‘Our Agnes would never run away from home. She loves us. She’s safe here. She knows that.’ The yellowed fingers pecked at her hair, like jaundiced crows going after roadkill. ‘It’s that bloody Anthony Chung. He’s done this. Abducted her. I said so, last time you were round, but you didn’t do anything about it, did you? Bloody police. . .’
DS Chalmers patted her on the shoulder. ‘We’re going to do everything we can, Mrs Garfield.’
Agnes’s mother scowled at her. ‘Don’t you patronize me. If you’d taken us seriously and done something in the first—’
‘Why don’t you leave us to it for a bit, and we’ll come down when we’re done? ’
The chin went up again. ‘You won’t find anything. I’ve been through this room a dozen times, there’s nothing here. Agnes has no secrets from me. You need to be out there, hunting down that bloody Chung!’
Chalmers smiled, showing off those pointy little teeth. ‘I know, but you want us to be thorough, don’t you? We’ll be down soon as we’re done.’
A sniff. A thinning of the lips. Then she jabbed a finger at Logan. ‘If he’d done his job when he came here, instead of drinking tea and eating my biscuits, she’d be home by now.’ A nod. Agnes’s mum backed out of the room and slammed the door.
‘Pffffff. . .’ Logan sank down on the single bed. The wooden frame creaked, the mattress sagging beneath him. ‘Before you say anything, it was DI McPherson. Sent me out here, told me to poke about a bit, reassure them, then get back to solving actual crimes. Course, then he gets seconded to the Scottish Parliament on the Force Integration Project – as if they didn’t have enough bloody numpties screwing things up already – and hey presto, suddenly it’s my problem.’
He glanced up. . . The roof was covered in pale-yellowy-green and white stars. Had to be hundreds of them up there, filling the ceiling from edge to edge. Oh to be young and daft again.
Chalmers poked her way through the bookshelves. ‘Whenever my mother hated any of my boyfriends, it just made them more appealing. Even Hamish Campbell with his big teeth and stickie-out ears. Dad hated him too, and after that I’d have run away with him in a heartbeat. . .’
The bedside cabinet contained a mix of hankies, granny-pants, and a tiny collection of cheap jewellery – each piece individually wrapped in tissue paper. Logan slid the last drawer back into place, then pushed aside the little troupe of fluffy toy animals to peer into the gap between the mattress and the wall. Nothing.
‘What you looking for? ’
‘A diary. Address book. Something like that.’
Thump. A black leather journal landed on the duvet. It was held shut with a black ribbon.
Logan picked it up, weighed it in his hand. ‘Where was it? ’
Chalmers pointed at the bookcase. ‘Top shelf, next to the collected Roald Dahl.’
Left in full view, where anyone could find it? Bizarre.
He undid the ribbon and flicked through the pages to the last entry. It was dated three weeks ago, the day before she disappeared. He held it out. ‘Read.’
‘OK. . . Er. . .’ Chalmers dug out her glasses and slipped them on. ‘“Today was a good day, I didn’t cry once, and Mum made tuna casserole for tea. Jemma and Penny want to go see a band on Saturday night, but I’ve got a history test to revise for, so I don’t think I can go”. . .’ A sniff. She looked up from the pages. ‘Nothing very dramatic. Nothing that says, “I’m running away to set up house with my boyfriend.”’ Chalmers flipped back a few pages. ‘Here she’s talking about watching TV. . .’ Back another two. ‘They went to the shops and bought some new socks and she got a book. . .’ Further back. ‘She wants to have a couple of friends over for dinner, but her mum won’t let her, says they’re a bad influence. And Agnes is actually OK with that.’ Chalmers curled her top lip. ‘Kid’s got no spine.’
‘Does she mention Anthony Chung at all? ’
‘Not so far. Mind you. . .’ Chalmers nodded at the neatly ordered bookcase, then the tidy desk, then the chest of drawers with a single porcelain figurine of a dragon on top of it – perfectly centred in a lace doily. ‘Doesn’t exactly come off as a wild child, does she? Even her books are alphabetically arranged by author. When I was her age I was getting blootered every weekend with Duncan Peters in his parents’ summerhouse, while they were out getting the weekly shop from Asda.’
Logan stood. ‘So she was keeping secrets from the diary? ’
‘With a nosy mum like that? ’ Chalmers closed the book and tied the ribbon. ‘Or maybe Agnes is just really, really boring. . .’ Frown. ‘You notice there’s no photos in here? No birthday parties, or holiday snaps, or hanging out with friends? Just book and movie posters? ’
‘Parents seem genuinely worried about her. Maybe a bit too much? ’
‘Think they’ve killed her and buried her in the basement? ’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time someone did it.’
Chalmers slid the diary back on the shelf. ‘Is it just me, or is there something . . . wrong with the room? You know, like. . .’
Silence.
‘Like what? ’
‘Don’t know. Like someone doesn’t really live here? It’s too ordered, too tidy, there isn’t any personal stuff.’ She picked a stuffed tiger from the group on the bed. ‘Look at these: none of them are worn, or tatty, or threadbare. They’ve never been loved, they’re just things.’ She gave the tiger a hug. ‘Maybe the thing that’s missing is the childhood? ’
Logan looked down at the tidy little room. ‘Or maybe her mum just tidies the hell out of everything any time Agnes goes out? She’s the type. And what sort of freak calls their kid “Agnes” for God’s sake? Should report them to child protection.’ He took the tiger from her and dumped it back on the bed. ‘Five more minutes with the parents, then we’re out of here.’
‘Yes, Guv.’ She followed him out of the bedroom.
‘Tomorrow you can get on to the bus stations and the airport and the ferry terminal – have someone knock up “Have you seen Agnes?” posters.’ He started down the stairs. ‘Then go round all her friends. I want to know if she and Anthony Chung talked about going anywhere.’
10
Logan stopped at the foot of the stairs.
The voices coming from the lounge were muffled by the closed door, but it was easy enough to hear Agnes’s mum and dad arguing about whose fault it was that she’d run away. An eighteen-year-old girl whose mother poked her nose into everything, who wouldn’t let her have friends over, who went through her things every time she was out. No wonder she’d legged it the first chance she got.
There was a cupboard under the stairs, the door a blank slab of white. It’d been fitted with a bolt on the outside, held shut with a brass padlock. The kind that had tumblers instead of a key. He squinted at the architrave, the words ‘AGNES’S ROOM’ were just visible – scratched into the wood, then rendered almost invisible by layer upon layer of gloss paint.
He gave the padlock a tug. Solid enough. But the trouble with these tumbler locks, especially the cheaper makes, was how easily you could crack the combination by levering the dials apart while you turned them, feeling for the click. . . There. Then the next one. . . Two more to go, and the hasp popped free of the lock.
Chalmers stared at him. ‘How did you do that? ’
‘Gets easier when they’re used a lot. Loosens everything up.’ Logan drew the bolt, and swung the door open.
Inside,