David Jackson - Marked

Nicole Hamlyn gets up from her chair like it’s a supreme effort. She stares warily at her visitors as she approaches. Steve takes her arm and helps her to lower herself to the sofa, as though she’s an elderly grandmother.

Doyle starts walking to the vacated chair. ‘You mind if I bring this across?’

Mr Hamlyn shakes his head, and Doyle restores the chair to its rightful place for what must be the first time in days. As he does so, he sees that Mrs Hamlyn is watching him. He hopes that she doesn’t regard the moving of her chair as some kind of disrespectful act.

The two detectives take their seats opposite the Hamlyns.

‘Mrs Hamlyn, as I was just telling your husband, my name is Detective Callum Doyle, and this is Detective Tommy LeBlanc.’

‘Are you from Missing Persons?’ she asks. Her voice is quiet but clear.

‘No. No, we’re not from Missing Persons.’

‘Because all the detectives we’ve met so far have been from Missing Persons. And so I thought maybe you were from there too. I thought maybe you were more senior detectives from there. Because, well, it’s been a while now, and so the case should be given more urgency, don’t you think? Something more needs to be done.’

‘Mrs Hamlyn, we’re not from Missing Persons. We’re precinct detectives. From the Eighth Precinct, which covers the East Village and the Lower East Side.’

She flinches. Something has hit home. She crosses her arms, then lifts a hand and tugs at a strand of her hair.

‘I. . I don’t understand. The East Village? Why would you be involved in this? Why would you-’

‘Mrs Hamlyn, there’s no easy way to tell you this. We believe we’ve found your daughter, and I’m afraid to say she’s not alive.’

There’s a silence then. Doyle rides it out, gives the words time to sink in and percolate into their consciousness. Lets the fact of what he has just said become established in their minds.

Steve Hamlyn rubs his hand up and down his thigh. Up and down, up and down. He starts to shake and his eyes glisten. To his left, Nicole’s face contorts into a mask of intense anguish.

Mr Hamlyn finds some words. ‘You’re saying our daughter is dead? Megan is dead?’

‘Yes. I am. I’m sorry.’

Nicole emits a high-pitched keening noise that is barely recognizable as a long, drawn-out ‘Noooo.’ Her husband puts his hand on hers, but he still stares with incredulity at the police officers who have dared to invade his house and present him with this story.

‘You’re sure?’ he asks. ‘I mean, could there be a mistake?’

‘There’s no mistake. The Medical Examiner ran tests. We’re as sure as we can be that it’s your daughter.’

‘As sure as you can be? But not a hundred percent, right? Maybe if I could. . The body you’ve found. If I could. .’

‘Steve, no.’

This from Nicole. She grasps her husband’s hand tightly and utters the words in a small quiet breath through her tears. And in that instant Doyle knows that she has skipped a chapter beyond the text he has given them so far.

‘But what if they’re wrong, Nicole? Don’t you think we should at least-’

‘Stop it!’

‘Hon-’

‘NO! Please. Stop it. She’s dead, Steve. Can’t you hear what they’re saying to you?’

She turns to Doyle then, and the look in her eyes is one of heartbreaking comprehension. ‘The news. This morning. The East Village. It was her, wasn’t it?’

Doyle says nothing, because he doesn’t need to and because he can’t. It would be a slap to the face.

She stands up then, and her courteous announcement seems almost surreal: ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m going to be sick.’

She runs out of the room, her hand to her mouth. From somewhere else in the house come retching noises followed by the sound of running water.

Steve stands up, unsure whether to go to her or to stay and satisfy his burning need to understand what’s happening to his family.

‘The news? What’s she talking about? What news?’

‘Mr Hamlyn,’ says Doyle, ‘could you sit down, please?’ He waits for the man to sit, then says, ‘The police undertook a large-scale search of the East Village last night-’

And that’s all he has to say. Because now Steve gets it too. His brain finally allows the connection it has probably been vetoing all along.

‘Oh God, no! Not that. Not to Megan. Please tell me that wasn’t her.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Doyle.

The roar of anguish that the man lets out then is primeval. It chills Doyle to the bone and he feels the goosebumps break out on his skin. He experiences a sense of loss himself that seems profound but is mere fallout. How more unbearable must that feeling be at its source?

An age passes while the detectives allow the man his release. Doyle can almost feel the discomfort radiating from LeBlanc.

When Hamlyn speaks again, his words seem as misplaced as those of his wife. ‘Thank you,’ he says, his words coming out as a squeak through the emotion.

Doyle says nothing in return. Out of the corner of his eye he sees LeBlanc looking at him, willing him to take him the hell out of here. Doyle waits, because he must.

Hamlyn clears his throat to bring his voice down an octave, then continues: ‘For being straight with us. For being honest. I want you to know we appreciate it.’

‘Mr Hamlyn,’ says Doyle, ‘I don’t want to take up any more of your time, especially at this moment. But there’s one thing I need to ask you about.’

Hamlyn wipes his eyes and sniffs deeply. ‘What is it?’

‘Megan’s body. .’ He uses the word body, even though there wasn’t much of one. ‘. . It had a tattoo.’

He sees the puzzlement on Hamlyn’s face then, and he rushes out his next words before bafflement becomes doubt becomes hope.

‘It was done recently. In the past few days.’

‘A tattoo? What kind of tattoo?’

‘A picture of an angel. At the base of her spine.’

Hamlyn bows his head and pushes his hand through his hair. ‘Aw, Jeez.’

‘Does it mean something to you?’

He raises his head again. ‘Yeah. Kind of. She wanted a tattoo. For years she’s wanted one. We told her she couldn’t have one. She was sixteen, for Chrissake. I don’t think it’s even legal at sixteen, is it? But even if it was, I didn’t want her to have it. I wouldn’t want her to have it even if she was twenty. I told her: Those things don’t come off. You’re stuck with them for ever. But still she kept banging on about getting a damned tattoo.’

‘Far as you know, though, she didn’t have it done before she disappeared?’

Hamlyn strains against his helplessness. ‘No. I don’t think so. At that age. . I mean she was practically a woman, you know? I wouldn’t see. .’ He pauses as a thought strikes him. ‘Wait. She went swimming with Nicole. On Friday. The day before she went missing. They always get changed together. There’s no way she could have hidden it.’ He pursues his own chain of thought, then looks hard at Doyle. ‘You think, whoever gave her that tattoo, maybe he. .’

‘I don’t know. It’s too early. But it’s something for us to look into.’

Hamlyn starts rubbing his hands together. His leg shakes. The crying is on its way again.

Doyle stands up. Motions LeBlanc to do the same. He is only too eager to comply.

‘We’ll leave you alone now, Mr Hamlyn. We may need to come back and ask you some more questions, but right now I think you and your wife need some time together.’

Hamlyn gets up. ‘Sure,’ he says, but he finds it difficult to turn his tear-stained face to the cops. It’s a man thing, not wanting to appear weak. Doyle knows that when they’ve gone, he will bawl like a baby. And that’s okay.