Bolton, J. - Now You See Me

Twelve-year-old Cathy was quite plump, with a wide-mouthed grin and even teeth. Her fair hair was shiny as toffee. She was model-girl pretty and the glint in her eyes said she knew it.

‘And that’s that?’ asked Tulloch. ‘Nothing else?’

DS Anderson held up both hands and shrugged. I shook my head. We’d found nothing. Whatever had happened to Victoria and Cathy over the last eleven years, they hadn’t claimed benefits, paid tax or utility bills or legally driven a car. They’d fallen off the grid, as so many do.

‘Tina Llewellyn, the girls’ mother, died of cancer seven years ago,’ said Barrett. ‘She was a lifelong smoker apparently, got a tumour in her lungs that spread very quickly. She died in a hospice in Mid Glamorgan. No father that we know of. The girls might not even have had the same father.’

‘Actually, Victoria did re-emerge briefly, after about twelve months,’ said Anderson. ‘The girl’s grandfather, their mother’s father, lived up in the Rhonda Valley. They hadn’t had much contact with him even when they were kids, but when he died he didn’t leave a will and the girls inherited his house. Went for about a hundred thousand quid. Victoria claimed it.’

‘All of it?’ asked Joesbury.

‘As far as I’ve been told,’ said Anderson. ‘If she’s a psycho, she’s a psycho with money.’

‘Is that it?’ said Tulloch.

Nobody spoke. That was it.

‘OK, we keep looking. Lacey, we might need you to go out on the streets again, take a team with you, show that picture around.’

‘I can start now, if you want,’ I offered.

‘Actually, I have another job for you and Gayle first,’ said Tulloch. ‘Karen Curtis hasn’t been seen at work for two days, but according to one of her neighbours, she had an elderly mother living close to the river in Fulham. She used to visit her several times a week. It could well be where she’s gone to ground.’

‘You want us to go and check?’ asked Mizon.

‘The mother is frail, by all accounts,’ said Tulloch. ‘No point scaring her with the heavy brigade. Go and see if she can help.’

65

MRS EVADNE RICHARDSON, KAREN CURTIS’S MOTHER, lived on a street of houses that probably sold for over a million pounds each. It ran north, perpendicular to the river, and the kerbs were crowded with expensive-looking cars. Number 35 was shabbier, more old-fashioned than the rest.

‘Bet she bought this for a couple of grand fifty years ago,’ said Mizon as we stood on the tiny, tiled path that led to the front door. ‘Do you think this bell’s working?’

I lifted the door-knocker and rapped. We waited. Mizon stepped back and looked up to the first floor. ‘Got a bad feeling about this,’ she said.

‘Don’t,’ I replied, because whatever bad vibes Mizon was picking up, I could sense them too. I leaned forward. ‘Someone’s coming,’ I said.

I could hear footsteps approaching the door. Then the sound of a bolt being drawn. A key was turned and the door opened just four inches. A brass chain held it in place. I had to look down to make eye contact. A tiny, wrinkled faced stared up at me. Soft brown eyes behind thick, gold-rimmed glasses. Invisible lips.

‘Mrs Richardson?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’ She nodded her head once, looking scared. I realized that with my bruises I probably wasn’t what a frail old lady would want to see on her doorstep. I took a step back. Mizon held up her warrant card so Mrs Richardson could see it through the gap in the door. The old lady took a step closer and her eyes narrowed.

‘Mrs Richardson, we’re trying to find your daughter, Karen,’ she said. ‘We were hoping to ask you a few questions.’

A bluebottle flew out of the gap between the door and the frame and hit me on the forehead.

‘She’s not here,’ said the old lady.

‘Can we talk to you for a few minutes?’ asked Mizon.

‘Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at five o’clock. That’s when she comes.’

I forced a smile. ‘Mrs Richardson, we need to ask you some questions,’ I tried. ‘Is it possible to come in?’

The woman disappeared and after a second the door was opened.

‘Close it behind you,’ she told us, as she made her way back along the corridor. ‘Make sure it’s locked.’

The hall floor was covered with black and white tiles that looked as old as the house. The walls were covered in pictures, decorative plates and mirrors. A wooden staircase led up to the next floor.

The house didn’t smell too good. It wasn’t strong but it was nasty. Like damp. Like rubbish that had been left too long in the bin. Like something gone off. Mizon wrinkled her nose at me as we followed Mrs Richardson along the corridor. As she pushed open a door we could hear the soft buzzing of houseflies.

We were in a sitting room, large but so full of furniture it seemed cramped. There were lots of family photographs over the fireplace and on the lid of an upright piano in the corner. I could see a dead housefly in Mrs Richardson’s silver hair and several more buzzing around the large bay window.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked the old lady, once we were all settled in easy chairs.

At my side, Mizon shook her head. ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘We won’t keep you long. Can I ask when you last saw Karen?’

‘Monday night,’ she replied. ‘She comes at five, cooks me some dinner and helps me have a bath. She goes about half past seven. Just as Coronation Street starts.’

‘So you’re expecting to see her tonight?’ I asked. Today was Wednesday.

Mrs Richardson was nodding at me. ‘She’ll be here at five,’ she said. ‘She comes straight from work.’

I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t far off five, but Karen Curtis hadn’t shown up at work for the last two days.

‘Mrs Richardson, how did she seem on Monday?’ asked Mizon. ‘Was she her usual self?’

Evadne Richardson nodded. ‘Just the same,’ she said. ‘She’d had a phone call from Thomas. Said he had a new girlfriend.’

She pushed herself to her feet and crossed to the fireplace. Her hand went up and she seemed to be counting off the frames that were lined up along it. When she got to the fifth, she stopped. ‘This is my grandson,’ she said, taking down a photograph of a boy in graduation robes. ‘Thomas.’ She held the photograph out. I took it and passed it quickly to Mizon, just getting a glimpse of a dark-haired boy. He was smaller and slimmer than the other boys we’d met. The cox of the rowing team.

‘Did she say anything about planning to go away?’ I asked.

Evadne looked puzzled and shook her head. ‘She doesn’t go away,’ she said. ‘Not without arranging for a home help to come in and see me. I have health visitors calling every day,’ she said. ‘Just for ten minutes. They make sure I take the right pills. But they don’t do any cooking or cleaning up.’

‘Did she seem worried about anything?’ asked Mizon.

‘No. What would she be worried about?’

‘Hopefully nothing,’ said Mizon. ‘I don’t want you to get worried, but she didn’t go to work today. Can you think of anywhere she might be?’

The old lady was on her feet again. ‘I’d better just phone her,’ she said.

Mizon and I watched Evadne cross the room to the phone, dial a number and wait to be connected to her daughter’s answer-machine. I saw Mizon bat a fly away. Evadne put the phone down.

‘Mrs Richardson, is there anything you can tell us, anything unusual about her vis—’

‘She went upstairs,’ Evadne said.

‘Upstairs?’ repeated Mizon.

The old lady nodded. ‘I heard her,’ she said. ‘The music on Coronation Street had just finished and I heard her going upstairs.’