Abduction, p.2
Abduction, page 2
Stephen replaced the receiver and took hold of me, drawing me close and stroking my hair.
‘She can’t have gone far, Margaret. They’ll soon find her … or she’ll come wandering in, laughing as always.’ But I knew he didn’t believe it any more than I did.
Stephen’s arms around me offered only a small measure of comfort as we sat holding each other until the police arrived. I was hoping Grace might somehow be with them – you know, like the scene in the film Mary Poppins when a friendly constable brings the Banks children home. But this was stark reality, not some charming, happy-ever-after film.
Two uniformed officers entered our home to ask their questions and the sound of others told us our garden was again being searched. An inspector very quickly joined our little group, introducing himself as Detective Inspector Tom Duncan – a small man with an air of efficiency who appeared to be in charge of the investigation.
Soon after the police arrived, parents trickled in to collect their children. Christine saw the visitors out after an officer took each family’s contact details before allowing them to leave. It was surreal, a nightmare. It couldn’t be happening. But it was.
I quickly lost track of time. Bea and Peter took Elise into the conservatory in a vain attempt to keep her from seeing the police swarming over the house and garden. I longed for the comfort of having Elise close to me, yet didn’t want her to witness our distress and the barrage of probing questions from the police.
I sat gripping Stephen’s hands in the lounge of our home as several uniformed officers combed every inch of the garden with still no sign of Grace. Then, at some point, another police officer arrived and was introduced as Detective Sergeant Jack Priestly. We were told he was to be our Family Liaison Officer, FLO. Something in my mind connected with the title and I snapped; the sobs started again, more violent than before.
‘They think she’s dead,’ I moaned into Stephen’s shoulder. The hub of our perfect life was cruelly shattered into a million fragments.
Jack Priestly folded his six-foot frame, squatted down in front of me and took hold of my hand, wide brown eyes meeting my own, his round face open and honest.
‘Listen to me, Margaret. We’re not thinking that at all. My role is to keep you informed about what we are doing and any progress we make – that’s why I am here. Grace has only been missing for two hours – the chances of finding her are good. Officers are searching the area and knocking on doors right now. We’re doing everything possible to find your little girl.’
Those kindly eyes were filled with compassion; something about the man inspired trust, and I nodded my thanks, grateful to have someone so understanding with us. I asked him why there were so many people in our house – noises were coming from almost every room, banging and scraping sounds which echoed through my aching head.
‘It’s something we have to do – procedure. Each room needs to be searched I’m afraid, but they’ll be gone soon.’
I turned to Stephen, horrified. ‘They think we’ve killed her! Our own daughter – and they think we’ve killed her and hidden her somewhere!’ Could this possibly get any worse?
‘Darling, it’s precisely what Jack said, procedure, that’s all.’ He looked so tired, no longer a man in his prime. The skin around his eyes was red and swollen and he’d aged at least ten years in the last couple of hours.
I felt helpless. I knew I should offer some kind of comfort to Stephen but could barely hold myself together.
At some point, Bea and Peter brought Elise in to see us. They were taking her home with them; it was the sensible thing to do. I hugged my daughter and attempted a reassuring smile. Bea and Peter kissed me in turn then hugged Stephen, telling us to call if there was anything they could do.
As they left, Christine and Harry appeared, anxious to see if they could help. Harry engaged Jack in discussion. I couldn’t hear the conversation but Christine told me he was offering to join the search. I could barely respond to their kindness, but she understood and hugged me for the second time before leaving.
My mind raced and the word ‘kidnap’ popped into my brain, a word synonymous with ransom. I turned to Jack. ‘If she’s been taken for money, do you think someone might call?’
His face was solemn as he replied, ‘Kidnapping for ransom is not as common as people think, and as you’re not particularly rich or famous, it’s an unlikely scenario. We do have someone coming to put a device on your telephone though, just in case.’
His answer brought no comfort; if Grace hadn’t been kidnapped for money then why was she taken? I attempted to discipline my mind not to travel to such dark places.
I needed the bathroom and stood to go upstairs. Our home was still swarming with uniformed police officers – one or two acknowledged me with a solemn nod as I passed by. The door to the bathroom was open and a policeman was on his knees lifting the side panel off the bath. He didn’t hear my approach – there was still so much noise. I watched in horror as he shone a torch under and around the sides of the bath. I gasped and he turned to look at me, a weak apology in his eyes. But I knew then that the possibility of Grace being found alive was slim. The police were looking for a body, not a child.
It was DS Priestly who called our GP. Jack had been with us for hours – a calm, unflappable presence making endless cups of coffee. He had the gift of being able to melt away into the very fabric of the house to give us some degree of privacy while being on hand to help and answer questions.
I cannot describe my feelings at that very darkest of times: numb, distraught, frantic … such a fusion of emotions. Each time the phone rang or a police officer came into the room, I jumped to my feet, anticipating and yet simultaneously dreading any news.
Dr Morrison was kind and sympathetic; he’d been our family GP since we were married and wanted to give us both something to make us sleep, but I couldn’t think of sleep until we knew … one way or another. A bottle of sleeping pills was placed on the mantel shelf in case we changed our minds, and the doctor left after a gentle lecture about looking after ourselves for Elise’s sake, and for each other.
By midnight we were exhausted, and Stephen almost bullied me into taking a pill and going to sleep. I was too tired to argue and obediently crawled, fully clothed, into our bed, muffling my last weary sobs with the pillow. Stephen remained downstairs with Jack Priestly. I think they cat-napped throughout the night, neither man wanting to be far from the telephone.
I forced myself to squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to see how dark it was out there or think about how frightened Grace must be. It’s impossible though, isn’t it? To control your thoughts. The more you try not to think about something, the more you do think about it.
Eventually the pill took effect and I drifted into a fitful sleep. If I dreamed, I do not remember. The next thing I was aware of was waking when it was almost daylight and feeling dampness on the sheets beneath me. Throwing back the covers revealed a pool of blood.
I screamed for Stephen who was beside me in a minute. We both knew what had happened and cried together for the loss of our baby and the absence of Grace.
Stephen wanted to come to the hospital with me but I refused, knowing I’d probably be admitted and discharged within a matter of hours and wanting someone at home for when Grace returned. I was also afraid he might connect the dots and realise that this could have been my fault. Doctor Morrison should have been told I was pregnant before prescribing medication, yet I’d not thought to tell him.
Guilt washed over me, about the baby, about Grace. She was in my care when she disappeared – how could I have let it happen? How could I have let my children down so badly?
The hours in the hospital were a blur. I cannot remember ever feeling so low. Guilt was eating away at me, coupled with self-loathing. I berated myself for the events of the last twenty-four hours, it was my fault, and there was still no news of Grace.
Stephen came to pick me up that same afternoon, and as we left the hospital, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the plate glass door. It could have been an old lady walking beside my husband – there was no life or youth left in me as I shuffled along to the waiting car.
The church bells were chiming as we arrived home, calling parishioners to Evensong. The sound was hollow and distant. Nothing had changed when I gazed at our home, and yet everything had.
Jack Priestly opened the door wearing fresh clothing. Stephen told me he’d been home to grab a few hours’ sleep. Jack shook his head before we even asked if there was news – it was over twenty-four hours, and I knew with each passing minute, hope was diminishing.
While I’d been in hospital, the police asked Stephen to appear on national television and appeal for information from the public – a hastily arranged interview which the police wanted to do immediately while there was still chance of someone remembering something. He told me about it in the car on the way home, and I could tell that the emotional experience had taken its toll.
We watched the interview together on the early evening news. The segment started with footage of police frogmen searching the river behind our home and I gasped. The thought that Grace could have drowned horrified me, that she could have been so close, needing me and I wasn’t there – it was one scenario which until then hadn’t occurred to me.
A brief report preceded Stephen’s appeal, brief because there was nothing to say, brief because nothing had happened. My husband’s grief was plain to see; he begged for help of any kind. I experienced an overwhelming feeling of having let him down by not being at his side and that awful weighty feeling of guilt was compounded even more.
Jack explained why they couldn’t wait for me to do the interview, and I understood. He reminded me that police officers were still out there looking for Grace, and Harry Robinson had enlisted the help of neighbours and friends to assist the police in the search. Most of the words went over my head, but I remember thinking how kind it was of Harry and how we never know our true friends until a time of need.
Jack left us alone and went into the kitchen: more coffee I assumed, but he reappeared fifteen minutes later to tell us a meal was ready. I hadn’t thought about food in the last twenty-four hours, surviving on biscuits unenthusiastically nibbled with the stream of tea and coffee, but suddenly I was hungry.
Stephen led me into the kitchen where our little breakfast table was set for three and a huge casserole dish stood in the centre, a plate of fresh vegetables beside it. I looked from my husband to Jack.
‘Where did this come from?’ More guilt washed over me with the realisation that I should have been the one to provide for these men.
‘I’d love to say I made it,’ Jack said, ‘but my wife sent it for you. She sort of expected food would be the last thing on your minds, so … voilà!’
‘That’s so kind – please thank her for me, it’s so thoughtful.’
We sat and ate in silence. The food was good and I managed more than I expected.
Jack insisted on clearing up, steering me to the lounge with a mug of tea where I gratefully sank into the sofa, exhausted physically and emotionally. I asked for one of the sleeping pills, wanting to sink into oblivion and escape from reality, to sleep and find respite from this nightmare we were living.
Stephen put me to bed and sleep did come, but so too did the morning when the nightmare continued.
Chapter Four
Jack Priestly
* * *
I volunteered to train for the role of Family Liaison Officer three years ago, encouraged by my superintendent and my wife, Sarah. Both could see qualities in me which I was unsure about, but after twelve years on the Force it was time for a change and the work of an FLO interested me.
Having been involved in countless serious crimes including a handful of homicides, I looked upon this change as a way to offer more direct help than simply being part of the investigating team. The role of FLO certainly brought me closer to victims of crime and offered things I’d never quite expected. I became expert at finding my way around other people’s kitchens – tea maker, ever ready shoulder to cry on, tissue provider, punchbag (metaphorically and physically), fount of information, bearer of news – both good and bad, listener, accumulator of information and watcher of family dynamics – or as some would say, a spy.
Generally, I managed to give myself one hundred per cent but had the gift of being able to ‘box’ my feelings when off duty. This case, however, was the first assignment involving child abduction in my two years as a FLO. Inevitably anything to do with a child, especially one so young, affects the officers working the crime and I was no exception, but hopefully I would still manage to compartmentalise.
When the call came to attend the incident, I headed to the Bryson family home with mixed emotions. An average suburban house from the front, it appeared large enough for a family to live comfortably, but what made this house stand out was the garden area surrounding it. Built on a corner plot, it must have covered a good acre of land.
Before going inside to meet the family, I skirted around the house to the garden to seek out the officer in charge of the search. He walked me through the area, explaining the game the children had been playing and I could see the problems it presented.
Where the garden started to slope, it became a paradise for children. I had two boys of my own, the youngest a similar age to the Brysons’ missing daughter, and I knew they would absolutely adore this place. The shrubs and trees offered shade and excitement for adventurous youngsters. A tyre swing swayed gently in the breeze. If only it could talk, our job would be so much easier.
There was evidence of a tree house under construction, and for a brief moment I wondered if the family would ever enjoy this magnificent garden again. A huge rampant buddleia marked the beginning of the wilder area of the garden, bright purple spikes attracting fluttering butterflies, which appeared to be playing their own game of hide and seek, mimicking reality.
Most of the officers were obscured from sight by the thick undergrowth and there were some big, burly men amongst them; it would be easy to miss spotting a child here, which made me question whether she’d still been in the garden when her parents were searching or had already been taken away – each minute putting unwelcome distance between Grace and her family.
Thanking my colleague for his time, I approached the house again, noting the exits to and from the garden. There were two gates at the front – a single pedestrian one from where I had come, and a detached double gate for vehicle access, opening onto a gravelled drive and car parking area beside a double garage which housed the family’s people carrier.
An adjacent sliver of grass ran down the west side of the house leading to the back of the property. From there, looking south towards the river, the fruit orchard was on the right, beginning from the side of the garage and continuing to the far end of the garden which, due to the camber of the land, couldn’t be seen from where I stood. To the left was the lawn and patio area; a gazebo with pink balloons tied to each corner tugged at my heart as they bounced merrily on the breeze – the sorry remnants of the party.
About forty yards from the house was the shrubbery: wild and overgrown from the spell of good weather of late. Again, the furthest point was unseen from the lawn, but I’d already visited the boundary wall and the arched wooden door, bolted from the inside. I knew the river flowed on the other side of the wall and frogmen were already assembling to search it.
Before entering the house, I peered through the tiny glass pane in the garage door and discovered another egress from the property in the form of a single door on the far wall. Having committed the outside layout of the house to memory, I rang the bell and steeled myself to meet the Brysons.
Margaret and Stephen Bryson were about my age, Stephen possibly a little older, a tall man with a shock of sandy hair cut short to his head. Margaret was shorter than her husband by a good six inches, an attractive woman with light honey brown hair falling in natural waves around her face and neck. Cornflower blue eyes, wide with anxiety, met my own, tears threatening to spill at any moment.
Margaret asked why an FLO was needed, so I attempted to explain my role and reassure them both that my presence was not because we were assuming their daughter was dead. I hoped they believed me – it was important to gain their trust in order to be effective.
My first impression of the couple was of genuine distress, and my heart ached for them. The fact they’d called us in so soon was in their favour. I explained our procedures – things like searching the house, a mandatory part of our methodology – but the Brysons were an intelligent couple and had clearly picked up on the fact that we had to consider the possibility of them being involved in their daughter’s disappearance.
When Margaret found a policeman removing the bath panel, she became almost hysterical. It was then I suggested to Stephen that we should ring for a doctor, something he readily agreed with, and while he comforted his wife I made the call, then familiarised myself with their kitchen. Providing tea and coffee was routine and very often the only practical thing I could do. Until we found Grace, her parents would have no peace and yet I could offer no guarantees as to when, or even if, we would find her.
The GP arrived swiftly and was sensitive and kind, encouraging them to stay strong for each other and for their older child, Elise. Margaret initially refused medication to help her sleep, but the doctor left some anyway. I think he understood we were preparing for the long haul with this investigation and when he left, generously offered to come back at any time should they need him.
