Lucie Whitehouse - Critical Incidents

‘Torbay,’ said the woman as she carried the mugs to a small table. ‘Five years ago. Six this summer.’ She fetched a third chair from the front room. When they were all sitting down, they were elbow to elbow. Robin moved back a little, let in some air.

At close range, the woman looked ill. Her skin was paper-dry and blotchy, raw around the nostrils from nose-blowing. Her eyes were marbled with pink. When she saw Robin notice how her hands trembled, she moved them quickly under the table as though ashamed of the weakness.

‘She left a message just before eight this morning,’ Maggie had said in the car, ‘Alan gave her my number. I was in the shower, and when I called her back I got voicemail. Phone tag. Anyway, she got hold of me while you were getting the food. Her daughter’s missing, she says, has been for four days. We were in the vicinity so I said we’d come round, talk face to face.’

She sat forward now, silver bangles chiming against the table. ‘So tell us what’s going on, Valerie. As much detail as you can.’

The woman brought her hands back up and wrapped them round her mug as if it were a crystal ball. Plain gold wedding band, no engagement ring. Her nails were unpolished, cut short. In fact, all evidence suggested a complete lack of vanity. Her hair was cut in an unflattering pageboy, and she wore a pilled blue round-neck sweater and the sort of elasticated trousers sold from the back of Sunday supplements. If you saw her on the street, Robin thought, she’d barely register.

‘My daughter’s called Rebecca,’ she said. ‘Becca for short, never Becky – she hates Becky.’ A glimmer of a smile. ‘That’s her on the fridge, obviously. She was sixteen then – we went to Devon after her GCSEs.’

‘So now she’s twenty- …?’ said Robin.

‘Two. Her birthday’s in October.’

‘When did you last see her?’ asked Maggie.

‘Thursday. In the morning, before she went to work. Just before eight, like it always is.’

‘She lives here then? With you?’

Valerie nodded.

‘And have you heard from her at all since? Any calls, emails?’

‘No. Normally she texts me during the day – practical stuff, what’s for dinner – but that day, nothing. Then I found her phone upstairs.’

Robin sensed Maggie shift infinitesimally. ‘Where was it?’

‘On the floor, like she’d put it on the bed and it had fallen off. It was almost hidden by the valance – I called her from the landline down here and heard it ringing but I had to ring again to find it.’

‘How about her purse? Her handbag?’

‘She took those. She’d have needed her Swift card to get on the bus.’

‘And where’s the phone now?’

Valerie stood up and fetched it from the counter, a Samsung Galaxy in a sparkly mint-green case. They looked at it without picking it up.

‘Is it locked?’ said Robin.

Valerie Woodson nodded. ‘I don’t know the code. I’ve tried everything – her birthday, mine, her dad’s.’

‘Her dad is …?’

‘He’s dead. Graeme. He died when she was eight. Cancer.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Maggie.

‘Tell us about Thursday morning.’

‘It was … normal. I’ve been over and over it for anything unusual. She did go to work that day, I know that, because on Friday morning when her bed hadn’t been slept in and I found her phone, I rang the office to check she was okay. I got Roger, her boss, and he said she’d been there all day on Thursday and left as usual.’

‘But she wasn’t there then?’

‘No. He was about to call here, he said.’

‘Where does she work?’

‘In the Jewellery Quarter.’

The Jewellery Quarter . Robin felt a cold hand on the back of her neck.

‘A family silversmith,’ Valerie was saying, ‘Hanley’s. She’s been there since she finished her A-levels; they’ve encouraged her to go on, do book-keeping at college at night so she can take more on.’

‘And has she?’

‘Not yet. She says she will but now there’s the other place so I don’t know when she’d have the time.’

‘The other place?’

Valerie frowned. ‘She’s got a bar job in the city centre, place called The Spot. She’s been there since September. Three nights a week – Wednesday, Friday and Saturday.’

‘You don’t approve?’

‘It would be better to do the evening course, wouldn’t it? But she says she’s saving up for a summer holiday.’

‘Have you looked for her passport?’ asked Robin.

‘Yes. It’s here, still in the drawer with mine.’

‘And have you spoken to anyone at the bar?’ said Maggie.

‘Of course.’ A terse note. The woman heard it and caught herself. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay. Just take it steady.’

Valerie exhaled heavily, as if she could breathe out the tension. ‘She wasn’t there that night – she wasn’t supposed to be, she doesn’t do Thursdays. On Friday I called to see if she was in and spoke to the manager. He was annoyed with her for missing her shift, leaving him in the lurch.’

‘Right. And you’ve talked to her friends?’

‘As many as I can. And Jane who she works with at the office. She’s got new friends, though, at The Spot. I don’t know them.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Not at the moment. She broke up with Nick in October and there hasn’t been anyone since, as far as I know.’

‘How about him?’ said Maggie. ‘Nick. How did he take the break-up? His idea or hers?’

‘Hers. Well, he wasn’t pleased, he liked her, but as far as I know, he didn’t push it. There were a few phone calls then he got the message.’

‘How long had they been together?’

‘Four or five months. But I’ve been through all this with the police.’

‘Valerie, do you understand why DI Nuttall says she’s not a high-priority case?’

‘Because of her age – she’s an adult. And because there’s no evidence of anything … untoward.’ She looked down, chin quivering. ‘Violent.’ Robin watched her bring herself under control. ‘She doesn’t have any of the risk factors – she’s not suicidal, she doesn’t self-harm; she’s not an addict; she’s not in an abusive relationship. I understand what he was trying to say – people leave, they don’t want to be found, that’s their prerogative – but this isn’t that. This is different. Something’s wrong, I know it. I know my daughter. If she hasn’t come home and she hasn’t rung …’

‘What’s she like as a person?’ Robin asked. ‘What does she like doing?’

Valerie took a wad of tissue from her cuff and pressed it under her eyes. ‘She likes reading. We used to go to the library a lot when she was younger and it stuck.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘Novels – all sorts. Historical, thrillers. She likes Jane Eyre – reads it over and over again. Lately she’s been reading a lot of YA, she calls it – young adult. Well, I suppose she is one but it means younger, really, doesn’t it? All teenagers and girls with crossbows. Fantasy. And she likes cooking. Those are hers.’ She pointed to a stack of books on the counter: Ottolenghi and Polpo, two River Cafés. ‘She loves the Bake Off , all those cookery shows on Saturday morning. She watches them then goes shopping down Stratford Road, comes back and cooks. It’s not all my taste, what she makes. Too … herby. Lentils, little beans. What’s that funny stuff – tabbouleh? But she’s good at it.’

‘Wish I was,’ said Maggie.

‘So she’s a homebody, would you say?’

‘No, I wouldn’t. She’s … a mixture. She likes her cooking and her books but if I said she was always sensible … She drinks. She goes out. She’s not a wallflower.’