James Lane finished his hamburger, and wiped his face with a paper napkin, and then his greasy fingers. ‘Serena was a cute little thing, and didn’t seem that fazed by the fact her friend is missing, but she said that as far as she knows Amy has no boyfriend, or has never mentioned one, although they are not that close as Amy always has either a weekend with her father or mother and they both arrange activities.’
Wey nodded, and reached for the ketchup, before continuing. They had asked a number of pupils about who was closest to Amy but they had almost all agreed that she was a bit of a loner. She was also academically a very bright pupil and interviewing her teachers had given them no indication that Amy was in any way a troubled teenager. She was studious, and artistic and a good athlete, and not one of them had said a bad word against her. They were obviously concerned and asked if there was anything they could do to assist tracing Amy.
‘Any male teachers?’ Reid asked, eating a chip, which by now was cold.
Wey opened his notebook again and named a fencing master and a music teacher. One was crippled and elderly and the other had extreme halitosis, and so both detectives doubted that their girl would find either attractive. They had found the art teacher a very sexy lady, a Miss Polka, and she had been helpful, even showing them some of Amy’s artwork, which was excellent.
Reid was getting tired; he yawned and stood up to stretch his legs.
‘I’m arranging a press conference with the Fulfords for tomorrow morning and will need your help. No doubt the conference will lead to slews of calls and more enquiries.’
‘Any luck with Amy’s mobile phone or iPad?’ DS Lane asked.
‘Not as yet, and there’s been no activity on either since she went missing. Barbara got a list of all the calls she made over the few days before her disappearance but it has not turned up anything unusual or productive.’
‘If we can find her phone or iPad it would be a big step forward,’ Wey remarked.
‘I know, so Barbara’s asked the phone company to monitor them in case they go live,’ Reid sighed.
He could see that both detectives were aware of the fact they could be dealing with more than just a missing young girl and the grim possibility she might even have been abducted. Reid started to pace back and forth, trying to get up some adrenalin, and ticked off on his fingers his gut feelings from the day’s interviews.
‘The mother is neurotic, but obviously concerned, so that may have been a natural reaction; she’s successful, very wealthy, from what I could ascertain, but we need a full disclosure of her business, and the possibility is always that someone she employs might be connected. She runs a very tight ship with a housekeeper and driver that hardly have any contact with her daughter, but she is a model teenager by all accounts, her bedroom immaculate, ditto the whole house.’
Wey yawned as he flicked open his notebook, jotting down what he felt was relevant. Reid continued pacing around the office.
‘There’s gardeners as well, so we need to check them out, and also run a check on her driver as he has a criminal record, and start to question her neighbours.’
‘What about the father?’ DS Lane asked
‘Okay, he needs looking into; I don’t trust him. He rents this flat, the whole place is a bit seedy and the perfect teenager’s bedroom is a shit-hole, and I want forensics in to see if there’s any blood or other types of DNA – reason is, there’s underwear tossed around, sexy and lacy, and it looks stained. Very different to her mum’s place, so it could bring a result. He’s a good-looking guy, but bit of a loser, so focus on him.’
‘Semen stains?’ DS Lane asked.
‘Possibly, but that’s why I’m calling in forensics to go over Amy’s room at the flat.’
‘You think he’s been screwing his own daughter?’ Wey asked, not shocked, just interested in Reid’s take on him.
‘Who knows, but Amy’s excuse was something about needing her wristwatch. I couldn’t see one there and he couldn’t recall when he last saw it. I dunno… and we need to check his neighbours, see if anyone saw our girl on the Saturday afternoon. Also check on Mrs Fulford’s neighbours.’
Lane and Wey looked at each other, both realizing that if Amy returned to her father’s, but never left, there was another even more frightening scenario to consider.
Lane spoke first. ‘So do you think she’s still alive?’
Reid reached for the last congealing chip. ‘We have to consider the very real possibility she is not.’
Chapter 8
Lena kept her hand on the door buzzer, but it seemed an age before Marcus answered and when he did, he sounded quite hoarse. As he buzzed her in and she closed the door behind her he came hurtling down the stairs from his flat.
‘Is she home? Have they found her?’ he asked desperately.
‘No, no, she’s not come home; I’m here because we need to talk.’
He sighed and then gestured for her to follow him up the wide marble staircase. The stair carpet had been a plush crimson, but was now rather threadbare and some of the brass stair rods were missing. The hallway had at one time been very grand, with marble mosaic flooring, but two flats had been created from the ground-floor rooms. Marcus occupied the second-floor flat and it was quite a way up. The polished wooden doors of the flats were all the same, with brass numberplates and knockers. He walked ahead of her, barefoot, wearing boxer shorts and a cotton dressing gown that looked as if it needed ironing.
‘I was asleep,’ he muttered as she elbowed his front door closed, trying to avoid the stack of circulars shoved to one side on the moth-eaten fitted carpet. The high ceiling and cornices gave the impression the flat was large, and probably at one time it would all have been one or two bedrooms, but it was now divided into a small kitchen and breakfast diner, utility room, bathroom, sitting room and two bedrooms. It felt shabby and yet there were some good paintings. As Lena followed him into the sitting room she saw it was reasonably well furnished, with leather armchairs and a low carved coffee table. There were more oil paintings on the walls and on an oak carved dresser were numerous photographs of the owner, Simon Boatly, in sporting attire, plus stacks of dirty coffee cups and mugs.
‘Do you know what time it is?’ Marcus asked, slumping down onto a worn leather armchair.
‘I don’t know and I don’t care – don’t you have a vacuum cleaner?’
‘It’s broken, and don’t tell me you’ve come round to moan about housekeeping.’
She removed her coat and folding it neatly placed it over the arm of the other armchair. Sitting opposite him, she took in the good-quality silk Persian rug between them, observing as she always did the room and contents. Knowing her of old, Marcus shook his head.
‘Everything in here belongs to Simon. I am as you know just renting it – before that it was his aunt’s place and I doubt anything has been done since she died; I don’t know how long he’s staying away but it could be a year or so – anything else you need to know?’
‘There’s a lot I want to know, Marcus,’ she said coldly.
‘I am sure you do, but you look as if you are going out for a business meeting. I’d have thought considering the situation you would be at home to see if Amy called – has she?’
‘I would have contacted you if she had, and I’m on my mobile.’
He gave a wide-handed gesture, puzzled as to why she was at his flat and picking up from the way she clenched her mouth so tightly that she was very tense.
‘I have read Amy’s journal and I’ve got to say it threw me sideways,’ she said, trying not to sound angry, wanting to be as calm as possible but now unsure how she should elaborate on why she was there.