The Missing Girls Read online

  Bianca shook her head. ‘She’s such a good girl. I know parents say that all the time, but Amber really is. She’s perfect. I couldn’t wish for a better daughter.’

  ‘The police will do whatever they can to find her.’ Robyn couldn’t bear to look at Bianca, now hopeful again. ‘Could I please see Amber’s room?’

  Bianca’s face clouded. ‘I don’t see how it will help, but okay. Don’t touch anything. I want to keep it as it is for her. For when she returns.’

  Charles stood to accompany Robyn, appearing to regain control of his emotions. ‘I’ll accompany you upstairs. Bianca, could you get some more tea, sweetheart?’ His wife obliged.

  Charles led Robyn through the oak-panelled hall and up thick-carpeted stairs. ‘She’s putting on a brave face. It will kill her if anything’s happened to Amber. She’s our world.’ He stopped and turned to face Robyn. ‘The officers who came to help us through this time, I think they believe she’s dead. But out there, somewhere, is my girl. She’s got backbone. She’s got spirit. She’ll return to us,’ he said, and repeated it as if to convince himself. Then he continued upstairs. Robyn followed him, concerned about the prickling feeling that crawled up her spine. Amber had been in contact with her parents by text while they were abroad. Jade North had received messages supposedly from Carrie long after she’d been murdered. Robyn couldn’t shake the idea that the perpetrator was sending the messages, and that Amber Dalton was in the hands of a killer.

  Twenty-Two

  Robyn’s thoughts cascaded as she drove back to the station. She feared she was dealing with a serial killer; that they were only at the beginning of a killing spree. How many more victims would there be? Her other concern was that there was insufficient evidence to convince DCI Flint or his superiors. With only one body, it was unlikely he’d take her seriously. Her superiors were not always accommodating of her instincts. Louisa Mulholland had been, but now she was gone it was going to be more difficult to convince them she was correct.

  She wished she could talk to Davies about it all. He’d always been the person who’d believed in her implicitly. The pain of his loss hit her in her chest. She’d never get over it.

  ‘Davies, what do I do?’ she asked, knowing there’d be nothing but silence.

  She rubbed the back of her neck. A dull ache had begun in the base of her skull. She’d forgotten to eat again and was suffering a sugar dip. If Davies were still alive he’d have probably phoned her to remind her to eat too…

  * * *

  ‘Come and sit down. I’ve made a sandwich. Get it down you.’ Davies leans across, his gentle eyes on her. ‘You’re doing yourself no good by not eating.’

  Robyn picks up the ciabatta roll; lettuce and tomato are packed around slices of Leerdammer cheese, a food flag of green, red and yellow. Her stomach gurgles. Davies laughs. ‘See. Your body’s telling you it’s starving.’

  ‘I didn’t have time to eat,’ she says, biting into the floury bread and savouring the sweet cherry tomatoes he has added, knowing they’re her favourites.

  He’s looking as dapper as ever, in a white shirt and jeans. His face is clean-shaven, his dark hair is swept back in a casual style that manages to fall somewhere between stylish and unkempt, and his eyes twinkle as he watches her shove the sandwich into her mouth.

  ‘Nonsense. You can’t run on empty. I understand cases can completely absorb you, but you mustn’t neglect your body. It’s your machine, and the brain needs nutrition. I want a full report that you’ve been eating while I’m away. If I come back to a skeleton you know what will happen,’ he says with a wide grin. ‘I’ll force feed you all sorts of horrible, fattening, greasy dishes of food until you beg for mercy. Case or not, promise me you’ll look after yourself while I’m away.’

  She nods. Davies is often involved in cases far more demanding than her own. He never talks about them. As a military intelligence officer, he’s not allowed to discuss his operations. She only knows about his job because of a chance meeting at the police station, when he was called in to interview a suspect picked up for possessing bomb-making equipment. She spotted the serious-faced Davies being led to an interview room, and noting only his smart appearance, she had gone about her own business. One of her colleagues let on that the stranger at the station, hustled in by the superintendent himself, was an officer from the Intelligence Corps. Later she had met him in the corridor by the ancient coffee machine. In spite of her cajoling it with kind words, thumping it and finally cursing, it had not given her the coffee she desperately required. Davies, amused, had proposed they go to the café nearby. Chat had turned into a date and that date had led to another.

  In Davies, she’d met her soulmate. He was wise beyond his forty years, calm and patient. He had coaxed her out of her protective shell and into his arms. Her well-being was always of concern to him, as Robyn was notorious for burying herself in work. His own took him away frequently. To the world, he was a consultant for a technology company specialising in microchips – a job that was dull and required him to travel often. No one, other than Robyn and his ex-wife Brigitte, knew the true nature of his occupation. Neither would divulge the truth. The truth would put Davies in danger.

  ‘Eat up,’ Davies says. ‘You’re looking peaky.’

  ‘It’s only work. You know what it’s like when I get bogged down with a case.’

  Davies sits beside her, caresses her face, then leans in to kiss her. ‘Then maybe you should give it up and consider a new life as a mother.’

  Her heart hammers. There is nothing she would love more. Their wedding is planned for the following year and a child would complete her happiness. She gazes into his eyes, her body filled with a warmth and love for this man. She nods, a small smile creeping across her face. He lifts her hands. Kisses the back of them.

  * * *

  She shook her head, dispelling the memories. Davies was no longer here to make sure she didn’t neglect herself. He’d died in Morocco, and taken with him her love and any hope for future happiness.

  It was just before seven when Robyn returned to the station. Tom Shearer was waiting in her office, top button undone. Streaks of silver in his dark-brown hair caught the light as he bent his head to study his shoes. ‘Thought you’d stood me up,’ he said.

  She grabbed at her desk drawer and rummaged for a couple of aspirins. She threw them back and dry-swallowed. Shearer observed her actions.

  ‘We can cancel if you want,’ he said.

  ‘Wouldn’t let a colleague down. Besides, I could do with a drink.’

  They left the station, crossed the road and walked through the pub car park.

  Shearer pushed open the pub door. Voices rushed out to greet them. In one corner was a group of officers, part of Shearer’s team. David Marker looked over and raised a hand. Robyn acknowledged the wave. ‘Do you want to join them?’

  ‘I’d prefer a drink by the bar. I’ve been shut in with that lot all afternoon. I don’t think they’d enjoy my company again so soon. I wasn’t in the best of moods. Our suspect wasn’t very forthcoming, so I’ve had him banged up for the night to see if he’ll cooperate in the morning. He’s being tight-lipped at the minute but I’ll work my magic on him.’ Robyn observed the steely look in his eyes. She fished about for her purse.

  ‘What do you fancy?’

  ‘On me.’

  ‘I invited you.’

  ‘Stop being Miss Hard-Arse. I’ll get these. Don’t think I wasn’t grateful you invited me out. I’d have only come in here alone and got completely ratted, and then probably pissed off my colleagues over there even more. At least this way, I’ll manage to stay moderately sober. I wouldn’t want to lose face in front of a fellow DI.’

  ‘Go on, then.’ She shoved her purse back in her bag and drew out a stool. ‘I could do with picking your brains.’

  ‘You’re welcome to the few grey cells I have left,’ he growled, signalling at the bartender. ‘Two bottles of Stella. That okay with you?’ he asked.
/>   ‘Sure. Fine.’

  They clinked bottles. She noticed his chewed fingernails and the ripped piece of skin on his thumbnail. Davies had always had clean, neat fingernails, square and filed regularly.

  ‘To absent friends,’ he said. He took a long swig from the bottle.

  She blinked and the vision of Davies departed. ‘To absent friends.’

  He took several noisy gulps and plonked the bottle on the bar with a clunk. ‘That was welcome. What a crap day. Makes you think about your own mortality. Here I am in my forties, divorced, a son that barely acknowledges me, and absorbed completely by my work. I sat in that church today at Vaughn’s memorial service and wondered what it would’ve been like if I hadn’t signed up for the force. Would I be working for some other company and going home to the wife, holidays in the Algarve, children who actually weren’t embarrassed by me? Then I studied the faces of the men around me, who were lads back in the day, with hopes and expectations, and saw the light had gone out in their eyes. They were no better off than me. Tied up with mortgages, anxieties, pressures and probably with blocked arteries or stress-related illnesses they don’t yet know they have. I guess I’m happier doing this, in spite of knowing that there are some genuinely sick fucks in society. It gets you like that, doesn’t it? I have days when I want to scream to the rafters but then I use that energy, redirect it towards solving crimes and trying to make the world a better place.’

  Robyn nodded. Shearer had never spoken like this before. He was ordinarily sarcastic or brusque, to the point where she thought he had no compassion at all. ‘I get it.’ She tipped her own bottle back. Shearer watched her.

  ‘We’re two of a kind,’ he said. ‘Look at us. In a local bar after work with nowhere to go, no one to spend time with, and nothing to do other than dwell on what we have or haven’t accomplished this day.’

  She replaced the bottle on the bar. ‘We accomplish plenty. This is more of a vocation than a job, and it isn’t for everyone. You soon discover that when you sign up. And as for life outside – well, isn’t it overrated? I bet those men thought your life was far more exciting than theirs. The grass always seems greener…’

  He nodded in agreement. ‘Fair point. I’m being maudlin because of today. Vaughn was a great bloke. He wasn’t like the rest of us. He was the boffin of the house. Always had his head in a book. Helped me out time after time with maths. He was singled out early on for greater things. Went to Cambridge and got a first-class honours degree, then took a masters in philosophy.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t find studying as easy.’

  He barked a short laugh. ‘I was one of the bad lads. Skived lessons when I could. I was more into sport. There were times in the house when Vaughn needed looking after. I was his bodyguard, if you like, and in return he helped me out academically. I might have handed in one or two essays that I didn’t actually write myself.’

  ‘Bullying? You had to protect him from bullies?’

  ‘It wasn’t proper bullying. It was a tradition. The younger boys suffered a little at the hands of the older boys. The seniors often came into our dorms and tipped us out of bed, forced us under cold showers, hid our shoes, that sort of thing. I was tall and a bit rougher than them. Came from a council estate. One night, they bed-ended me so I fell on the floor, tangled up in the duvet, and they threw another lad into a bath filled with, well, I’ll leave it to your imagination. They stripped Vaughn, started wrapping him up with duct tape. I went ballistic, managed to crumple the ringleader’s nose. After that it became calmer. The following year, Vaughn and me shared a room. The older boys never dared bother us.’ He drained his bottle. ‘Another?’

  ‘Why not? I’m not driving. I’m headed back to go through some files. Derbyshire lot are looking into a missing girl, and I think it might be linked to my case. She’s a Sandwell girl. As it happens, also an Oxbridge candidate.’

  Shearer opened his mouth to say something, closed it again and signalled for the barman. Robyn checked her mobile while the barman flipped the tops from two more bottles. Shearer turned to her. ‘Talk to her houseparent. She’ll know the girl better than anyone.’

  ‘It’s really Derbyshire’s case. I’m still working out what happened to Carrie.’

  ‘I’d talk to her anyway.’ He said something to the barman, who returned with a couple of bags. ‘Here,’ said Shearer pushing a bag of nuts in her direction. ‘If you’re going to work through the night, you’ll need some sustenance. Can’t have you fading away.’

  Robyn cocked her head. ‘Careful, Tom. You’re beginning to sound like a regular nice guy.’

  He threw back his head. ‘No chance. I’ll be back on my very usual nasty form tomorrow. Make the most of it.’

  * * *

  After a second drink with Shearer, Robyn returned to her office where she read through a statement made by Karl London, the man who rented unit 43 and who’d been at the self-storage warehouse on the eighteenth, the day Joanne Hutchinson had rented unit 127.

  London hadn’t noticed any vehicles. He’d been too busy clearing out some stock from his own unit and had backed his truck right up to the doors, blocking any view of the outside. He recalled seeing Joanne Hutchinson and confirmed she was an attractive woman, dressed in blue with matching headband, who looked ‘tasty’ and spoke ‘posh’.

  Although there had now been three different sightings of Joanne Hutchinson, Robyn had flirted with the possibility that the woman didn’t exist at all and that Dev Khan or Frank Cummings, or even both of them, had concocted the story and coerced London into confirming it. Khan was friendly with Karl London so it was a possibility. She was still puzzled by the fact Joanne Hutchinson hadn’t appeared on any CCTV footage, which was difficult for anyone to avoid She’d written ‘Is Joanne Hutchinson a set-up by Khan?’ on a bright green Post-it note and pondered some more on that theory. Davies had introduced her to the use of Post-its. He’d found her puzzling over files, scrawling on A4 paper…

  * * *

  Robyn lets out a long groan and stretches. ‘This is hopeless.’

  Davies looks across, turns off the late news he’d been watching and wanders over to her. The delicious smell of pine-scented body wash clings to his skin, and she has the desire to stop working and kiss him. He leans over her shoulder and studies her scribbles. ‘No offence, but you’d do better if you clarified your thought process,’ he says. Robyn grunts.

  ‘It’s okay for you. You have a phenomenally logical brain. I have to do things my way, which means organised chaos. I get there in the end.’

  He gives her a wide smile. ‘I know you do. I have supreme confidence in your abilities. However, here’s a little trick I picked up that helps me.’

  He bends down and reaches into the brown satchel that accompanies him on all missions and pulls out a pad of multicoloured Post-it notes.

  ‘Here we go. Write down an idea or two, not more, on one of these. Choose different colours, so if you are writing about one person, keep your ideas on yellow notes, for example. If you’re looking at another suspect or a different idea, change the colour. Lay them out in front of you on the table or the floor. Change the order around if you need to, but treat it like a huge puzzle. If you think about each idea, you’ll gradually pull together the whole picture. You’ll find it helps.’ He places the notes in front of her, drops a kiss on her head.

  * * *

  She stopped thinking about the case for a while and instead thought about the man she still loved. It had been almost two years since the ambush in Morocco. She ought to be able to move on, exist without him, not think about him every day, or maybe even find somebody else to care about. As it was, she couldn’t. She was stuck in a time warp, held back by memories and love for a man who couldn’t hold her or love her back. She’d undergone psychoanalysis before rejoining the force. The therapist who’d worked with her had told her it would take time for her to heal. ‘How long?’ she’d asked. He’d given her a sad smile and no reply.

&nbs
p; She gave up on her Post-it notes around 1 a.m. and caught up with the files left on her desk while she’d been visiting the Daltons. Anna had interviewed Harriet Cornwell, one of the girls Carrie had messaged on Facebook. She’d expressed little concern over her disappearance, being too preoccupied with her newborn baby to fret over an old schoolmate who’d run off with a boyfriend. Anna’s report was detailed and she’d emailed a recording of the interview for Robyn to listen to. Robyn sank back into her chair and pressed the start button. She approved of the way Anna gently coaxed the information from the reluctant girl. Initially Harriet resisted the questioning, before eventually giving way to Anna’s persistence:

  Anna: Were you not concerned about Carrie in any way?

  Harriet: Carrie always knew her own mind. She could be a bolshie bitch when she felt like it, and she’d often go off on one about her dad and his girlfriend, and then storm off. She did it all the time when we went on a night out. I gave up going after her.

  One time, she walked all the way home from Derby to Uttoxeter at two in the morning. Anything could have happened to her but she didn’t care. She turned up the next day, full of remorse and with a bottle of wine for me. She was like that – one minute all high and happy, the next, flat. I sort of understood. Her mum died when she was a kid, and she didn’t get along with her dad and Leah. Carrie walked out a couple of times before; the last was January last year. She hung out with friends in Nottingham. When I read the stuff on Facebook and got the texts, I just thought she was having another tantrum.