Mary Furst Missing
72 Hours

Chapter 34

“So where are you now?”

Susan knew exactly where I was. No question she could hear the rush of the engine on her end of the line. She was deliberately playing dumb; seeing whether I was still pulling those same old dance moves.

A little honesty doesn’t hurt every once in a while. “I’m about ten minutes from her place.”

She grunted. I could hear the disappointment.

Felt it a little myself.

What happened to passing this one off to the people best placed to deal with it?

I tried for light-hearted. “Figured telling the truth might stop you killing me.”

“We’ll see.” Did I hear a barely disguised laugh behind that?

I tried to reason with her. Or at least convince myself I was doing the right thing. “If we go in like a raiding party and drop our size twelves all over her carpet, we’re going to spook this woman. I think she knows where Deborah is – where Mary is – but I don’t think she’s going to want to talk to a whole platoon of fucking coppers about it. She’s known the truth from the start; I don’t think she wants to give her sister up.”

“But she’ll talk to you? She’ll tell you everything?”

“I’m not a copper.”

“That gives you some kind of privilege?”

“What I’m saying is…if you come alone, don’t flash the badge, maybe between the two of us we’ll be able to figure out what’s going on. Find Mary. Bring her home.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Wickes was lying from the start. I think Deborah has Mary, but I think there’s more going on here than we realise.”

“You’re angry that you fell for his sob story.”

“Aye, you’re right.”

“You want to fix this yourself.” She didn’t even give me a chance to answer. “Look what happened last time.”

I hit the brakes for red lights. Idled. Hands gripping the wheel. The leather slipped beneath my palms.

Susan said, “But I’ll go with you on this. If nothing else, I want to be there to stop you. Before you make the same mistakes you did before.”

“I’m a different man.”

“Really?”

“You need someone to back you up,” she said. “Watch out for you. I know you think things have changed, but you don’t just come up for air from the kind of place you were in last year.”

The lights changed. I hit the accelerator. “I’ll see you there,” I said, ignoring what she had just told me. Fighting a strange shiver that had started to build inside me. I reached out with my left hand and terminated the connection.

Here’s what I knew about Kathryn Brown before I pulled up outside her house:

Homeowner. Decent credit rating. No outstanding debts. Kept her head down and stayed out of trouble.

She was unmarried. Held down a decent job with the forestry service that didn’t involve going into the great outdoors terribly often. Had resided at the same address for the past five years.

I had her home phone. Address. Yearly salary.

Took two hours to pull all of that.

If you know where to look, you can find out things about people they’d never expect you to know.

Kathryn Brown lived out near Camperdown. A two storey Georgian house with a small front garden and driveway. Neat and minimal from outside. Nice place, bought during the housing boom. In the current climate, repossession had to be a worry.

In the current climate, everything was a worry.

The front door was painted dark blue. Recent job if I was any judge. Frosted glass at head height. I could see my splintered reflection looking back at me.

I rang the doorbell.

Lights were on. Someone was home.

The woman who answered was in her early to mid forties. Her hair was swept up and her makeup was smooth and subtle. Some signs of age in her features, noticeably creasing around the eyes and mouth. But middle-age hadn’t quite left behind the soft eyes and shy attractiveness of youth yet. See her in the right light, you’d be kind enough to guess at early thirties. She was dressed for the office in a sobering skirt-suit and silk blouse. Her expression was bemused and a little harried. Figured I’d caught her just in from work.

“Hello?”

I hesitated. Just a moment. She sensed it, too, took a step back and looked ready to close the door in my face.

I said, “It’s about your sister. Deborah. And her daughter. We need to talk about that. We really do.”

All things considered, she remained calm. Stepped back and let me walk inside. No protest.