The Lost Sister (4 page)

The Neighbourhood Watch had been out in force. Every lamppost had a laminated poster stuck on it. Colour picture: head and shoulders of Mary smiling coyly at the camera. Not really wanting her picture taken, but knowing it was going to happen anyway.

When I parked the car outside the Furst house, I stopped to look at one of the fliers – a pixellated printout – and felt something that might have been longing or sadness. Possibly both. A longing for something I could never have had and a sadness that even if Mary were to return, she would never again be that girl in the picture.

It's funny how pictures can affect us that way. Light and angle and expression give us these impressions. Snapshots make us think we know a whole person.

But I didn't know this girl.

Maybe never would.

I turned away, opened the front gate of her mother's house, walked up to the door, knocked fast. Too late to double back.

No choice, then, but to wait.

After a while, if only to keep myself standing there, I knocked again.

The door opened. A woman slipped her head out, nervous, not sure what to expect. In her late thirties, but her daughter's disappearance had added years. Her hair was flat and lifeless, her skin smooth but dull, and her eyes seemed heavy with the kind of knowledge no one should ever have. She might have been attractive if it wasn't for the fact she appeared so close to death; a look in her eyes as though she wished she could feel that bony hand upon her shoulder.

Jennifer Furst. Mary's mother.

She wasn't past thirty-five. Looked so damn tired.

I introduced myself.

People joke a lot about the “foot in the door” methods employed by door to door salesmen. Truth of the matter is, putting your foot in the door doesn't really change anyone's mind, although it usually does result in bruising or broken bones. A guy I knew used to be a salesman, said he had a real method of getting sales; figuring who were the chumps and who the timewasters. It worked pretty well, I found. Not just for salesmen.

As I gave my name, I took my hand out my coat pocket as though to offer it, dropped the pen that had been in there.

The pen rolled.

Jennifer Furst bent down to pick it up.

My friend had called this action, “The calling card of the sucker.”

I was better disposed. Figured I learned a lot about Mrs Furst from that one gesture.

She may have been related to David Burns by blood, but she was not him. I didn't know whether to feel glad for that or guilty at using her misery to satisfy my own curiosity.

We moved to the living room. Jennifer Furst gestured for me to take a seat on the sofa, flopped herself into a large armchair which seemed too imposing for a woman of her stature.

The room itself was neat; no real clutter. And – this was what struck me – no pictures on the wall, although the fireplace held a few photos in frames. Many of them of Mary herself. You could chart her whole life, from gurning little girl to smiling teenager.

Call that heartbreaking. There was still that nagging sensation that maybe she reminded me of some girl I used to know. Or I simply wished that she did.

The sofa had its back to the window, faced the rear wall of the room. Jennifer Furst's chair was in a corner, again giving this impression that it was a place she could hide away.

She said, “I'd offer you tea, but I don't want to give you an excuse for staying.”

I didn't sense hostility so much as a tentative grasp, the hope that here sat someone who could help her.

Aye, check the romantic in me.

“I'll level with you, Mrs Furst. I'm working with a reporter.” I bulldozed on before she could tell me to get out. “But the more I learn about your daughter, the more I just want her back alive. I used to be a copper, and I'll tell you that the officers working your case are –”

“Not going to find my daughter.”

No defence there. What can you say to that? Especially delivered in such calmly considered tones?

“They're not going to find her,” she said. “Unless she wants to be found.”

“You think she ran away?”

Mrs Furst seemed ready to say something, but shied from it at the last moment. She tucked her legs up underneath her, and turned her head to the side.

I said, “It's better than the alternative.”

She nodded, and I felt this pain in my chest, like my heart wanted to give out. Realised too late what I'd said to her, and recognised the pain as guilt.

I wanted to leave. Stand up, walk out the room, maybe even pretend I'd never been there in the first place.

And I had to ask myself the same question I felt sure Mrs Furst was dancing around: what was I doing there?

But instead she asked, “Are you working with the police?”

I figured it was the same question rephrased. And I sidestepped it: “Observing the investigation.”

“Why?”

“I want to see your daughter safe.”

“There's more than that.”

Maybe.

We were on the second floor landing. The door in front of us was shut. The tag two thirds of the way up read
Mary's room
and looked old, as though it had been there for all of her fourteen years.

A marker of childhood. Even as a teenager, you hold onto that innocence of childhood as long as you can. Privately, sometimes, as you assert your own identity. The truth is that growing up frightens you.

So in your own space, there are reminders of what it is to be young. Talismans and keepsakes. Memories.

Something about this case was pulling me in. Not simply that I'd been asked to look into it. More than that…

I looked at the door again.

The name.

I turned back to Mrs Furst. “I told you I was working with a reporter. But on some level…I need to know that your daughter will be returned, Mrs Furst. The deeper I look into this, the more I see a person at the heart and not…not a news story or –”

“Really, what do you know about her?”

Nothing.

“Enough. Enough to know that you want her home.”

She looked suspicious.

“Working with a reporter,” she said, as though thinking it over. “I can't stop them writing about her. But maybe they can…maybe they can do it right. Maybe you can tell your friend the truth, aye? About my girl.”

I nodded. “I have questions.”

“She was never in any trouble.”

“I don't doubt it.”

“I loved her.”

I looked back at the door again. At the sign. Said, “This was her world, behind the door.”

“What are you looking for?”

I answered fast. “Mary,” I said. “That's all. I'm just looking for Mary.”

Mary Furst's room seemed untouched.

Her mother did not come inside with me. She stayed out in the corridor, acting as though the door was still closed to her.

She said, “After the police were done, I made it back the way it had been.” She hesitated before adding, “In case…she comes back.”

What do you say to that?

I opted for silence, stood in the middle of Mary's room and looked around. The bed was made by a mother's hand. Sheets tucked tight, pillows fluffed and inviting. A few stray stuffed animals at the head of the bed; inanimate pets. Probably closer to Mary than some of the friends she had at school.

Like I said: talismans…reminders…memories.

There were pictures on the wall. The framed ones were paintings. Originals, not prints. Looked like they'd been given as gifts. A recurrent theme of dogs made me guess at a lost family pet. Not recent, but Mary had been old enough to be struck by the loss.

Other images were more expected: torn posters of bands and films. Guys – tanned, with white teeth – glared down, with open shirts, one or two dispensing with them altogether. How much of a fight had that caused with Mum?

I checked the bookshelves. Waist high along one wall, the top shelves were decorated with knickknacks; pewter dragons with false gems for eyes, some cute looking models, a couple of pictures of other kids I guessed were her friends, all framed perfectly. Looking at the books themselves: a few old children's classics – battered and well read – sat alongside more adult works. I smiled when I saw
Catcher in the Rye
, and noticed the crack in the spine. The kind of book, you get to it at the right age, I hear it can change the way you look at things. Come to it older, as I did, you wonder what all the fuss was about. I pulled the copy, thumbed.

An inscription:

Will this change your life, too?

Love,

D.

Feminine handwriting. The attention to detail you don't get with most boys. I popped the book back into place. Didn't figure it as too important, but maybe teenage angst had played some role in this particular drama.

Also on the shelves, of course, there were the obligatory
Harry Potter
novels. The older ones were cracked and thumbed, the newer ones looking fresher with the latest edition hardly looking touched. Lost interest? Or an appreciation of how much the books were going to be worth in their new condition?

More space was given to CDs. Music from bands I didn't know.
Maximo Park, Biffy Clyro
. The names meant nothing to me.

The computer was tucked away in a corner. I didn't figure her for a geek, but I guessed she knew her way around the machine. I turned back to Mrs Furst, gestured to the computer, still feeling like an intruder.

She said, “Aye, if you must.”

I booted the PC. No password protection. As though asking an idle question, I said, “You have your own computer?”

“No. I can barely turn the bloody thing on.”

That meant no password because there was no
need
for a password. Mary felt safe enough with her mother booting up the machine because the woman wasn't about to go snooping. Maybe not because she didn't want to, but more because she just couldn't.

I turned away from Mrs Furst and mouthed the words,
Sorry
, as though Mary could actually see me or at least sense what I was doing.

The computer whirred, slow. Not out of date, but getting there. I checked the modem, saw the
PC Activity
light start flashing as
Windows
kicked in. The start up sound boomed at me, “Come with us now, on a journey through time and space…” The desktop was decorated with an image of two cats in a basket; stupefyingly cute.

I checked the documents folder first.

Lot of schoolwork by the looks of things. Essays and projects. Saved pages from the internet. Adobe documents. Lots of scanned images.

I checked Outlook Express. Bypassing the password got me into her saved emails. She wasn't
that
security conscious. Organised meticulously.

I clicked through folders, named for recipients. Most of her friends identified by nickname.

I skimmed e-mails. Checking for keywords: anything that signified tension or worry. Nothing jumped out. The usual back and forth: worries about schoolwork, boys, parents.

Check the local folders, skim past the number of messages in each folder. Check the disparities.

One name:

Deb.

362 messages. More than double any other number.

I figured Deb for the mysterious “D” who'd gifted Mary
Catcher
. Clicked through a couple of the mails. Shorthand, mostly. Never specific. A lot of talk about classes and how Mary shouldn't be afraid to nurture her talent.

Read more like a concerned older relative than anything.

Maybe something more. Or was I looking for connections where there were none?

I searched for messages from her last known boyfriend, Richie Harisson. Finally found him in the folder marked:

Ra-Ra-Rasputin

An in joke?

Aye, you're full of them as teenagers. Like a secret code; a way of hiding what you're thinking from the rest of the world.

Downstairs, in the living room, I drank coffee, sitting across from Jennifer Furst. The coffee was instant. She'd put the milk in without asking. I didn't complain.

“Did you ever argue with your daughter?”

“I loved her.”

“Doesn't mean you didn't fight,” I said. “I've never been a parent, but I know I used to fight with mine when the mood took.”

She smiled, hung her head. For a moment, she didn't look so tired. As though the idea of her daughter had taken away a few years. She said, “The last year we fought about church.”

“Church?”

“We go every Sunday. Always have done. She used to do well in Sunday School, too, you know. When she got older, we had a wee talk about it and she stopped that part. But I told her she had to keep going to Church. It's what our family always did.”

“You're Catholic.”

She nodded. “I had David…her godfather try and –”

“David Burns?”

She hesitated. “I know what you're thinking.” She sat back in her chair. Disconnected again. She'd seen something in my face.

I needed to play more poker.

“You were a copper, aye? You said that when you came in?”

“A long time ago.”

“I know what you people think of David. I know who he's been. The things he's done. But he's family.” Jennifer's Great-Uncle, but they were clearly close. Why else would he be Mary's godfather?

“He loves your daughter.”

“Treats her like his own.”

I couldn't imagine it. Burns always talked up his family man image, but knowing what I did about him the claim had never sat true with me.

“He made her keep going to Church?”

She nodded.

I wanted to laugh. Remembered the story about Burns, back when he was making his name and collecting debt for one of his predecessors, how he nailed an insolvent priest to the cross in his own church.

This time, she didn't see anything in my face.

“I guess she got moody lately. Like all teenagers. It's strange, you know, to see them turn into a real person. Some days, I think I don't know her at all.”

“Has she run off before?”

Jennifer Furst shook her head.

“Some days, I was beginning to think I didn't know her at all,” she said again.

“Like she wasn't your daughter?”

She flinched at that. And who could blame her?

“I didn't mean it like that,” I said, trying awkwardly to cover my mistake. “When kids grow up, turn into adults, it can be like we just don't know them any more.” I didn't sound convincing.

But she seemed to calm down. Adjusted her position, sat facing me again. “I guess it was like that,” she said. “I didn't understand who she was. What she wanted from life.” She licked her lips; a nervous gesture. Didn't seem to be talking to me any more. Carrying on an internal conversation I got the feeling she'd been avoiding for a long time. “The last few years, it's like she's been looking for herself. It's something I can't help her with. I don't know if anyone can.”

In the back garden, on the mobile.

Susan answered fast.

“One thing.”

I could hear her draw breath. Get ready to snap at me.

I got in first:

“Tell me who Deborah is.”

“What?”

“Deborah. Name on Mary's computer. More emails than anyone else put together. Doesn't read like she's one of her school friends. I mean, she reads older. Not the kind of emails a teenage girl would send. I know someone's got to have been through the mail, and unless they were a bloody eejit, they'll have seen the same things that –”

“Where are you?”

She already knew. I'd given the game away. “If I tell you that, I don't think you'll be happy.”

“Do I sound happy now?”

Honestly, I wasn't sure. This kind of sparring, we seemed to excel at it. A wee game we played.

Of course, games are meant to be fun.

“Do you know the name?”

She relented. I could picture her rolling back her eyes. “I know the name. Deborah's Mary's art teacher.”

“Aye?”

“When we talked to Richie Harrison, Deborah's name came up. The two of them got close. Mary and Deborah, I mean. Richie doesn't say it, but he blames Deborah for Mary breaking up with him.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I had to wonder if I was picking up on innuendo where none existed.

“At this point in time, Steed, close means close and nothing else. We don't know the context. We have a pissed off schoolboy telling us how teacher stole his girl away.”

“As in…?”

“As in Mary spent more time around Deborah than Richie. Doesn't mean anything.”

“Or it means everything.”

“Thought you were hands off.” I could sense her taking a breath on the other end of the line, deciding if she really wanted to ask the next question.

“What are you doing at the girl's house?”

“You have an address for Richie Harisson?”

“I went over this. And so did my dad. You're observation
only
.”

If she'd been there I might have tried for a cute grin.
Who, me?
Probably failed as well. All the same.

“I'm not looking to tread on anyone's toes. Just to help. Maybe if I have a wee chat…I'm not a copper. You know, people get nervous around –”

“This is how these things start.”

“I'm looking to help. I won't do anything without consulting you or your dad.”

“Remember the last time you promised to back out?”

I should have expected that. How could I forget? I'd wound up with a friend almost dying from a bullet wound to the belly, three dead bodies on my conscience and two psychotic bastards trying to kill me and nearly succeeding.

“I'm a different person, now.” Did it sound convincing? I wasn't sure.

“Things are different?”

“You know they are.”

She hesitated. Then gave me an address to the west of the city. Said, “We never talked.”

I'd guessed at that, already.