‘The Church,’ said his wife, sitting upright. Her tone gave the organisation instant status. ‘Some friends had heard of their work, and recommended them. We — I — called them and they said they might be able to help.’ The way she looked at her husband showed he had not been keen on the idea.
‘Did they say how?’
‘Not at first. They said they had people on the ground, here in London, and that if she was still in the area, there was a chance they could find her. We were ready to try anything. We were going to hire some private detectives, but they suggested they could work faster because it was their speciality.’
‘So it was you who approached them,’ said Palmer.
‘Yes. They were very good… they seemed to know about Angelina. Maybe our friends told them.’
‘Did they ask many questions?’
‘Lots. They wanted to know all about her… her likes and dislikes… friends… habits. Even things about us as a family. We told them everything they wanted to know. It seemed only reasonable.’
‘And you, sir?’ Riley looked at her husband.
‘Me?’ He gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘I did what I always do — I went along with it. Answered all their impertinent questions, gave them more than I thought was necessary, to be honest. But what else could I do? We even went along to their blessed meeting the other day. No idea what that accomplished, save them getting a fat donation, although I suppose that’s fair enough, someone has to. We are talking about our daughter. She’s important to us, d’you see? Our Angel.’ He coughed and dried up.
‘This donation,’ said Palmer after a few moments. ‘How much did you give them?’
They exchanged a look, then the husband said, ‘A thousand pounds. I said I’d double it if they found her.’
‘Who suggested that figure?’
‘I can’t remember. It… came up.’
‘It’s a fairly specific figure, though.’
‘They told us they were hoping to set up a drop-in centre for the homeless here in London,’ said Mrs Boothe-Davison. ‘I thought it was a marvellous idea. Mr de Haan said they were planning to raise money for it by asking for fixed blocks of donations, but he was trying to come to a reasonable idea of the amount of each. He thought anywhere between five hundred to a thousand pounds would be acceptable, and my husband said we would contribute a thousand.’
‘That was very generous,’ said Riley. ‘And he accepted?’
‘Damn near took my arm off,’ said Boothe-Davison sourly. ‘I don’t mind the money, to be honest — it’s not as if we can’t afford it. But I’d like to see some action in return, that’s all.’ He cleared his throat loudly, his expression edged in pain. ‘I never thought I’d do such a thing… but you find yourself ready to do almost anything in this situation. We just want to know she’s safe.’
‘Have they found anything?’
‘So far? Nothing. I had a call yesterday, saying they had some promising news, but nothing concrete. There have been a few crank calls but that’s not unusual, apparently. They said something about how these groups of kids move around a lot in the daytime to avoid the law, which makes them difficult to track down. Then some twaddle about belonging and fellowship and praying. Fat lot of good that’ll do.’ He glared at his wife as if she might contradict him, but she remained silent. Riley wondered if her starry-eyed demeanour at Broadcote Hall had been because of de Haan’s presence, and whether being away from it had allowed a cold dose of reality to creep in. Not, she thought, that it could have been all that far beneath the surface. Forces wives were generally made of stern stuff.
Palmer stood up. ‘Do you have a recent photo of her?’
Boothe-Davison nodded and turned to a burnished mahogany side table, where he opened a slim drawer. He took out a photo from a small stack and handed it to Palmer. ‘No need to bring it back,’ he said gruffly. ‘I had several done in case… ‘ He shook his head and said nothing more.
‘Ok. Leave it with us.’ Palmer handed Boothe-Davison a business card. ‘My number, in case they call with any news. We’ll see ourselves out.’
‘Wait.’ Boothe-Davison stepped forward, looking puzzled. ‘You’re not asking for payment?’
‘No.’ Palmer shook his head. ‘It’s not an issue.’
Outside on the street, he looked at Riley. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think,’ said Riley, ‘they are two very vulnerable people who were carefully lined up and allowed themselves to be conned out of a thousand quid. Or am I being cynical?’
Palmer smiled coldly and set off along the pavement. ‘You and me both.’
Riley stared after him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Things to do, places to be,’ he tossed back over his shoulder. ‘You wouldn’t want to know.’ His tone suggested she wouldn’t be welcome.
‘Don’t worry, Palmer,’ she muttered after him, startling another elderly passing local. ‘I’ve got some digging of my own to do.’
Chapter 18
The area where Katie Pyle had lived hadn’t changed much over the years, and seeing it again brought back to Riley sharp memories of her visits here when she was covering the story. Situated close by Elstree Studios, where she remembered Katie’s father, John, had been employed as a technician, it was a comfortable, middle-class area of semis and detached houses with large gardens, set in broad, well-kept roads. Although the M1 motorway thundered north barely a mile away on the other side of a section of woodland, it was deeply rural by inner-city standards.
Riley called Donald on the way and asked him to confirm the address. He came back within minutes. ‘It’s the only one I can find, but it’s not recent.’ Then he asked bluntly: ‘Do we have a story?’ Once he knew there was something solid on offer, he’d be chasing her non-stop for progress reports. But he’d also be an invaluable mine of information should she need it.
‘We might,’ she told him cautiously, ‘but I’m not sure where it’s going. It could be nothing, but I’m going to see if Katie’s parents can tell me anything else… like whether they heard from her over the years. It’s hard to believe she’s been around all this time and didn’t make contact.’
‘Well, stranger things, sweetie. Stranger things. Keep in touch.’ He rang off to answer another phone warbling in the background.
Riley found the street on her third try, misled at first by a new sports centre now masking the approach to the road. She parked and walked up a brick-paved path to the familiar double-fronted house. It sported vertical blinds instead of curtains and a revamped fascia and remodelled porch. The garden was different, too, with signs of recent landscaping including newly laid turfs and flowerbeds, and a small cherry tree with straggly branches.
The woman who came to the door was tall and slim, and several years younger than Mrs Pyle would have been. She had a mobile phone in one carefully manicured hand. Riley introduced herself and explained the purpose of her visit.
‘Susan Pyle? She moved a few years ago,’ said the woman with a sigh. ‘As I’ve been telling a stream of police and other reporters. We bought the place from her after her husband died. She’d pretty much done nothing to it.’ She nodded towards the garden. ‘That was a jungle; you wouldn’t believe the weeds we had to blast out. My husband hired one of those flame-thrower things — ghastly machine, it was — and that was just so he could see where the roots were. And the interior was simply Gothic… well, that’s how I describe it, anyway. So much dark cloth and furniture… I’m amazed the poor dear wasn’t blind with having to peer through the gloom all the time. And the smell!’
‘Bad, was it?’ said Riley with studied patience. She wondered if this woman had ever been through anything half as bad as Susan Pyle. Undoubtedly not, otherwise she’d have shown a bit more sympathy.
‘It was so thick you could cut it. And I’m not surprised; after all those incense sticks she burned night and day, the ceiling was black with the smoke. You can still smell it when the house gets hot. I swear it’s been absorbed into the brickwork.’ She shook her head and looked belatedly guilty. ‘I’m sorry — I’m not being very kind to her, am I? We heard about her daughter, what with the press and police still thinking she lived here. Poor woman must have had a terrible time.’ She turned away and picked up a slip of paper from a glass-topped side table inside the porch. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know her new address, but this lady apparently does. I had my husband print them up because of all the callers. She’s a friend from way back, I believe, and lives down the road, although she doesn’t see callers. You’ll have to ring. But I’m sure she’ll be able to help you.’