebook to be completed. He was surprised at the temptation not to bother with this, there being only a couple of weeks to go, and so he was giving himself a stern talking to when, at a little after nine o’clock, his mobile began to ring.

  ‘DC? You’re not in bed, are you?’

  It was one thing to think about an early night for yourself and quite another to have Waters assuming you were having one.

  ‘No. We’re going for a Chinese in town, and then we’re driving over to the New Republic club in Norwich. It looks like it’s going to be a late one. Fancy coming along?’

  ‘On a Wednesday night? And who are ‘we’? They sound like a pretty wild bunch.’

  ‘Yes, they are. It’s my local Freemasons’ lodge. They go clubbing to raise money for the police widows and orphans fund.’

  ‘Well, it’s a worthy cause but I’m going to have to decline – even though you’re going to tell me that being a mason could help my career.’

  It wasn’t quite so much fun now that Waters had learned to play the game; nine times out of ten he would spot the googly as it left Smith’s hand and play it neatly through the covers.

  ‘Alright. But don’t come complaining to me in twenty years’ time that you’ve only managed to make detective chief superintendent. What’s up? I hope you’re not still in the office.’

  ‘No, I’m home, but I just had a call back from one of the people I was phoning, the street traders, and-’

  ‘You’re giving them your personal number? I’ve told you before, that’s a bad idea, unless it’s a regular. Leaving your number all over the place can come back to bite you. This is the voice of experience speaking.’

  As it always was, of course – what other voice did he have? Waters waited politely for an appropriate number of seconds before he said, ‘Not to everyone, just a couple that I thought were the most likely, just in case there was something we could use overnight. This guy just got back to me. I reckon it’s him.’

  This guy? Smith was tempted to say, really, surely he isn’t an American, selling truly authentic burgers, but he wasn’t entirely certain of the etymology in this case and Waters would be inclined to look it up and have the last word on it tomorrow if he could.

  ‘Alright – a good guess in that case. I’m assuming he doesn’t really know why he rang you yet?’

  ‘No, in the message I just said to get in touch, routine police inquiries, possible witness, elimination, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Good. Who is he and how have you left it? Do we need to see him straight away?’

  ‘Paul Harrison. His street trading licence for Lake was given seven months ago – I already knew that, obviously, we didn’t talk about it on the phone. I said I’d like to see him tomorrow morning and he offered to come into the station straight away. It’s booked for nine o’clock.’

  ‘You’ve got a home address?’

  ‘It’s on the licence.’

  If they were in the building at eight, there would be time to check out Paul Harrison, but he didn’t sound iffy so far. Clever offenders will sometimes volunteer themselves but if this guy had no previous, he was likely to be just what he appeared to be – an important witness and nothing more. On the other hand, he might have some little scrap of information that could be acted upon immediately. It’s a fifty, fifty call, Smith, but really it isn’t your call – it’s time to let go.

  He said, ‘Good, then. Make sure you let Terek know. I’d do that tonight.’

  ‘Will do, DC.’

  When the call was over, Smith poured a small glass of the Aberlour, a compromise, and thought about the Freemasons thing. He had been invited a few times over the years, and always turned it down, but, as he kept reminding himself, he needed a hobby now. More than one, probably. The whole thing was much more in the open than it used to be, it wasn’t a secret society any more. He opened Google on his phone and looked it up – they even tell you where all the lodges are now, and you can email an application for membership!

  He read a little and found a page about rituals and values. The rituals sounded as daft as ever but he was struck by the five values: integrity, kindness, honesty, fairness and tolerance. If only… He seemed to have spent his entire working life dealing with people who lacked at least three of the five, and that was just in the police force. Maybe he should join the masons or the round table and do good works rather than investigating bad ones.

  Then he took the whiskey upstairs to his office, and wrote brief notes about the search for Zoe Johnson. When he had finished, and for no particular reason, he counted the empty pages to the end of that Alwych and found there were exactly twelve – one for each day he had left in the service.

  It had only been the smallest of deceptions but Smith had been the second of Christopher Waters’ calls the previous evening, the first being to Detective Inspector Terek, who had been out late-night Christmas shopping with his wife. Terek had asked questions not dissimilar to Smith’s and concluded that the morning would do, perhaps not least because Milton Keynes is a rather long way from Kings Lake and Marina had had this trip in his diary for three weeks.

  By the time Smith arrived in the office at ten minutes past eight, Waters had already ascertained that Paul Harrison was yet another individual in this case who had no trace of a criminal record; he double-checked through the address and the postcode but nothing produced a result. DC was suggesting lines of questioning – how often did Harrison use the pitch at The Crescent; had he gone on to another pitch or spent the entire evening
there on Monday; if he remembered the girl, could he remember the customers he had served before and after her – when Waters saw Terek arrive. He ought to say something now before the inspector joined the conversation and it got embarrassing.

  ‘OK, thanks DC. I’ll make sure I cover those.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Yes. When I spoke to DI Terek last night, he told me to take the lead with Paul Harrison this morning.’

  ‘Fair enough, you found him. I’ll-’

  ‘And he’s going to sit in with me. DI Terek, that is.’

  Terek was heading towards them now, in another new, sharp suit.

  ‘Good morning to you both. All set, Chris?’ And then to Smith, ‘A useful development, isn’t it? If this is the man from the burger van, we can account for virtually every minute up to the point when the girl disappeared.’

  After a moment, Smith said, ‘Zoe Johnson, sir.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘That’s the girl’s name – Zoe Johnson.’

  ‘Yes, of course… Up to the point when Zoe Johnson disappeared.’

  Waters felt himself caught between the old and the new as Smith and Terek looked at each other; for a moment he was Janus in the perpetual doorway that leads from the past to the future. It was uncomfortable and a part of him knew that he would be glad when this was over – he was not naturally two-faced.

  Terek got past it and said to Smith, ‘Anyway, if this is the man, he ought to be our most useful witness so far. While Chris and I are interviewing, DC, can you make sure that everything is straight on Stephen Sweeney? There is a feeling that we might need to speak to him again with a specialist officer present – someone from Norwich. It’s a delicate situation for obvious reasons. I’d like everything packaged up and ready to be sent over there, just in case.’

  Waters saw Smith’s curt nod and heard the words saying that it would be done within the hour, but this was a routine task, the sort of thing that he, Waters, had been doing within a week or two of joining the team at Kings Lake. You had to wonder whether Terek did this sort of thing deliberately or whether he was simply terminally insensitive.