Sins of the Fathers (6 page)

Middleton wrote something on her sheet of paper, shaking her head as she did so. ‘The girl was living on John Adam Street when she went missing, so it was kicked over to us.’

‘So who’s dealing with it?’ the inspector asked wearily.

Middleton finally looked up and gave him an apologetic shrug. ‘Inspector Watkins.’

‘Great.’

Sophie Watkins had gone on maternity leave a fortnight ago. As far as he could remember, this would be her third or maybe even her fourth kid. A perfectly pleasant but totally uninspiring woman, she must have spent less than two years out of the last six actually working. Popping out that many sprogs in quick succession while staying, untouchable, on the company payroll was, to Carlyle’s view, taking the piss bigtime.

Especially when, all around, police spending was being slashed and jobs were being cut.

But then again, he was just your average, insensitive middle-aged bloke.

‘There’s a report on the system. Oh, and your wife called. You need to phone her.’ Middleton turned and disappeared behind a door at the end of the desk before he could start whining.

Hiroshi Takahara looked at him expectantly, a fresh business card in his hand.

Carlyle reluctantly took the card and looked the diplomat up and down. Fresh faced, if a bit crumpled after a couple of hours waiting on the benches outside, Takahara looked to be in his early thirties. London was doubtless a plum diplomatic posting, so he must be a ‘high flyer’ of some sort.

High flyers usually meant trouble.

The inspector felt an overwhelming urge to run. His mobile started vibrating once more but he didn’t have the energy to answer it. Pushing up his glasses, he rubbed his eyes.

‘We have been waiting a very long time.’

Turning the business card in his hand, Carlyle let his glasses fall back into place and held up a hand. ‘I’m very sorry about that sir,’ he said gently, gesturing at the man on the bench. ‘If you could go and get Mr . . .’

‘Ninomiya,’ Takahara reminded him. ‘Naohiro Ninomiya.’

‘Ninomiya.’

Takahara nodded.

‘Apologies for my pronunciation.’

Takahara nodded again.

‘If you could go and get Mr Ninomiya, I’ll take you upstairs and we will see what we can find out.’

Having installed the two Japanese in a first-floor meeting room, Carlyle printed off a copy of Sophie Watkins’s original report and nipped down to the canteen in the basement. Armed with a paper cup of green tea, he sat down at an empty table and quickly scanned through the notes on the disappearance of Ayumi Ninomiya.

Ayumi Ninomiya, twenty-two, shared a flat in an Art Deco block called the Little Adelphi just south of the Strand, next to the Embankment Gardens, close to the Thames. She had come to London from Nagasaki two years ago to study fashion at Central Saint Martin’s College of Art and Design and to work on her English. Carlyle thought about that for a moment. Even before college fees, the girl’s expenses must have amounted to more than two grand a month. Ayumi had worked part-time in a bar just off Regent’s Street, but that would scarcely pay her pocket money.

The family must be loaded, Carlyle assumed, to be able to pay for the trip.

Whatever.

Friday night six weeks ago, Ayumi had gone to a Covent Garden nightspot called the Lawnmower Club. It was Seventies’ Night. Her friends last saw her about two o’clock in the morning. Off their faces, they didn’t realize that Ayumi wasn’t around until leaving time, 5.30 a.m. Even then, they assumed that she had just gone home.

The walk back to the Little Adelphi should have taken less than ten minutes.

She never turned up.

Ayumi Ninomiya’s flatmate – another Japanese girl called Miki Kasaba – walked into Charing Cross and reported her missing at three minutes past four on Sunday afternoon. The police had swung – slowly – into action. Carlyle scanned down the list of people that Inspector Watkins and her sergeant had interviewed over the next week – the flatmate, the friends, people at the club, people at the college, neighbours. Nothing.

It crossed his mind that, with Sophie Watkins away, her sergeant, a quiet guy from Wimbledon called Ed Savage, might be free to step into Umar’s shoes, if required. The inspector filed the idea away for future reference. At the very least, Savage could get back on this case. Presumably he wasn’t on duty this evening or Middleton would have dropped it straight into his lap.

Carlyle thought about giving the sergeant a call before he spoke to the father but decided against it; he knew that Savage would not be able to add anything to the report. It would be touch and go whether he remembered Ayumi Ninomiya at all. That was not a criticism; it was just the way it was – there was more than enough to keep you busy when you moved on. Six weeks was like a lifetime ago. No copper could keep their brain filled with information that was essentially of historical interest only.

Skipping through the remaining pages of the report, he wondered what he would tell the girl’s father. The Initial Investigating Officers – Watkins and Savage – had done everything that you would expect: Ayumi had been logged as ‘missing’ on the Police National Computer, and the National Policing Improvement Agency’s Missing Persons Bureau had been contacted. They had also compiled details of friends and relatives and listed the places that she frequented. Having searched the Little Adelphi flat, they had taken a toothbrush so that there was a DNA sample on record.

A nice little tick in every box.

But no Ayumi.

There were two photos in the file. The first, a standard black-and-white passport photograph, showed an elegant girl who looked as if she could be anything from eighteen to thirty-five. She had a strong jawline, a friendly gaze and an expensive-looking bob haircut. The second was a snap of Ayumi and another girl standing in front of one of the lions in Trafalgar Square, both of them giving the thumbs-up to the camera. A scribbled note on the back identified the other girl as the flatmate, Miki Kasaba. They were dressed for winter and it looked cold; Ayumi’s hair was longer than in the passport snap but it wasn’t clear which was the more recent picture.

Carlyle was distracted by his phone buzzing in his pocket again. Reluctantly, he checked the text. It was from Helen:
Give me a call.

He laboriously typed a reply –
Tied up at the moment. Home in an hour
– hit send, and dropped the phone back in his pocket.

Ayumi had no known medical problems. As far as they could tell, she hadn’t had an accident. At least, she hadn’t turned up at any hospital in the city, or at any morgue. The initial hope in these situations was that the ‘missing’ person was just off partying somewhere. After six weeks, however, most people had managed to make it home. Equally worrying was the fact that there had been no withdrawals from her bank account in the month following her disappearance.

The family had consented to publicity. Carlyle scratched his head, trying to recall if there had been anything about the disappearance in the media. Not that he could recall, but then he didn’t pay much attention. Anyway, it looked like after an initial burst of activity, nothing had happened. Ayumi Ninomiya had been added to the list along with the other quarter of a million people who go missing in the UK every year; she would either turn up or she wouldn’t. There was not much that anyone could do about it either way.

Except now her father had travelled six thousand miles to find out what was going on.

Carlyle felt a sudden flash of empathy with the old man. For a moment, he tasted Naohiro Ninomiya’s boundless fear. If Alice had gone to Japan and disappeared, he wouldn’t wait six weeks and then sit politely on a police bench being ignored for hours on end. He would stomp around and raise merry hell; he would try to do
something
.

That’s what he would do.

Closing the file, he finished his tea. Getting to his feet, he dropped his empty cup into a rubbish bin by the till and headed upstairs.

Placing the file on the desk, Carlyle took a deep breath and sat down in front of Hiroshi Takahara and Naohiro Ninomiya. Both men looked extremely tired. The diplomat looked annoyed. The father looked determined. Up close, he was older than Carlyle had first supposed, probably in his mid-to-late sixties.

In the lift, the inspector had run through what he was going to say. It had sounded quite good in his head. But now, his mind was blank. Playing for time, he cleared his throat.

The two men looked at him expectantly.

‘Gentlemen.’ Carlyle forced himself to sit up straight. ‘First, again, I must apologize for the delay downstairs.’

Mr Ninomiya gave a gracious nod.

‘If we had known you were coming . . .’

‘The Embassy contacted the station three times,’ Takahara cut in, his voice strained, ‘but we did not get any reply.’ Leaning forward in his chair, he gestured towards the door. ‘And then the woman downstairs . . .’

Ninomiya put a calming hand on the younger man’s shoulder as he fixed Carlyle with a firm stare. ‘You do not need to apologize, Inspector, these things happen.’ His voice was low and clear, the English precise, with only a slight accent. ‘But now that we are here, what can you tell me about your search for Ayumi?’

‘Well,’ Carlyle tapped the file with his index finger, ‘I have to tell you that, up to this point, I have not been part of this particular investigation.’ A look of disappointment clouded Ninomiya’s grey eyes. ‘However, I promise you that I will liaise with the investigating officers going forward.’

What the hell are you saying?
a voice in his head started screaming.
You’ve got more than enough on your plate at the moment as it is
.

‘But it has been six weeks now,’ Takahara protested. ‘This lady is a Japanese citizen. The government of Japan expects you to take all necessary steps to find her.’

Gritting his teeth, Carlyle focused solely on the father. ‘The investigation to date has been conducted in a thorough and professional manner.’ He tapped again on the file. ‘We have searched Ayumi’s flat, spoken to her known friends and associates, and we have visited where she studied and worked.’

In short, we’ve got nothing
.

Under Mr Ninomiya’s unwavering gaze, Carlyle forced himself to maintain eye-contact. ‘Your daughter has been listed as missing on the Police National Computer, and she has been placed on the National Policing Improvement Agency’s Missing Persons Bureau.’

‘So,’ Ninomiya asked, his voice staying low, ‘do you think you can find her?’

Carlyle let out a breath. The statistics suggested that there was only one answer to that question. But now was not the time for statistics. ‘The one thing I will not do, sir, is make promises that I cannot keep.’

Takahara opened his mouth to complain then thought better of it.

‘I cannot promise that we will find your daughter,’ Carlyle continued. ‘What I can promise is that we will do our best. Having become aware of the case, I will personally do what I can.’

Ninomiya nodded again. He seemed to be visibly aging before the inspector’s eyes.

‘I know that you have already given us what help you can,’ Carlyle said gently, ‘and we are very grateful for that. But if there is anything else that you think might be relevant, nothing is too small to be worth considering.’

In response to this, Takahara compressed his lips angrily. So much for the inscrutable Japanese, Carlyle thought.

Ninomiya did a better job of keeping his emotions in check. ‘Have you spoken to Miki?’

Miki? It took Carlyle a moment to drag the name of the flatmate – Miki Kasaba – from the pile of partially digested information in his head. ‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘and we have spoken to all the people she suggested might be in contact with Ayumi.’

A spark of defiance flickered in Ninomiya’s eye. ‘And when was the last time that you spoke to her?’

‘I would have to check.’ Opening the file, Carlyle flicked through Sergeant Savage’s notes. ‘It would be approximately two weeks after she reported Ayumi missing.’

Ninomiya drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I spoke to Miki almost every day, up until last week. Since then I have not heard from her.’

‘Are you saying she has gone missing too?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Aren’t
you
supposed to tell
us
?’ Takahara asked.

‘I am not aware that she has been reported missing.’ Carlyle wasn’t aware of much. ‘But I will look into that.’

‘Good.’ Ninomiya abruptly got to his feet and extended a hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Inspector.’

Relieved that he had got through the meeting, Carlyle jumped up and shook Ninomiya’s hand.

‘I shall be staying in London for at least a week, so we shall meet again.’

Carlyle’s heart sank.

‘Next time, I hope that you will have more information for me.’

‘I will do my best,’ Carlyle repeated. Resisting the temptation to bow, he handed out a couple of business cards of his own.

Slowly getting out of his chair, Takahara glowered at the inspector. Ninomiya gave Takahara an admonishing look before turning back to face Carlyle.

‘The Embassy has been extremely gracious in the assistance it has provided. However, I am sure that we can now deal directly, man to man.’

Carlyle resisted the temptation to smirk at the diplomat. ‘Of course.’

‘I am staying at the Garden Hotel, do you know it?’

‘Yes.’ Carlyle knew the Garden well. The hotel was located just around the corner from the station, on St Martin’s Lane, and the concierge was a good contact.

‘I will return tomorrow for an update,’ Ninomiya stated firmly.

Don’t push me too far
, Carlyle thought. ‘Let’s say this,’ he suggested as he ushered the two men out of the room and towards the lifts. ‘I will make various enquiries and then I will call on you at the hotel tomorrow evening, some time around seven.’

The two men exchanged a few words in Japanese.

‘That is acceptable,’ Ninomiya declared. ‘I will see you then.’ Ignoring the lifts, he headed for the stairs with Takahara in tow.

Enya Etchingham, it turned out, was an earnest young woman with no kids of her own. She went through the various NCT modules in a careful but rather bloodless manner. No anecdotes, no reminiscences, nothing to suggest that her knowledge of the process of childbirth came from anywhere other than a book.