‘Can somebody else look after them for you?’
‘Not really, but I can liaise with them by phone for a day or two, I suppose. Being the parent of a missing child has many parallels with the experiences of families bereaved by homicide. The emotional trauma, stress and the unknown is like living in limbo for the parents.’
‘How long have you been with Victim Support?’ he wondered, impressed by what she had to say.
‘Seven years now.’
‘It must be very hard for you as all you ever deal with is grief and misery. What made you want to do this line of work?’
Deirdre looked at him levelly. ‘I volunteered after they helped me overcome being the victim of a violent attack. I got followed off a bus one night by a stranger who dragged me down an alleyway and violently assaulted me. I woke up in hospital the next morning, and no one could have prepared me for the impact it would initially have on my life.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, it was rude of me,’ Reid apologized, suspecting that Deirdre had probably been raped as well as beaten.
She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Not at all, talking about it is still a form of release. When it happened I not only had physical injuries but also emotional ones and they were the hardest to deal with,’ she said frankly. ‘I went through the full range of revulsion, fear, and anger, not to mention a sense of helplessness. I was also terrified about reporting what had happened the police.’
‘But you did report it?’ Reid said, concerned that her attacker might still be roaming the streets unpunished.
‘Yes, and the young lady detective who dealt with me was excellent and got Victim Support to visit me. It was a great sense of relief to be able to talk about my feelings with someone that was not a police officer, a family member or a friend. Jane from Victim Support was someone who would just listen to me and reassure me that what I was feeling was normal.’
Reid nodded understandingly and with respect for her. ‘And that experience encouraged you to join them?’
‘Yes, I wanted to give something back and now I’m the person that listens and allows people to talk through their feelings and emotions.’
‘I have to say, Deirdre, that is a very moving and powerful story. I chose to change my career because I was bored, but your inner strength and what you have achieved is remarkable. I take my hat off to you.’
‘Thank you, DI Reid, that’s very kind of you.’
Reid checked his watch. ‘Sorry, I’ll have to get going. You’ve been really helpful and I do appreciate what you’ve done.’ As he started to walk away he stopped, turned and spoke softly.
‘Did they get, well I mean, did they arrest…?’
‘Yes they did. It was three years later on DNA, but working for Victim Support and my colleagues helped me through having to relive the ordeal in court.’
‘He pleaded not guilty?’ Reid asked with amazement.
‘Yes, tried to say I was a prostitute and went down the alley willingly and slipped, causing my injuries.’
Walking to his car, Reid couldn’t get over how open Deirdre had been with him, and found himself deeply moved by her story. As he drove out, ignoring the journalists shouting their inevitable requests for information, he reflected that in some ways his fears and concerns about his handling of the investigation paled into insignificance compared to what had happened to her.
Deirdre went upstairs and tapped on Lena’s office door, but got a sharp reply of ‘Leave me alone please.’ She continued along the landing towards the bedrooms. The guest suite was a mess of Marcus’s discarded clothes, his dirty sneakers left beside the bed and tissue paper from a shoe box strewn on the floor; no doubt the vigilant Agnes had not as yet done her speed-clean in there.
Deirdre moved on down the carpeted landing to the closed door at the end, feeling a little guilty about sneaking around as she eased it open. Amy’s bedroom was not as large as either the guest suite or her mother’s room, but it was nevertheless a fair size with a small double bed. The bedspread covering the duvet was in a pretty white cotton with small daisies and matching frilled pillows. The wooden slatted blinds were partially closed but the room remained very light and airy, with high ceilings and carved cornices, and Deirdre thought how her daughters would love to have a room like it. The row of fitted wardrobes ran the entire length of the room, and gently pushing one sliding door open, she was astonished at the array of beautiful designer clothes. They appeared to be colour coordinated, and beneath them were racks of pristine shoes and boots, all with shoes horns and boot presses. There was also an open-shelved unit with cashmere sweaters in various colours.
Deirdre eased the wardrobe doors closed, and then turned to look at the dressing table. A blue pottery jar, a hand mirror and a bottle of perfume were placed neatly on its surface.
She noticed by the further bedside cabinet a small well-filled bookcase. It contained textbooks and exercise books, rows of sharpened pencils and pens. She bent down to look along the spines. They were all leather-bound classics – Shakespeare, Dickens, Ibsen, Strindberg and poetry volumes by Byron and Shelley. Nothing gave any real indication that this was the room of a fifteen-year-old girl. She sat on the bed and took four school exercise books out to look through them. She was struck by the neat handwriting, and further fascinated by the very advanced level of the content across all subjects. One book contained essays on various historical leaders and notes describing their political context. There were also some long essays about the slave traders, and these had excellent drawings, and down the margins were small red ticks and notes for further research.
She replaced the books, and stood looking around the room; to her mind there was not a single sign that Amy Fulford was suffering from any form of mental illness. Bending down, she peered inside one of the bedside cabinets and found yet more neatly arranged items from Aspirin to sweeteners, and two diet books, a stack of vitamin tablets, boxes of tissues and various moisturizers. She moved to the opposite bedside cabinet and in the small drawer she found a Bible and a volume of Sylvia Plath poems. She was careful to straighten the bedcover and ensure she left the room as she had found it. She looked around once more and noticed the room was devoid of any posters, pristine and tidy. Lastly she entered the en-suite bathroom and found the glass-fronted cabinet contained an array of very expensive shampoos and conditioners. There were banks of white towels and face cloths, and hanging on the back of the door was a white towelling dressing gown. She even felt inside the pockets to see if there was anything tucked inside, but they were empty.
As Deirdre was about to leave the room she decided to take a few of Amy’s school exercise books to examine more closely. She stepped onto the landing and saw Agnes leaving the guest bedroom with a white bin bag.
‘Oh, I don’t think you should have been in Amy’s room!’ the housekeeper said tersely.
‘I just wanted to see it for myself, Agnes, that’s all.’
Agnes moved closer, glancing round to make sure she was not overheard.
‘I was just outside the sitting room when the detective was here and I overheard him saying that Mr Fulford’s friend died of AIDS; next minute he rushed out of the room and went upstairs, and she followed him. I was about to ask if they wanted a cup of coffee and I was outside the room when I heard them having a right argument, and what I gathered, right or wrong I’m not sure, was she accused him of being one.’
‘One what?’ Deirdre said, stepping slightly back as Agnes was so close.
‘A homosexual – I wouldn’t be surprised because she treats him like a child, buying all these clothes for him. I’ve seen the prices left in the boutique bags – money no object.’
Deirdre found Agnes objectionable and the thought of her creeping around eavesdropping on private conversations disgusted her. Nevertheless she had been snooping herself, even if to her mind she had good reason as she was there to help the Fulfords. She felt a little guilty even so.