“You have to elaborate, Sumaira.”
“I like the way you say my name,” she smiles, and looks back at the file. “There’s no forensics held on file because it never went that far but there are some old photos somewhere. All I’ve got here is the image description. It says ‘runic symbols’ on back of vic 1 and ‘possible blood-spattering’ to vic 2, though by the time they got to the nearest cop-shop that was all pretty much gone. Rain was coming down like a sea.”
“Runic?” muses Rowan. “That could be anything.”
“Yes, it could.”
Rowan glances towards the lake. “Three girls missing, two found. What does it say about that? What did the girls say when it all calmed down?”
Sumaira spreads her hands, apologetically. “There are a couple of handwritten notes from the senior investigating officer. She stood down the Mountain rescue team after the two girls were discovered, so she must have been in possession of information that the other one was safe. Maybe she toddled off home before the others. It doesn’t say. It’s crap record-keeping but it’s also from a time before computers ensured we can’t chew our toenails at our desks without having to log it.”
Rowan winces. “It sounds iffy, Sumaira. I’ve heard rumours that she was never found. That she’s at the bottom of Wast Water.”
“We’ve already found the people at the bottom of Wast Water,” says Sumaira, checking her teeth in the reflection of her knife. “It’s a huge spot for divers. Did you know there’s a garden of gnomes down there? Divers put them out for a laugh. There’s no bugger else down there.”
“Did it lead to any convictions?” asks Rowan, hopefully. “This busker – he must have been in line for more than a slapped backside.”
“No follow-up worth the name,” says Sumaira, sitting back. She looks around for the waiter, seeking food and drink and a chance to talk about something less depressing. “It seems there was a bit of pressure to sweep it under the rug. It was probably a bit embarrassing for the parents – people thinking your kid’s been abducted then finding out they’ve just been partying their brains out. The file’s pretty thin. The statements given show they don’t remember very much besides the busker they met in Keswick, and some weird ramblings about a medicine man, or somesuch.”
“The Medicine Man?” asks Rowan, and immediately imagines pitching the name to a news editor. “You’re sure?”
Sumaira opens the file and flicks through the sheaf of papers. “Shaman, that was it. Like I say, the statement’s a bit of a mess. This is the bad old days, remember. Not exactly softly-softly, and as for the record keeping….we can’t even find the third girl’s statement. The file’s a disgrace. CID talk about Eve Cater like she’s this legend, but she must have been having an off-day when it came to putting in the paperwork.”
Rowan sits quietly. Waits for more.
“The girls were pupils at Silver Birch Academy,” says Sumaira, looking around for Jez and indicating an increasing readiness for more food. “Holistic, hippy-drippy school that closed years back. Well, a statement was taken at the time from a few of the pupils, staff, the pastoral team. It was privately owned, you see, and I think the men it belonged to, well they were very keen to get things sorted swiftly. There’s a letter in the file from solicitors representing owners Alan Rideal and Phillip Tunstall, written a few days after it all happened, saying very complimentary things about our sainted Eve.”
“Indeed?”
“Well, as it happens, both of those names were familiar to me, as they’d both been named in a briefing document I’d been shown when I joined CCRU. Missing persons report, made October 1988. One Arthur Sixpence.”
“Fuck off,” snorts Rowan. “That’s not his name.”
“No,” grins Sumaira. “Not originally. He was probably a Bob Smith to begin with but he changed it both colloquially and legally so many times we can’t actually trace him back to his origins. He was Arthur Sixpence when he went missing, so that’s what’s on the file. Anyway, it wasn’t much of a case. Sixpence was this eccentric old boy who did odd jobs and a bit of happy-clappy yoga and stuff at the school. He lived in the grounds, which can’t be bad as it’s a lovely spot there by the lake. He had a camper in the woods. Kept himself to himself, as the best ones always do. No sign of him for a few days, so the police get called in. There’s a bit of a scare for everybody when blood is found by a sniffer dog not far from his cabin, but it seems the coppers at the time weren’t too concerned because it never went much further up the ladder. Sounds like a friends in high places situation to me, and it’s hard to go back and check because the guy who bankrolled the place died in a mountain climbing accident and the school’s been sold off to a Youth Hostelling Association.”
Rowan gives thanks to the world for sending him Sumaira. She has a cab driver’s approach to discretion.
“And I’m taking it Arthur wasn’t found?” asks Rowan.
“Grown man went missing, didn’t come back,” exhales Sumaira. “It happens a lot.”
Rowan sits forward, elbows on the table. “And the owners were questioned on that, were they?”
“Not as suspects,” says Sumaira. She flicks through the file, checking a fact. “It was actually a local man who called us in. He was a friend of Arthur’s. A Mr Gordon Shell, from Nether Wasdale. God, don’t they have funny names up here?”
“He worked at the school and yet nobody had been to check on him?” frowns Rowan. “That’s a bit …,”
Sumaira suddenly looks sulky. “There’s supposed to be pudding, yes?” She turns back to him. “I’m doing all the talking here,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “You came to me about Silver Birch. Come on, what do you know? Is it one of these owners – have you found out something terrible?”
Rowan tries to look enigmatic. “I wish I could tell you but I’m not sure I know myself.” He nods at the folder. “The lady who requested that. Violet. She was remembering things about what happened. Maybe that led to her asking questions she shouldn’t have asked. I’d love to talk to her but apparently she’s away finding herself somewhere exotic, which means this line of enquiry is looking a bit dead in the water.”
“Oh yes,” smiles Sumaira, her eyes widening in delight as Jez approaches with a platter containing six tiny plates and enough dessert to cover one of them. She gives Rowan a moment’s more attention. “You should speak to Eve. I’d love to know what she has to say – especially about those friends in high places I just alluded to. She still has a personal interest in the case, that’s clear. She was on the phone as soon as we started the FoI request, suggesting oh-so-politely that we might want to leave that particular bit of paperwork near an open window on a windy day.” She shakes her head. “Formidable woman, that one, so good luck if you do go up there.”
“I’m glad you’re thinking of my personal safety.”
Sumaira frowns. “Speaking of which, you might want to check in on this lady if she’s been gone a few months and you’ve only got Facebook messages to show she’s okay. I can tell you some stories about that, believe me.”
Rowan sits back in his chair and decides he will probably enjoy watching her eat all the desserts. He gestures for her to enjoy herself and she tucks in. He wishes more coppers were like DI Barrett. She reminds him of a time when people said whatever they wanted to and then lied about it later – a time before recording devices and screenshots and a video camera in every pocket. He begins to feel nostalgic.
“This is so good,” says Sumaira. “Seriously, I’m reaching a plateau of pleasure. Do you want a taste?”