‘Alright, boss, good job on the appeal,’ he said.
‘Did it generate any good leads?’ asked Erika. The glass partition next to where they worked, which was officially, and rather ambitiously, called a ‘suite’, had been put aside, with four officers assigned to answer calls relating to the media appeal. They were all sitting in silence working on their computers.
‘Nothing yet. I don’t know if we will get anything until it runs again later with the helpline number.’
‘Let me know if anything comes in,’ she said.
She went to her office to make some calls, and to try and track down Melanie Hudson on her course in Birmingham, but she still wasn’t answering her phone.
* * *
Just before five o’clock, Crane knocked on her door.
‘I’ve got a man who’s called the helpline wanting to talk to you. Says he’s Ella Wilkinson’s father.’
Erika put down her pen and followed him over to the suite of phones. Two male officers were sitting working and looked up when she came over. A blonde officer handed Erika a headset and she slipped it on.
‘Is this Erika Foster?’ demanded a clipped northern voice.
‘Yes. May I ask who’s calling?’
‘Didn’t that girl tell you? It’s Michael Wilkinson. My daughter is Ella Wilkinson.’
‘Hello, Mr Wilkinson. I’m sorry to hear your daughter is reported missing.’
Erika could see that word had spread, and Moss and Peterson along with John had crossed to her side of the glass partition to watch the call. She signalled to Moss, who grabbed a spare headset, pulled it on and plugged it into the phone.
‘I watched your press appeal, DCI Foster. What I can’t understand is why you didn’t include Ella?’
‘Mr Wilkinson, we’re still trying to confirm if your daughter’s disappearance is connected with—’
‘Don’t lie to me woman!’ he shouted. ‘I’m a retired Detective Chief Superintendent!’
Erika looked at Moss, who pulled the computer keyboard towards her and started typing.
‘I didn’t know that, sir. I’m sorry…’
Moss indicated the computer screen, where she had pulled up a picture of Detective Chief Superintendent Michael Wilkinson, a thin greying man with soft brown eyes. He was wearing a dinner suit at an official function. Erika mouthed shit.
‘I have spent the past few hours trying to raise someone in the Met who knows what they’re talking about! I’ve been passed from pillar to post…’ His voice cracked. ‘It’s a shambles! As a last resort I took to calling the fucking helpline on the news report.’
‘I can call you back, sir, if—’
‘Why would I want you to call me back? We’re talking! Now tell me all you know.’
‘Sir, we’re not—’
‘Spare me the bullshit. I’ve had a look at the casework on the two girls and I have the information about my daughter’s disappearance. Tell me the truth. That’s all I want, and I think I deserve it!’
Erika looked around and saw that the two officers had now ended their calls and were staring at her.
‘Sir, can you just hold on for thirty seconds. I want to transfer you to my office where I can talk to you in private.’
Erika, Moss and Peterson moved quickly to her office and closed the door, where she resumed the call. She explained what she knew, and told him that she had been informed of his daughter’s disappearance less than ten minutes before she had to talk to the media.
He calmed down slightly. ‘I’ve had little contact from local police… Two officers came around to the house just as the press appeal went out on the news. It seems that Ella has been added to the long list of runaways and missing persons… I’ve had to get the doctor in for my wife… I’ve spent years working within the force and now I find myself on the other side of things. Powerless.’
Erika gave him her direct line and promised that she would have a Family Liaison Officer assigned to his house. When she came off the phone there was silence. Moss was sitting at her desk on the computer.
‘Poor bastard,’ said Peterson.
Erika nodded. ‘He had every right to shout. I had nothing to give him, we know nothing. This man, whoever he is, must be laughing.’ Erika perched on the edge of the desk and rubbed her eyes. ‘I should have pushed to have Ella included in the press appeal, and fucked the consequences.’
‘We still don’t know for sure that she was taken by the same man,’ said Moss. ‘Crane is working again on pulling any CCTV, but it could take time.’
‘I want us to go ahead and pull the names and addresses of everyone who owns a red Citro?n C3 in London and the South East,’ said Erika.
‘That could run into the hundreds, if not thousands,’ said Peterson.
‘What else do we have? It’s the only thing that’s consistent in all the cases. Go ahead and get in contact with the DVLA.’
‘Okay, I’ll get on it,’ said Peterson.
Erika grabbed her coat off the back of the chair and left her office. She took the stairs down to the bottom floor and came out of the front entrance. One of the women from CID was out on the pavement smoking a cigarette.
‘Sorry to ask…’ Erika started. The woman looked up wordlessly and offered her cigarettes. Erika took one from the packet, and leaned in whilst she lit it for her. ‘Thank you,’ she added, exhaling smoke into the cold air. The sky was murky and brown against the light of the city. In the next road they could hear the sound of drinkers moving between the pubs. ‘This is my first cigarette in months.’
The woman finished hers and dropped it to the pavement, grinding it out in a flash of embers.
‘If you’re going to die you might as well enjoy yourself in the process,’ she said, and she moved back up the steps and back inside.
The words clung to Erika as she finished smoking the cigarette. It satisfied her craving, but left her feeling revolting. She picked her phone out of her pocket and called Marsh. This time it said his number was no longer available. She scrolled through her phone looking for the number for Marsh’s wife, Marcie, but she didn’t have it. She thought about going over to his house, but it was late and she didn’t have the energy to deal with it all.
‘Where are you, Paul Marsh?’ said Erika, staring at her phone and then slipping it back into her pocket.
Chapter Forty-Two
It was late afternoon, and Darryl looked across the communal office at the quiet studiousness of his colleagues. Like him, he knew that little was being achieved, but everyone was doing a good show of looking busy.
‘You can start packing up your things,’ said a voice behind him. He turned to see Bryony standing behind his chair, holding a pile of Manila folders.
‘Okay, thanks. And thanks for letting me leave a bit early, Bryony,’ he said.
‘You’ve banked the overtime. Are you planning on doing anything nice?’