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Chapter 1
Dr Lloyd
Monday 8 February, 5 p.m. Mold
‘What’s the name of the house again?’
‘Hold on a sec and I’ll check.’ Bryony pulled out a scrap of paper from her pocket and unfolded it, squinting down to read the writing in the dim car interior. ‘Edelweiss. The one opposite the bus stop. Look, there. Up ahead. The blue door,’ she said, extending her gloved hand before fastening the buttons on her coat, her fingers fumbling with the toggles. ‘I can get a bus back, Dad. It’s late and I thought you said there was a game you wanted to watch?’
‘Don’t start all that again, Bry. You know our views on your safety.’ He stopped the car and, securing the handbrake, turned in his seat. ‘I can always get it on catch-up. Now, you have everything?’ he asked, his attention on her school rucksack. ‘Kitchen sink? Bath taps? Spare kettle? Teapot?’
She leant across the narrow space and planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘You are silly.’
‘But you still love me?’
‘Of course I do. Now shoot. If you hurry, you might catch the start.’
She pushed the door open only to pause, her hand on the side of the frame. ‘See you in a couple of hours. There’s no need to wait.’ And with that, he watched as she closed the door and walked up the short path to the house.
The house was in darkness when he pulled up outside and switched off the engine but he wasn’t worried, not then. There was no sense of impending doom. No thought that tonight would be any different to the countless other nights when he’d had to act as unpaid and unappreciated chauffer to his daughters. He didn’t mean that, not really, he mused as he switched off the engine and pushed the door open. He’d do anything for his girls. He only wished that they’d be a little more considerate.
With his phone in his pocket, he walked the couple of paces to the front door. As a doctor, he never went even one pace without his phone, a lesson he’d learnt while working as a junior doctor. Despite being finished for the evening he was always on call. Things went wrong. Other GPs went off sick. Cars developed punctures. The list was endless and, as he was the senior partner, important calls were forwarded on to him by the practice manager. He could ill afford a missed message even though he had no intention of staying longer than the social chitchat necessary to decant his daughter back into the car.
He heard the doorbell peal in the hall as he stamped his feet and rubbed his hands, his thoughts on the single measure of whisky he’d promised himself and not on the dim shadow approaching the glass.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ The voice was soft and tentative, almost as if he wasn’t expected – the first warning shot across his bow that things might not be as straightforward as they first appeared.
‘Hi there. I’m Lewis Lloyd, Bryony’s dad,’ he said, expecting an immediate response. The opening of the door. A welcome smile followed by a ‘Do come in, they’ll be here in a minute.’ That’s not what he got.
‘And?’
‘And, I’ve come to pick up my daughter.’
‘I’m sorry, you must have the wrong address. There’s no one by that name here,’ she said, moving to close the door.
‘Hold on a moment.’ He stepped back, his gaze taking in the metal door sign and the little white flowers, edelweiss picked out in blue lettering, before repositioning himself in front of the door again, this time his arm rigid against the wood panelling. ‘No, there’s no mistake, Mrs … er … I dropped my daughter off to you earlier on and now I’m collecting her.’ He watched her eyes widen briefly, the pupils large in her suddenly pale face and his pulse ratcheted up a notch.
‘Please leave. Your daughter isn’t here,’ she said, moving to close the door and realising that his arm and then foot were preventing her. ‘Hey, hold on a minute …’
Lewis Lloyd pushed the full force of his not inconsiderable height against the door so that it flung back against its hinges and banged against the wall. ‘No, you hold on a minute. I don’t know what game you’re playing but I want my daughter and I want her now.’
He glanced around the hall before heading for the first room on the right, the lounge. Empty – as was the kitchen. There were only two rooms downstairs and he tore through each of them like a whirlwind, toppling over chairs, peering behind the sofa, leaving cupboards open, even cupboards that were far too small for his daughter to hide in or … or be hidden in. He clamped down on the thought and headed for the stairs, ignoring the screaming woman behind him brandishing her mobile.
‘I’m phoning the police.’
‘Please do. The only useful thing you’ve suggested.’
The upstairs rooms were as empty as the downstairs or empty of anything important. His daughter. There was nowhere left to look. Nothing left to do with the police on their way. He sank down onto the top stair, his elbows on his knees, his head cradled in his hands, suddenly aware of the silence both inside the house and within his heart. The screaming had stopped but that was the least of his worries. His daughter. His beautiful girl. Where the hell was she?
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Chapter 2
Gaby
Monday 8 February, 7.30 p.m. Rhos-on-Sea
‘I’ll just pop up and check that Conor is doing his homework,’ Rusty said, standing and stretching before heading for the stairs.
Good luck with that. But instead of replying, Gaby went back into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
Senior pathologist Dr Rusty Mulholland’s relationship with his twelve-year-old son had taken a nose dive over recent months and a hot drink would be just the thing after leaving the battleground of his son’s bedroom. Knowing Rusty, he’d probably prefer a glass of whisky but she’d leave him to make that decision when he returned downstairs.
Detective Inspector Gaby Darin still couldn’t believe that they’d moved in with her when the lease of his rented house over in Old Colwyn had come up for renewal. But she and Rusty had been spending so much time together that it had seemed the right decision at the time. She would like to think her relationship with Conor had improved but that would have been wishful thinking. While she tried her best, all she could say was that Conor tolerated her in the same way he tolerated school. An evil necessity of dubious benefit to all concerned.
‘Working on his maths,’ Rusty said, strolling into the kitchen with a broad grin.
‘Seriously?’
‘Nope. He’s now got a major strop on because I removed his iPad and threatened to disconnect the internet. Now, where did you leave the whisky?’
‘Ha, it’s in the same place it always is.’
‘Which is where?’
‘In the brown cupboard in the lounge,’ she said, swallowing back the ‘it hasn’t moved since yesterday’ comment playing on the tip of her tongue.
‘Would you like one?’
‘Might as well keep you company but just a tot.’
Gaby fished the teabags out of the mugs for use in the morning before pulling open the freezer and withdrawing the ice cube tray. Rusty liked his whisky neat but it was far too strong for her taste buds. In the old days, which meant a time before Rusty, she wouldn’t have touched the stuff but then a lot had changed over the last few months, including their relationship. The rows were plentiful but they usually seemed to muddle through to some kind of a happy compromise – and Gaby wasn’t always the one to give in.
She checked the back door was locked, switched off the lights and followed him back into the lounge, carrying a couple of glasses on a tray along with a small jug of water and a dish of peanuts.
‘At least you should be proud that he’s reading,’ she said, picking up the threads of the conversation. ‘You’d be surprised at the number of kids his age who are allergic to books.’
‘If only he was allergic to computer games in the same way.’ He grimaced. ‘I wish he spent as much time on his schoolwork as he does on his computer.’
‘Which is what parents in almost every household across the land are saying at exactly this moment.’
‘I know it’s not just me but …’
‘Rusty, you’re doing more than most parents do for their children. You need to give yourself a break. You’re a good dad, great even,’ she said, dropping onto the sofa, her thoughts turning to her best friend, Amy, who was weeks away from giving birth. ‘You’re going to be invaluable to Tim and Amy. She was only telling me last week of Tim’s intention to pick your brains. Apparently his biggest concern is making an arse of himself by dropping into a faint at the crucial moment. She couldn’t stop giggling while she was telling me.’
Rusty poured a measure into each glass before joining her, his head resting back against the cushions. ‘I’m not sure I’ll be of much help. Pru opted for an elective caesarean in the end. Not what I wanted but then choice wasn’t a factor that ever featured in our relationship. Falling pregnant, supposedly by accident, closely followed by a shotgun wedding wasn’t the most auspicious of starts. Our relationship never got a chance to recover.’
‘I’m sorry. I had no idea.’
‘No, well, we’ve never really discussed that side of things, have we?’ He turned his head to look at her, his expression grim. ‘But while we’re on the subject I do have to tell you I think that I’m too old for this parenting lark.’
‘Forty isn’t old, far from it. Certainly not these days.’
‘Well, it feels it.’ He turned back to his drink, lifting his glass to his lips and taking a moment to relish the flavours, something she’d seen him do a hundred times but this felt different somehow. This felt as if he was also using the time to choose his words.
He started to speak only to stop at the sound of her mobile belting out ‘I Will Survive’. For once Gaby didn’t resent the intrusion.
‘Darin speaking.’
‘Sorry for interrupting your evening, ma’am, but we have a situation back at the station.’
‘Carry on, Mal. I’m listening.’
‘We have a missing teenager. A seventeen-year-old. Bryony Lloyd. Her father dropped her off at a friend’s house for a study session but when he went to pick her up she wasn’t there.’
Gaby raised her eyebrows. ‘Probably nothing to worry about. Most likely she’s ditched the study and gone off somewhere with her mates for a drinking session.’
‘It’s not quite as simple as that, ma’am. We’ve also had a complaint of harassment from the owner of the so-called “friend’s house”. The homeowner says she’s never heard of a Bryony Lloyd and doesn’t have a teenager. In fact, there are no children living at the address.’
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Chapter 3
Gaby
Monday 8 February, 9.15 p.m. St Asaph Incident Room
‘This had better be good, Mal,’ Gaby said, dumping her bag on her desk before unravelling her scarf and peeling off her thick padded jacket. ‘It’s minus bloody freezing out there and with snow flurries forecast for later. If I crash my car on the way home …’ She left the sentence unfinished, her meaning clear.
‘I know. I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ve put on a fresh pot of coffee if it’s any help.’ He strolled over to the cafetiere and, choosing her favourite mug, filled it to the top before placing it on her desk. ‘I haven’t added milk – it smelt funny.’
With the mug cradled between her fingers, Gaby made her way to the radiator and plonked her bottom on the top. ‘So, what have you got for me then? A missing schoolgirl?’ She paused. ‘I take it she’s still at school?’
‘At sixth form college studying for her A levels.’
‘That’s all we need.’
She stared across the room at him, their thoughts working in tandem. A missing teenager. Another one. It had been five months since Christy Taylor had disappeared. A straight-A student with supportive parents and a glowing future ahead of her. That was until she’d upped and vanished, never to be seen or heard from again. They hadn’t given up the search despite a distinct lack of clues – there weren’t any. At the time they’d made the mistake of not taking her disappearance seriously enough, under the misapprehension that she’d run away from home and would eventually turn up. Gaby wasn’t prepared to make the same mistake twice.
‘Anything untoward with the parents?’
‘No. Nothing. Pillars of the community. The father’s a GP, the mother a housewife. They say the daughter has never done anything like this before. That it’s totally out of character. After joining the police in combing the area and checking that Bryony hadn’t made her own way home, they came straight here. I’ve popped them in interview room 4 with a PC looking after them.’
‘Any siblings?’
‘There’s a younger sister. Sixteen. They left her at home in case Bryony turns up. So far there hasn’t been a peep.’
‘And no note left? Nothing taken?’
Mal shrugged. ‘That’s where there is a difference. She had her schoolbag with her and if the sister is to be believed, some of her clothes are missing.’
Gaby set her mug on the windowsill and headed back to her desk. ‘I’ll inform DCI Sherlock while you mobilise the search. Then we’ll interview the parents.’
‘What about the others?’ Mal said, waving his hand towards the empty desks.
‘No, leave them be for the moment. If she doesn’t turn up in the next few hours, and there’s every hope that she will, then they’re going to have to put a shift in.’
‘There is also this Lynda Checkley woman. The owner of the house Bryony was dropped off at,’ Malachy explained, unfolding his frame and stretching...
