Culverhouse had always hoped that Helen would return one day, but he’d always imagined Emily would have been with her. He’d tried to imagine how she might look, but his vision had always reverted to the bubbly, giggling three-year-old she was when he last saw her.
For eight and a half years he’d always had the option to pull rank and use his position to have Helen and Emily traced down, but he’d resisted. He’d always hoped there’d be a better way; a more honest way. Now, though, he realised his options were far more limited and had decided to do just that.
He’d worked with Inspector Antonio García on a cross-border case a few years back and had struck up an immediate rapport with him. García operated in a similar way to Culverhouse, always ensuring that justice was achieved — even if a few rules had to be broken along the way.
García was based in Alicante, on the eastern coast of Spain. It wasn’t where Helen had said she had been living, but Alicante was certainly closer than Mildenheath and García was someone Culverhouse knew he could trust.
He picked up his personal mobile and dialled García’s number. The Inspector’s superb grasp of English and love of British idioms was immediately familiar to Culverhouse.
‘Jack, good to hear from you! How’s it going?’ came the cheery voice on the other end of the phone.
‘Not bad, but not great. Hence why I’m calling you,’ Culverhouse said.
‘Ah-ha, I see. You want me to do you another favour, yes?’ García replied.
‘Yeah, I do. Only this time it’s got to stay off the record.’
García didn’t reply for a few moments. ‘What’s it all about, Jack?’ he finally replied.
‘I’m sending a photo to your personal email address. It’s of a woman who’s supposedly living in southern Spain. I need to find out where. She’s with a young girl who’s almost eleven. Possibly also with a guy called David, who I don’t have a description of.’
‘What does the girl look like?’ García asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Culverhouse replied, feeling the impact of his own words. ‘I mean, I know what she used to look like. Eight and a half years ago.’
‘Kids grow up quick,’ García said. ‘I doubt she’ll look like that any more. What’s the woman’s name?’
Culverhouse sighed. ‘Helen. Helen Culverhouse.’
García made a noise which told him that he’d cottoned on. Culverhouse had told him a few years back over a drunken night in Alicante that he had a wife and daughter who’d left him, but hadn’t gone into any details. Not that he could remember, anyway.
‘Are you sure this is wise, Jack?’
‘Yeah. Don’t worry, I’m not doing anything stupid.’
‘How do I know that’s true?’ García asked.
‘Because I just told you. I wouldn’t do anything to risk any harm coming to Emily.’
‘That’s the daughter?’
‘Yes. That’s my daughter.’
‘Right,’ García said. ‘And whereabouts in Spain are they meant to be?’
‘Southern,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘I don’t know where exactly.’
García let out his distinctive chuckle. ‘Jack, do you know how big Spain is? The south coast is over five hundred kilometres long. You’ll need to narrow it down a bit, my friend. She could be in Sevilla, Almería, Málaga, anywhere. She could even be in Gibraltar.’
‘No, not Gibraltar,’ Culverhouse said. ‘She said she was in Spain.’
‘Hey hey, don’t go starting that shit,’ García replied. Culverhouse had to laugh at his distinctly English turn of phrase.
‘What I mean is I got the impression she was on the mainland.’
‘You spoke to her?’
‘Yeah,’ Culverhouse replied, realising he was probably going to have to explain the whole situation if García was going to be able to help him effectively. ‘She came back. To England. She’s here now.’
‘So what’s the problem? You’ve found her.’
‘I don’t want her. I want Emily. My daughter.’
‘And she won’t let you see her?’
‘No. I think that ship’s sailed.’
‘So why did she come back?’ García asked.
‘I don’t know. I really don’t fucking know. To rub my nose in it, probably. Just in case I’d started to get over it or something. I don’t know what she’s playing at. And right now I don’t care. I always thought Emily was safer with Helen, somehow better off. But she’s not. I’ve got to be honest, Antonio. I think she’s in danger.’
‘Danger? How so?’
Culverhouse sighed loudly. ‘Helen’s mentally unstable. She’s on medication and has violent mood swings.’ He realised he was now exaggerating wildly, but sometimes strings had to be pulled. ‘If I’m completely honest, I don’t even know that Emily’s safe as it is. Helen said she was with some guy called David — I don’t know if he’s English or Spanish — and I certainly don’t have a bloody clue who he is. For all I know he could be dangerous too.’
‘Alright Jack, alright,’ García said, trying to placate him. ‘Listen, I’ll see what I can do, okay? I’ll speak to a few people. There are a few ex-pat communities on the south coast. I’ll try those first and see if I can find anything, but looking for a British family on the south coast of Spain is like trying to find a grain of sand on a beach. We have to hope she’s using her real name over here, otherwise it’s going to be difficult to say the least.’
‘You’ll circulate her photo, too?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘I can do, but that all depends on how off-the-record this is meant to be. If you want it kept under the radar I can’t go sending photos around all the police departments.’
Culverhouse thought for a few moments. ‘I understand. Thanks, Antonio. Just let me know if you find anything. I’ll see what I can do at this end too, but at the moment you’re my best hope.’
‘Hey, I’ll remember that. Once this is sorted out, you get yourself over here and you can buy me a few beers, entiendes?’
Culverhouse smiled for the first time in a long time.