Someone You Know (11 page)

S
arah Finn's mother, Sinead, sat on the sofa in the living room of their family home in Fallowfield Gardens, in Gobnascale. She was in her mid-thirties, at most, dressed in a heavy white dressing gown over her pyjamas. She wore thick grey bed socks into which she had tucked the legs of her pink pyjama bottoms. Her legs were crossed, the foot of the upper leg jittering as she spoke.

‘The school phoned just after lunch to say she's been off all day. I thought maybe she'd bunked off with friends.'

‘Had she bunked off before?' Lucy asked.

Finn shrugged lightly. ‘A few times, maybe.'

‘And she's not been in touch since?'

The woman shook her head. ‘I checked when I got in from the shops but she weren't in her room. She normally gets herself back in from school and that.'

‘So when was the last time you saw her?'

The woman reached across to the pack of cigarettes on the table next to the sofa and withdrew one, shaking it free of the pack. She lit it, dragged deeply, then held it between the fingers of the hand resting on her knee. Lucy couldn't help but notice that her nails looked freshly painted. She glanced across to where the cigarette box sat and, sure enough, a bottle of nail polish stood behind them. If she'd been concerned by the news of her daughter's absence from school, it hadn't affected her cosmetics routine.

‘Last night some time.'

‘Last night?' Fleming asked, glancing at his watch. It was almost three. ‘What time?'

‘Before seven, maybe. She were going out with her friends.'

‘You didn't see her come home last night?'

‘I went to bed early.'

‘And this morning? Was she home this morning?'

The woman shrugged. ‘I don't know. She normally sorts herself out in the morning.'

‘Was her bed made or unmade?' Lucy asked. ‘Had she slept in it?'

Again a shrug. ‘I don't know. It was made, I think. But she always makes it.'

‘Has she ever run away before?' Lucy asked.

‘Never.'

‘So you last saw her before seven last night. Almost twenty hours ago,' Fleming said.

The woman laughed embarrassedly. ‘It sounds bad when you say it like that. She went out to the local youth club. I went to bed early last night.'

‘Did she?'

‘Did she what?'

‘Go to the club?'

‘I don't know,' the woman said, blankly.

Fleming moved from the window, finally, and sat on the armchair against the opposite wall. ‘You might be best to check,' he said.

Sinead Finn dragged again on her cigarette, then folded it into the ashtray balancing on the arm of the sofa. She rooted through the pocket of her gown until she produced a mobile phone.

While she rang Sarah's friend, Lucy glanced around the room. It was cramped, the three-piece suite on which she sat much too big for the room. An electric fire flickered on the hearth. Above it, on the mantelpiece, a small gold carriage clock squatted, the lower works spinning back and forth. It was framed on either side by two small pictures. One was of Sinead Finn herself and a man.

Lucy struggled out of the seat, went across to the mantelpiece and lifted the photograph. It looked fairly recent, judging by the appearance of Sinead Finn. The man was small, little taller than Sinead, his head shaved, though the shadow of stubble across his skull carried a reddish sheen. The buzz cut accentuated his ears, which seemed to protrude a little. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth frozen open in a laugh. He stood slightly behind Sinead, his right arm reaching around her neck and across her chest, the bicep flexed protectively in front of her, the hand lightly clasping her left breast.

Lucy put the photograph down and lifted the second. It was, presumably, Sarah Finn, for the person in the picture wore a school uniform. She sat in front of a bookcase, laden with red-spined leather volumes. Lucy guessed it was a screen backdrop used by the school photographer. Sarah was brown haired, her features soft, still carrying a little puppy fat on her face. She looked up at the camera from below her fringe, her mouth frozen in an embarrassed smile.

Lucy turned and handed the picture to Fleming, then returned to her own seat.

‘Linda? Sinead Finn again. Was Sarah at the club with you last night?'

Lucy sat, clasped her hands between her knees. Instinctively she stretched them out towards the fire, then realized it was electric and returned them to between her legs. She could hear the raised murmur of the other speaker for a second as Sinead adjusted the phone against her ear, reaching for another smoke.

‘Well she said she was going with you,' Sinead said.

Linda obviously took exception to this last comment for her voice became loud enough for them to hear.

‘She said she was with you,' Sinead countered, raising her voice too, as if in so doing, she could convince Linda that she was mistaken and that Sarah had indeed been at the club.

Sinead snapped the phone shut and, lifting her lighter, lit the cigarette.

‘She weren't there at all,' she explained, unnecessarily.

‘Has Sarah a phone? Have you tried calling her?' Lucy asked.

‘I'm not bloody thick,' the woman snapped. ‘Of course I tried. There's no answer. I've left her a message to call me, but nothing yet.'

Fleming nodded. ‘So you didn't notice that she hadn't come home last night?'

Sinead Finn stared at him a moment, teasing out the implied criticism of his question. ‘Sometimes she's home late,' she explained. ‘The friends she runs around with and that.'

Fleming rose from the seat a little sullenly, crossed to the window and turned his attention again to the road outside.

‘Is this Sarah?' Lucy asked, lifting the picture from the arm of the chair where Fleming had left it.

Sinead smiled. ‘That's her. She looks so pretty.'

Lucy nodded in agreement. ‘She's lovely,' she said. ‘Is it a recent picture?'

‘A few months ago just. The start of the new term.'

‘Can we hold on to this, to show people if we need to ask around?'

Sinead nodded. ‘Seamy, my partner, was heading off early this morning, so we had a few drinks and an early night. That's how I didn't notice she was gone.' She folded her arms against her chest, staring at Fleming.

‘Where's he gone?' Fleming asked, turning back to the woman again.

‘Manchester. He's a lorry driver. He had to leave at five this morning to get the early ferry across.'

‘This would be Mr Finn, would it?' Lucy asked, pointing to the picture on the mantelpiece.

‘No,' Sinead said, with a confused laugh. ‘That's Seamy.'

‘What's his full name, Mrs Finn?'

‘Sinead, Jesus,' the woman replied. ‘Seamus Doherty.'

‘Who does he work for?'

‘H. M. Haulage. Harry Martin's his boss. He's H. M.'

‘I see,' Lucy said, jotting down the name. ‘Sarah wouldn't be with Mr Doherty, would she? Maybe went to keep him company?'

Sinead shook her head. ‘No. They don't really get on. Sarah's dad left a few years back and it's still raw, like. You know?'

‘How long have you been with Mr Doherty?'

‘A year or two.'

‘Does he live here?'

Finn nodded. ‘When he's not working. He drives a lot.'

‘Have you checked with him that Sarah's not with him at the moment?'

‘His phone's switched off,' Sinead said. ‘Besides, he'd have phoned to let me know if she was with him.'

‘And what about Sarah's father? Would she be with him?'

‘I doubt it,' Sinead said. ‘He lives in Australia. He headed out for work and never came back.'

‘How did Sarah take to you having Mr Doherty staying here?' Fleming asked.

‘It's my house, isn't it?' Sinead said.

She lifted another cigarette, lit it off the butt of the smouldering one she held, then flicked the dead one into the fireplace. She folded her arms again, facing Lucy and Fleming, as if challenging them to disagree.

‘Of course,' Fleming said. ‘Look, before we start a full search for Sarah, DS Black is going to take a quick look through the house. Just to double-check that she's not here. Is that OK?'

She bristled a little, perhaps at the implication that she may not have looked for her own daughter. Before she could speak, though, Fleming raised a placatory hand.

‘I'm sure you checked already, but sometimes we get called out to houses and the child in question is hiding somewhere inside. Sometimes they enjoy all the fuss and attention of people searching for them. It won't take long.'

‘Please yourself,' Sinead Finn said. ‘I've looked for her already.'

‘I understand,' Fleming said, attempting a smile. Not quite managing it. ‘A fresh pair of eyes and that. How about you sit and tell me a bit more about Sarah? Give us a sense of who she is.'

L
ucy went to the rear of the ground floor first and worked her way up. The back room was a small toilet, plain. A raft of coats hung on coat pegs screwed to the wall. She patted through the coats; just to be sure Sarah wasn't in there. The kitchen and dinette were next. There were precious few places where a fifteen-year-old girl could hide.

The kitchen itself was small, something accentuated by the amount of stuff cluttering the worktops. The remains of a Chinese takeaway from the previous evening congealed to two plates. The tinfoil trays remained, half filled, among the torn scraps of a brown paper bag. Two wine bottles sat next to them; one empty, the other perhaps a quarter full. Two glasses sat beside it. The sink was filled with older dishes again: a pan with spaghetti sauce hardened to the surface, a scattering of plates and cups beneath it, forming a pyramid of crockery that spilled over onto the draining board.

The next room was the sitting room where Fleming and Sinead Finn sat. Lucy could hear a snippet of the conversation as she passed the room and headed up the stairs to check the first floor.

The upper floor had two bedrooms and a bathroom. The bathroom was to her left. She took a quick look in; nothing out of the ordinary. A white T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts lay discarded behind the door, nestled on top of a sodden bath towel.

Lucy stepped across to the glass above the sink which held toothbrushes and paste. Three brushes. Assorted pieces of make-up were scattered across the windowsill.

Moving back out to the landing, she glanced into the next room, knocking on the door as she did so. It was, presumably, Sinead Finn's bedroom. A double bed with the clothes spilling onto the floor. A pint glass of water sat on the bedside cabinet on one side, a crowded ashtray on the other. The face of the old-style alarm clock behind it was magnified through the glass. Lucy picked her way across and, lifting the clock, checked the alarm time: 4.30 a.m. As she replaced the clock on the cabinet, she noticed a number of small oval scorch marks blackening the cabinet surface.

Two built-in wardrobes faced the bed. Lucy checked the first. A smattering of shirts and jeans, all male. Two pairs of sneakers sat on the floor.

The dressing table between the wardrobes held more cosmetics and a large pine jewellery case, so full that the lid did not close properly. The second wardrobe contained Sinead Finn's clothes, crammed tightly together in the space; Lucy struggled to make room to check that Sarah was not hiding behind them.

Finally, Lucy dropped to the floor and checked under the bed. Another pair of trainers, a used condom folded on itself, a spoon, lying face down, the curve of its back blackened with soot. Quickly she got up again, wiped her hands on her trouser leg.

The room next door was clearly Sarah's. It was simply furnished. A single bed, white wooden frame. A desk and a wooden chair. A single standing wardrobe. A small cabinet beside the bed on which sat another alarm clock with a space on top for docking an iPod. Instinctively, Lucy checked the alarm time on this: 7.30 a.m. The alarm was turned off.

The bed was neatly made, the pink duvet something Lucy would have expected in the room of a child many years younger than Sarah Finn. Again, she glanced under the bed, but the space was empty.

She opened the wardrobe. Fewer clothes hung in this compared to Sinead's. But what was there was hung neatly, first tops, then jumpers, then jeans. No dresses or skirts, Lucy noticed. Mind you, she didn't wear either that often herself.

‘Are you lost up there?'

Lucy looked out to see Sinead Finn mounting the final steps onto the landing.

‘I'm almost done. Is there anything missing from her room? Anything obvious?'

The woman stepped into the bedroom and glanced around, mouthing quietly to herself as if counting off items on a list. ‘She's an old rabbit sits on her bed,' she said finally. ‘That's about all.'

‘An old rabbit. A toy?'

The woman snorted lightly. ‘Aye. An ole white thing her father gave her. She'd taken it down from the attic a few weeks ago and started sleeping with it.'

‘Any reason why?' Fleming asked.

‘Why what?'

‘Why she started sleeping again with a childhood toy?'

The woman looked at him, then shrugged, pulling her dressing gown around her as she did. ‘I dunno,' she said.

F
leming stood at the door of the car, waiting for Lucy to unlock it. ‘What's your feeling?'

‘Hard to say,' Lucy commented. ‘She could have run away if she's taken the rabbit toy with her.'

‘Though we need to get to the bottom of what made her start sleeping with it.'

‘Maybe she missed her dad,' Lucy offered.

‘Maybe,' Fleming agreed, though he sounded unconvinced. Lucy was well aware what he was thinking; older children regressing to childhood toys in that manner could be an indicator of something more sinister.