‘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, the little cupboard had been turned into a little room. A single mattress filled the available floor space, no sheets, just a sleeping bag and two stuffed toys: a teddy bear that looked as if one more go in the washing machine would finish it off, and a once-white rabbit turned Frankenstein’s monster with random-coloured patches and big clumsy stitching.
A bookshelf sat at the tall end of the wedge-shaped cupboard, with more paperbacks, and plastic action figures: wizards, witches, and vampires. Half a dozen grey and black roses were long dead in a vase, tied up with a black ribbon. Very cheery.
He beckoned Chalmers over. ‘This look more like it? ’
She climbed inside, kneeling on the mattress as she poked through the books on the shelf. ‘Harry Potter’s got a lot to answer for.’
‘She’s eighteen.’
‘Yeah. . .’ Chalmers pulled a hardback from the collection and frowned at it. ‘She’s got this same book upstairs.’ The front cover was some sort of dragon thing curled around a woman dressed like a gypsy. Chalmers opened it. Raised an eyebrow. Then turned it so the innards were facing Logan. ‘Interesting.’
The book had been hollowed out. She pulled out a spiral-bound notebook, flicked through a few pages. ‘Oh dear. . .’
‘What? ’
‘“Rowan looked at him lovingly. ‘I’m really glad you bit me Edward,’ she said enthusiastically, ‘this way we can be together forever when we get to magic school!’ He smiled at her knowingly, and thought about how much he loved her, because she was perfect. ‘I know,’ he said romantically, his eyes smouldering like a million suns falling into a million black holes, ‘I can’t think of anyone I’d rather battle the Dark Lord of the Werewolves with than you! You’re so much cleverer than that little swot Hermione.’ And she knew he meant it, because she was the only one who could make his cold dead heart beat again. . .”’ Chalmers turned the next couple of pages, pursed her lips. ‘Oh, look at that. Then they have sex on the carriage floor while Harry watches and plays with his wand. Then he sticks it up Edward’s. . .’ She shuddered, put the thing back in the book and slammed it shut. ‘God, I hate slashfic.’
‘Slashfic? ’
‘Think really bad fan fiction, only you have everyone shagging each other. It’s kind of. . .’ She looked over Logan’s shoulder. ‘Mrs Garfield, did Agnes spend a lot of time in here? ’
Agnes’s mum was standing by the open living-room door, arms folded across her chest. ‘We keep that cupboard locked.’
‘So Agnes wasn’t allowed—’
‘She was obsessed with those bloody wizard books when she was younger. She’d. . . When she was little she’d sneak in there and play. I know we shouldn’t have indulged her, but we did. Keep meaning to clear it out, but every time I tried, she’d burst into tears and scream till she was sick.’ Mrs Garfield narrowed her eyes, then looked away down the hall. ‘What kind of grown woman wants to be a wee wizard boy in a stupid book? ’
Logan
