Daddy Dearest (16 page)

It’s amazing the things people say they’ve seen or think they’ve seen. I used to be fascinated by the Loch Ness Monster when I was little - weren’t all boys, then? - and took the photographs of it at face value. There weren’t such things as fakes or digital manipulation; there were just sceptics and non-believers like mum and dad, who didn’t get it. I wanted them to take me up to Loch Ness so I could prove it to them. I wanted to hire a boat and wait out on the loch - I must have been braver in those days - and take a picture of it so that I could show the world I was right. I felt the same degree of conviction when I heard stories of the Abominable Snowman and Bigfoot. There was film of them, for God’s sake, and footprints in the snow that famous mountaineers had seen.

When I got older, my faith blurred a little and I started to see things I hadn’t seen before: men in costumes, elephant trunks, rational explanations. But I still wanted to believe. And I still do now. There were other things that drew my attention away. Keep watching the skies. No sooner had Nessie disappeared beneath the waves than a host of UFO’s appeared in Earth’s atmosphere. There were credible sightings from American Air Force pilots to Russian farmers. People had been kidnapped, shot at, even raped, by visitors from another planet. Crop circles appeared in wheat fields in the height of summer. It can’t all have been fabrication, can it? There were magazines about them and serious scientific investigations. I read them all.

People want to believe in things like that; they want something special to happen to them. I’ve known people who swear they’ve communicated with the dead or seen God or poltergeists. They have the raw conviction I had when I was young, and the same zealous, proselytising fire. I now stand in the sceptics’ camp and nothing they can say will ever convince me. There is no proof, I tell them. Show me. I wonder if the same degree of scepticism followed the prophets when they first spread the news. It must have done. It’s sad I lost my faith and became like my parents, but there is still an honest doubt in me. I’m not so certain as to cry ‘Impossible’.

At least, I wasn’t until that morning.

You see, the papers were rife with speculation about what happened to my little girl. There were reports of sightings as far off as Scotland and a lay-by on the M4. There were other reports of her in Spain. I’ve no idea where the M4 is, or if I’ve ever been to Scotland, but I knew my little girl wasn’t there. She was with me. It made me think of Loch Ness and UFO’s and God and the state people get themselves in. These were credible people who’d seen her; they weren’t publicity seekers or crackpots. They now burned with the conviction I had and each passing day it would only grow stronger.

When I left the Sears building the next day, I had to do so behind a couple of plain clothes police officers. They were there for my protection, Sherlock said. The press was after me, and my story. There was about a dozen of them outside the station. You’d think they’d have some respect but apparently not.

‘They’re like dogs.’

I nodded. ‘So I’ve heard.’

Sherlock was with the sober officer in his room. ‘Would you like a brief?’

‘A brief what?’

Sherlock smiled. ‘A solicitor.’

‘Do I need one?’

‘You’re not being charged with anything.’

‘Will they bring my daughter back? Or my ex-wife?’

‘No.’

‘Then no.’

Sherlock beat his pencil on the desk. ‘I think it’s best.’

He wheeled in a small animal of a man with a bald head and glasses. He nodded at me shyly and held out a podgy hand. The last solicitor I’d seen was Bart Simpson in court. This was a completely different specimen. Blinking constantly, he reminded me of Mole.

Sherlock brought out a bag containing the yellow dress and sandals the cleaner and I found in the basement. ‘You recognise these?’

‘Of course.’

‘They belonged to your daughter?’

‘Yes.’

‘She was wearing them on the day she disappeared?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you any idea how they got in the service chute?’

‘No.’

‘Have you seen this rug before?’

He showed me a photo of the faded, red rug.

‘Before yesterday, no.’

‘You don’t know who it belongs to?’

‘No.’

Sherlock paused. I batted back every one of his questions without breaking sweat. I knew there were others coming - there always are - but I was focused on one thing. I needed to get my little girl out of the flat.

‘The cleaner said it was you who discovered the chute was blocked?’

‘That’s right.’

‘How was that?’

‘I put some rubbish down. I noticed a bad smell, like fish, and I couldn’t open the metal drawer properly.’

‘It was opening properly before that?’

‘I think so. I can’t remember the last time I put rubbish down.’

‘How often do you go to the basement?’

‘Now and again.’

Sherlock stared at me. ‘Doing what?’

‘Swapping the bins over. Clearing up.’

‘Isn’t that the cleaner’s job?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s said you’ve been down there a few times.’

‘I was looking for my little girl.’

Neither Sherlock nor Sober said anything. Mole shuffled his papers and blinked through his glasses.

‘Are we over?’

Sherlock nodded. ‘Yes. For the time being.’

Sober coughed. Sherlock glanced at him, then remembered. ‘There is another matter you could help us with.’

‘Fire away.’

I felt as though I’d won.

‘You recall the day Mr Papadopoulos was taken in for questioning?’

‘The Greek?’

‘Yes.’

I nodded.

‘Before he was taken in, we found him outside your neighbour’s door. He said he was looking for you and had something important to tell you.’

It all came back. Rashelle said someone had been knocking.

‘Have you any idea what it was?’

‘No.’

‘Were you close to him?’

‘Not really.’

‘He didn’t speak to you?’

‘No.’

He stared at me again. I’d no idea what the Greek wanted: something about the sea, maybe, or something about a boy. I didn’t know about Kostas then.

When they’d finished, Mole packed up his briefcase. Sherlock looked at me across the desk and asked if
I
had any questions.

‘I’d like to know what’s going on.’

‘Going on?’

I didn’t expect him to be so obtuse.

I nodded at the clothes.

‘It means someone’s made a mistake.’

His look was more triumphant. He knew he was getting closer and couldn’t wait to examine the evidence. I suppose that was
his
mistake. He took his eye off the ball for a second. It was all the time I needed.

I suppose you want the truth, don’t you? You want me to confess? The rug, I planted it, didn’t I? Well, the truth is, I didn’t. At least, I never put it down the chute. Why someone did that was a mystery.

When my little girl went missing, I never thought about the clothes: I didn’t think they’d come up. It was stupid, I know - I mean, what else do the police have to go on? - but I hope you appreciate I had other things on my mind. I suppose I could have told them a lie - I could have told them about clothes she never owned - but my wife would have wondered how she’d never seen them, and I didn’t want her involved.

When they started searching the building, I knew I was in trouble. I had the clothes in the flat. I thought of every possible way to get rid of them: down the toilet, in the bins, outside. No matter where I turned, there were problems. Toilets got blocked, bins got emptied, streets had CCTV cameras. I had to do it discretely and quickly. I knew about the rug. Someone had left it by the chute on the eighth floor. It was old and battered and I figured no one was going to claim it. One night, I sneaked up there. It only took a few seconds. I was careful to retie the string round the end. When I’d finished, I thought it would only be a matter of time. The next day I checked, it was gone.

Now, the weird thing about the rug was how exactly it got stuck in the chute. If you put it in length ways, there was some chance you could force it over the metal drawer, and from there it would slide down like a snake. But it would be impossible if there were other things in the way, like a cardboard box, for example.

When I got back to the Sears building, the lobby was quiet. It was a large area split on two levels with tiled floors and two leather green sofas at the back. No one used them; at least, I’d never seen anyone sitting there. My daughter used to bounce on them in her shoes before I reminded her of her social responsibilities. There was also a large pillar in the middle of the floor which supported the roof. It had a Roman colonnade design with indentations all the way round. Whenever I looked at it, I thought of fountains and vine leaves.

I was about to go through the security door (there were two doors in the lobby) when I noticed that someone
was
sitting on one of the green sofas. She was wearing a red dress and stilettos.

‘Excuse me.’

I’ve always had manners, especially around pretty women. My dead wife - that sounds terrible - used to remind me all the time, usually with a swift dig in the ribs.

‘You’re so obvious,’ she said. ‘Do you think they’d give you a second glance?’

‘It depends how much they’ve had to drink.’

‘They’d have to be comatose.’

‘I prefer them that way.’

‘You’re sick.’

‘You’re right. That’s why I’m with you.’

Looking back, we had quite a thing going. We used to wind each other up all the time but we knew where we stood. If I’m honest, she was probably the only woman I’ve felt entirely comfortable with. When we split, I rather missed that.

Stilettos got up off the sofa and walked towards me. Her heels gave her that sway. ‘I’m sorry. You’re going to start thinking I’m pestering you.’

‘Not at all.’

‘Have you a moment?’

‘I’m in a bit of a rush.’

‘It won’t take a second.’

I paused. It’s
very
hard to say no to a pretty woman.

She opened a large, black case and started leafing through some papers. I never pegged her as an office type. I thought she’d be into fashion design or modelling - maybe because she was so pretty, maybe because of the paintings on the walls, maybe because she spoke so well.

‘I don’t know why I’m doing this. To be honest, it’s probably nothing. I work for a city centre legal firm. Every year I get to review thousands of cases. Most are routine and you forget about them pretty quickly but occasionally you get one which sticks in your head.’ She pulled out a file. ‘What I’m about to show you is classified. I’d lose my job if it came out. You must promise me you won’t tell anyone.’

I’m good at secrets, I really am. I’ve never been one for tittle-tattle or gossip, although I won’t lie: I’ve loved hearing gossip about other people. I’ve kept my cards close to my chest so that others would reveal theirs. You’d be surprised the things people tell you; once they start, there’s no stopping them. For some, it’s a bit like confession; they want someone to absolve them; for others, it’s a cry for attention. I’ve never had much I thought people would be interested in, and the bit they would, would destroy me. I don’t want people knowing things like that; I’ve enough trouble dealing with it myself.

‘You have my word.’

There aren’t many people in the world who keep their word. There’s something faintly old-fashioned about asking for it - I associate all good manners and decency with being old-fashioned. When people say it, I want to rise heroically to the occasion and be seen as a bastion of virtue and integrity. I know I’m not and I wonder why they ask knowing that.

‘It’s about the other night.’

‘You heard more singing?’

‘No. But something you said got me thinking.’ She paused. ‘You said her little girl died when she was young.’

I looked at her, lost. ‘Whose?’

‘Your neighbour’s.’

‘Yes.’

‘Our company represented her husband at the inquest. There was a bit of publicity about it at the time; I think it got in some of the newspapers.’

‘That’s news to me.’

She held the file over her breasts. ‘Well, it may be nothing, but her husband always contested the judge’s verdict.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

‘There were suspicious circumstances surrounding her daughter’s death. Her lawyers claimed the little girl slipped in the bath and bumped her head on the taps.’

‘That’s the story she told me.’

‘It’s the story the judge bought. But the marks on the girl could equally have been caused by the shower head, or a blow to the head. The mother had a history of mental instability which is why the father was given custody.’

The news stopped me dead. ‘
He
had custody?’

‘Yes. The girl died when she was visiting.’

My stomach heaved. I was thinking of the bruises on my daughter’s arms and the time she said Auntie hit her. ‘Can I see?’

I know it must have been a wrench. It happens when you have something to lose.

‘Here.’

She put the file in my hand. There was a case reference number, a court number, and a case transcription at the top. There was also a name: Rashelle’s. She wasn’t lying.

‘As I said, it may be nothing. The judge did find in her favour.’

He also found in my ex-wife’s favour and took my daughter off me.

‘Do you think the police know?’

‘I would imagine.’

I looked through the file quite unable to take it in. ‘What else would you imagine?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you think she’d be capable of doing it again?’

She paused again. ‘I’ve no idea. I just thought it would be something you’d want to know.’

‘You’re right.’

‘You’re not going to tell anyone?’

‘I gave you my word. I can’t thank you enough. Really.’

I didn’t want to look back. But habit does as habit does. As I got to the security door, I turned. Her eyes were fixed on me. I wondered briefly if it was a honey trap. Had the police planted her? Was she going to ring them as soon as I’d gone? When you had as much going on in your head as I had, you tended to think the worst.

I ran down the corridor to the lift. Sherlock was right. Someone had made a mistake. What the hell had I done leaving her with a killer?

Darling
?