Troubled Waters (6 page)

‘No children of my own,’ she said.

‘Right,’ he replied, finding himself oddly nonplussed by her answer.

Watching her as she left, he was reminded of a cat; a solitary, elegant creature that, through choice, walked alone. No doubt, he mused to himself, an effective hunter, too.

4

‘Sweetheart, I told you this wasn’t a good idea,’ the man said, looking into his wife’s tearful face and fumbling in his pocket in case, by any miracle, there was a hankie in it. If not, there would be a pack of Kleenex in the passenger’s glove-box for sure.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she replied, sounding defensive, her chin still trembling and tears from her blue eyes overflowing down her cheeks.

‘This matters. I told you, we mustn’t attract attention. People will wonder why you’re weeping. They’ll be curious. You know why, my love, light of my life,’ he continued, putting an arm around her shoulder and giving her a quick squeeze. When she did not respond, staying stiffly upright in her seat, he put a hand on either side of her face and planted a kiss on her nose. It was not reciprocated.

‘I still think the police . . .’ she began.

‘We’ve talked about that. Better without them, without those busybodies from Social Services too.’

She made no reply.

‘You could always stay in the car?’ he suggested.

‘I’ll be alright,’ she repeated, her tone firmer, letting him know that her mind was made up, and that nothing he could say would change it. She looked away from him, out of her window, taking in their exact location for the first time. He had parked the car as close to the garage
on North Junction Street as possible, without actually encroaching on the apron of the forecourt. He opened the door for her and she stood in silence beside him as he fed a couple of coins into the ticket machine, looking first westwards and then eastwards, overcome by the enormity – no, the impossibility – of their task. It was hopeless.

As she stood waiting, cars streamed by, the low winter sun reflected off their windscreens, the drivers inside invisible. Passing them on either side was a never-ending river of pedestrians, coursing along the pavements, heads down, blind to anything except their own concerns. There was something ruthless, inhuman, about it all. In their thousands, they were more like ants than people. Whatever happened, they would carry on, trampling on the fallen, fixated on their own business, oblivious to the pain of others.

The man looked at the watch on his wrist. ‘We’ll meet back here at, say, 12.30? That’ll give us three and a half hours. Phone me, won’t you, the minute you have any luck? Be careful, mind, you know what they’re like.’

She nodded, her head down, her attention apparently solely on the street atlas in front of her. In fact, her eyes heavy with tears, she could see nothing. From somewhere deep within her a surge of anger rose and she said bitterly, ‘This should not have happened. You should have kept an eye on her.’

‘Sweetheart, it was an accident – I told you,’ he answered, a note of hurt reproach in his voice. Ignoring it, she continued, ‘You should have locked her in. That’s what I do, that’s what I always do. Then she’s safe. I warned you the last time. I asked you to do it too. But, no, you couldn’t be bothered – or didn’t think, or didn’t care! A second, that’s all it would have taken. Less than a second.’

‘I do care . . .’

‘Not enough!’

‘I forgot.’

‘If you cared, really cared, you wouldn’t have!’

‘That’s not fair, Lambie, not true,’ he replied, and a faint warning tone now coloured his voice. Registering it, she fixed him in the eye, shook her head and headed off towards the turn-off to Prince Regent Street. As she walked, her back to him, she wiped away the remaining tears with his crumpled linen hankie.

For a second she halted, consciously gathering herself, looking down the street and noticing the huge, soot-covered neo-classical building at the end of it. Its tall steeple seemed unexpected, out of place, and offered her no comfort. It might be His house, but God had forsaken her; He had not looked after her child.

A thick-set woman closed her front gate and came towards her. She looked washed out, with pouches under her wary eyes. A hoover was tucked under one of her arms, its hose coiled around her neck. In her outstretched hand was its nozzle, held in front of and away from her, as if it was the head of a venomous snake.

‘Excuse me,’ Lambie said, deliberately stepping into the woman’s path to block her way, accost her. ‘Could I trouble you for one minute?’

‘Not if it’s another bloody survey,’ the woman retorted hotly, looking at her as if she was an enemy, ‘I’m not voting.’

‘No I’m not doing a survey. I’m trying to find a missing person.’

‘Are you the police, then?’

‘No, but I’m helping them in their search for a missing girl. She’s almost fourteen, but looks older, tall for her age and she’s got cerebral palsy…’

‘I’ve never seen her.’

‘I’ve got a photo. She was here last night. Well, somewhere near here.’

‘Like I said, I’m sorry but I’ve never seen her. I don’t live round here and I wasn’t here last night. I just came to help a friend this morning. I’m from Portobello, and this thing,’ she said, nodding towards the hoover, ‘weighs a ton.’

Having made her point, she lumbered off at speed, without a backward glance.

Lambie studied the other pedestrians coming her way, trying to decide who to approach. None of them caught her eye. A youth, weighed down by a rucksack, looked harmless enough and although it went against the grain, she forced herself towards him. But he ignored her and her query, making her feel invisible and powerless.

Before long, and after being subjected more than once to a barrage of guttural, alien consonants, she became even more reluctant to approach the strangers flowing past her. But it must be done. On Madeira Street she steeled herself to knock on a door, choosing a bottle-green one with a brass knocker in the shape of a dove. The householder, a tiny old lady with her hair scraped back into a tight bun, peeped out from behind her door chain. Down at her feet, her Jack Russell poked its sharp little muzzle through the opening and sniffed the fresh air greedily.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ Lambie began, ‘but I’m trying to find a missing person. A young girl. She’s only thirteen, nearly fourteen. She’s got fair hair and she’s tall for her age . . .’

‘Well,’ the old lady began, sounding puzzled, ‘she’s not in here, darling. I’ve not got her in here with me.’

‘No,’ Lambie continued, ‘I’m sure you’ve not. But she was here, or somewhere round about here, last night. I just wondered if you’d seen her then?’

‘A girl, you say, light-haired, tall, thirteen?’

‘Yes, I’ve got a picture.’

‘Lost, you say?’ the old lady frowned, holding the photo at the end of her outstretched arm and peering at it. As she was doing so, her dog took its chance and attempted to wiggle its hard little body through the crack of the open door, whimpering when, in order to trap it, the old lady pulled the door more tightly closed on it with her free hand.

‘Stop it, Millie! You’re not getting out!’

‘Yes, she’s lost. It happened somewhere around here, yesterday evening.’

‘At thirteen can she not talk, then? Use one of those mobile phones? Find her own way home or at least ask somebody? At fourteen, my dear, I believe they’re going to be allowed to vote for independence!’

‘She doesn’t speak. Well, only to . . . a few people, those she knows really, really well, and she’s got cerebral palsy, you see, so she’s difficult to understand. She just makes noises, really.’

‘Well, I’ve not seen her,’ the old lady replied, handing back the photo and manoeuvring a stick-thin calf over the body of her pet in order to squeeze it back indoors. When she had succeeded, she smiled politely at the stranger and eased her front door shut again.

Waylaying others on Ferry Road, South Fort Street and North Fort Street brought no results. One lad, a green and white scarf tied round his neck, had even sworn at her. Feeling desolate, the woman decided to phone her husband.

‘Any luck?’ he asked.

‘No. Where are you?’

She could hear the sound of the traffic in the background, cars passing him at speed.

‘I’m on Dock Street heading towards . . .’ he hesitated, consulting his
A to Z
, ‘towards Commercial Street. Keep going, sweetheart. Someone, somewhere, must have seen her – they must have. She can’t have disappeared into thin air.’

‘I know,’ the woman answered, sounding unconvinced, unable to say more, feeling tears pricking the back of her eyes and blinking rapidly in an attempt to stem their flow. What about Bad Men, what about them? But even mentioning them out loud seemed dangerous, as if naming them might annoy them, make them rise up and harm her child.

‘Are you alright, Lambie?’ he asked, knowing the answer. Maybe, as she had insisted, it was more efficient to split up; but, he decided, it was also too difficult, too much to expect of her. She was not coping. They would, from now on, and whatever she said, do it together, side by side. He could be back with her, his arm around her, in a tick, and by the time she realised what he was up to, it would be too late.

‘Mmm,’ she replied, wiping her cheeks with the heel of her hand and putting the phone back in her pocket. Feeling the cold, she turned up the collar of her navy blue coat, and began wandering along the last few yards of Portland Street, only to find herself back in Madeira Street once more. Thinking that she would try one last house farther down it, she continued northwards until she saw, ahead of her, a pub. It was called ‘The Coach House’ and was close to the junction with Ferry Road.

For about a minute, she watched people going in and coming out, too afraid to cross its threshold herself. Eventually, summoning an image of her daughter’s face into her mind, she went in and began to work her way through the crowd towards the bar. The sole barman on duty was rushed off his feet. When, eventually, he looked inquiringly at her, she failed to speak. In a flash, he passed on to her neighbour, whirling round to pull his pint while she was still gathering her thoughts. The next time the barman’s attention turned to her, she was ready for him and blurted out, ‘I’m looking for a missing person. A young girl, nearly fourteen, fair-haired. I’ve a photo . . .’

‘What d’you want to drink, doll?’ he asked her, as if she had said nothing.

‘I don’t want a drink, thank you. I’m looking for a missing person.’

‘You’ve said that already,’ he interrupted her. ‘I’m busy. You can see that for yourself. What do you want to drink?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then I can’t help you, I’m afraid,’ he replied, signalling by a nod to the man behind her who, seizing his opportunity, edged to the front, a five-pound note ready rolled in his hand.

Defeated, she began to trudge back towards the door but, feeling she must give it everything she had, she tapped the tweed-covered shoulder of a sturdy man who was blocking her exit.

‘I’m very sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for a missing person, a girl, almost fourteen, fair-haired. She’s got cerebral palsy . . .’

He turned to answer her, taking a sip from his whisky glass and looking her up and down.

‘Did you lot not pick her up, then?’

‘Sorry?’ she replied, not understanding his words.

‘The lost girl, dear. I thought the police picked her up, that was what Hilary told me. The one who was sleeping in the doorway of number thirteen? I heard that Tricia rang 999 and that a bobby came from Gayfield to collect her. I didn’t know she had cerebral palsy, though. You’d never have known.’

‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t,’ she mumbled.

‘Why are you asking? Aren’t you from the police, then?’ he inquired of her, taking another drink from his glass.

‘No,’ she replied, flustered, ‘I’m from . . . a homeless charity. We had a call, you see. But if the police are dealing with it . . . with her, that’ll be fine. I’ll report that, and then we can close our file.’

Once outside the pub, she walked a few yards away before excitedly fishing her phone from her pocket.

‘It’s me. She’s safe! The police in Gayfield picked her up. We could go and get her from them.’

‘Thank God! That’s wonderful news, sweetheart,’ the man replied. ‘Oh, thank you, God! Thank you! I’ll meet you back at the car. It’ll take me about ten minutes or so to get there. I’m on my way already.’

‘OK. Then we’ll go straight there and pick her up, eh?’

‘Hold on, hold on, lovey,’ he replied, sounding anxious. ‘No, I’m not sure we can do that, quite. You know what’ll happen, like the last time. Like I said. Remember? We don’t want anyone trying to take her away, those Social Services types or anything. We don’t want to get tangled up with them again. They don’t understand the difficulties and everything. The police would be bound to involve them. Wouldn’t they?’

‘Maybe, but . . .’

‘The important thing, sweetheart, is that she’s safe. We know that now, eh? Now we know that, I’ll be able to track her down myself, in a jiff, and bring her back home. Myself. Don’t you worry, Lambie, not now that we know she’s safe, eh? That’s the only thing that matters, isn’t it, my love? She’s safe!’