‘What’s up?’ Lottie asked, raising an eyebrow. Boyd was never late. Ever.
‘Nothing. Couldn’t sleep in the heat. Then I couldn’t wake up after I eventually nodded off sometime around five.’
‘You need a woman,’ Lynch said.
‘You could be right,’ Boyd said.
‘Shut up, the pair of you,’ Lottie said. Stuffing the missing person report in her bag, she grabbed him by the elbow. ‘I think you need fresh air.’
Twenty-Three
Mimoza’s eyelids fluttered open. She had no idea where she was. Her body ached and pain thumped through her head. She lay naked on a sheeted mattress, staring at the ceiling.
Drawing her legs to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and rested her chin on her knees, like Milot did when he was sulking. Then the memories swamped her consciousness and despair threatened to overwhelm her. Diverting herself from her inner distress, she scanned the room. A locker, a red-shaded lamp and a teddy bear with a blue bow tie sitting forlornly on the glossed wooden surface. Washbasin with a dark towel on a rail attached to a wall. Heavy flowery curtains drawn closed, blanketing a window. The embossed velvet roses on the wallpaper appeared to be struggling to escape their thorny prison.
She eased her aching limbs from the bed and investigated what might be behind the door of the wardrobe to her right. The only items it held were red and black sheer nylon negligees.
Slumping back on the bed, she wondered what they had done with Milot. How could she survive without her son? If only she was sure he was safe, perhaps she could endure the life to which she had been condemned. Reality attacked her as brutally as the boots that had kicked her. She hoped Sara could care for Milot until she escaped from this hole.
The room was hot but her skin prickled with goose bumps. This was not the first time she had been in a brothel, and hadn’t she been subjected to violent sex attacks in the centre? She’d endured such torture in Pristina, too, before she had been rescued, and then, when she’d thought she was safe and secure, she’d been abandoned, pregnant. Sighing, she tried to shut out the memory.
She had thought about trying to report the abuse she’d suffered in the centre, but Kaltrina had warned her that things like that always got covered up and no one would believe her. Her only hope was the cryptic letter she’d given to the policewoman.
She lay on the lumpy pillow and listened to the sounds of everyday life beyond her confined space. A train trundling along tracks in the distance, the joyful screeches of children in a playground far beneath her, and the slow drone of traffic. Was she still in Ragmullin? She didn’t know and didn’t care. She only cared about Milot. She thought again of the tall policewoman and prayed she hadn’t thrown her letter in the bin. But she knew she probably had.
With trembling hands covering her eyes, willing strength into her body, Mimoza braced herself for what lay beyond the door, for who would walk through it, for what they were about to subject her to. Yes, she was ready for all that. But first she had to know her son was safe.
A key rattled in the lock and the door shifted open.
‘Get up,’ said the woman from last night.
‘Where is my son?’
‘To you he is dead. To us he is an asset. Maybe someone like him as a bum boy? Now you shower.’
Mimoza allowed herself to be led to a bathroom down a narrow hallway. As the water drummed against her bruised ribs, she vowed she would escape the clutches of the elephantine woman who stood sentry outside. Was she spying through a crack in the door?
‘Look all you want,’ Mimoza shouted, though she supposed her voice was drowned out by the water gushing from the shower.
When a flabby arm grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to the ground, she still continued her internal mantra. I will be strong.
Andri Petrovci woke up late. It was twenty minutes past nine. He’d forgotten to set the alarm. His boss, Jack Dermody, would have plenty to say. Slowly he rolled out of bed, his brain drumming a beat against his skull. He rubbed his shaved head with a trembling hand. Another night of turbulent nightmares.
Turning on the tap, he heard the glug, glug of water slowly releasing before it flowed freely, splashing up against his naked torso.
He washed his face free of the night and brushed his teeth. He dressed in his work clothes and left with a backward glance at his neat living space, quietly closing the door on his private world.
Twenty-Four
Lottie was familiar with Mellow Grove. Her last case had brought her to the estate a couple of times. Looking around, she concluded that someone in the council must have had an odd sense of humour when they named it.
The Phillips house stood at the end of a terraced row, near a football pitch, the only abode in need of a coat of paint. The pebble-dash, probably once cream in colour, was now a weather-beaten brown. The curtains were closed.
She pushed the rusted gate inward. The rectangle of lawn looked like a meadow awaiting harvest.
‘Could do with a bit of a clean-up,’ Boyd said. Lottie rang the doorbell. ‘It’s open,’ he added.
She was about to reply when she noticed the door was indeed slightly ajar. Tentatively she pushed it inwards. Speckled green and grey linoleum covered the floor, faded white down the middle; the stairs were squeezed to the right, a multitude of coats overloading the banisters. The light was on. Probably from the night before.
She ushered Boyd in and called, ‘Anyone home? Hello?’
Hearing a cough from behind a door at the end of the short hallway, Lottie knocked and entered.
‘Mrs Phillips? I’m Detective Inspector Parker and this is Detective Sergeant Boyd. Can we have a word, please?’ She flashed her ID.
The woman sitting at the table nodded and with a cigarette between tar-stained fingers beckoned for them to sit down.
On the short drive over, Lottie had tried to imagine what type of mother could wait almost five days to report her teenage daughter missing. Now the answer sat in front of her.
Clearing crumbs from a chair, Lottie sat, glancing quickly at her surroundings. Boyd remained standing. The kitchen was dim despite the fluorescent tube flickering overhead. Flies sizzled in the plastic shade. Oppressive heat accentuated the smell of rotting vegetables emanating from a cupboard below the sink – itself piled high with dishes caked in dried food. A swarm of fruit flies rose towards the light. Lottie couldn’t see any fruit.
‘So have you found the little wagon yet?’ Mrs Phillips poured a liberal amount of vodka into a pint glass. Without adding any mixer, she took a large gulp, burped, and sipped. She put down the glass, the shake in her hand clearly visible.
‘You only reported your daughter’s disappearance last night.’ Lottie counted to three, keeping her anger in check. ‘Why the delay? Can you fill me in on the details, Mrs Phillips?’