Missing Links
Just a little story written to the idea of the title –
A missing person enquiry. Not a bad call out for a Saturday afternoon. Could be worse; United are playing at home, shoplifters make a ton of paperwork, and rounding up the skate-boarders from the multi-story is no fun. Nor is my partner, Anwar, today, as it happens. We usually get on OK. He can talk about things other than football, cars and real ale. He’s not sexist, which somehow I expected an Indian guy would be, and his feet don’t smell, which is no small thing when you are trapped with somebody in a Patrol Car.
His being Indian also makes things easier vis a vis my Dave, who can be a bit on the jealous side. Not that Anwar isn’t attractive, but he’s what my Mum would call “a perfect gent”, and very respectful of his parents’ wishes to choose a partner for him. Trouble is, that’s usually what causes the bad moods. After fending off the pressure to agree to Bina from Bradford, or Rezia from Rochdale he tends to be a bit morose. I say to him “If you believe in arranged marriages, as you say you do, then you’ve got to accept that your parents’ idea of the perfect girl are not necessarily going to be the same as yours.” He says I don’t understand anything about it and gets grumpy, which seems a bit hard on me
So, he’s not enthralled with the idea of being called out to possibly break and enter an empty flat and look for clues on a supposedly missing person. There have already been a few sarcastic remarks on the lines of “Guesswho will have to be the one to break the door down, or get through the littlest window again“, and “Funny how women don’t want to be equal when there’s something heavy to be done.” I let it pass. He’s not usually this sour, and he knows I damn well pull my weight. Who got that dog out of the river last week? And it wasn’t exactly grateful either. I’ve still got the marks of its ingratitude in several places I wouldn’t show him. Let him simmer. It’ll come out eventually, whatever’s eating him.
When we get there the woman in the flat below has a key, so we don’t have to do any Hollywood heroics on the door. The neighbour is talkative, but doesn’t know much about this Beverley we’re looking for. Quiet girl, works from home, no loud music or noisy parties. Yes, there does seem to be a regular man friend but she’s never seen him to speak to. And then those words that make my heart sink. “She keeps herself to herself really.” People that keep themselves to themselves in my experience can mean anything from serial killers and paediophiles to lonely corpses lying where nobody has found them for a week or two, or more. So, all we have to go on is an anxious mother who hasn’t been able to get an answer on the phone all week.
It’s just a bedsit really, but neat and tidy. No dishes in the sink or clothes lying around, and thank God, no wrists slit in the bath, no despair on the bed beside an empty bottle of sleeping tablets. I get the distinct feeling that Anwar might have preferred it if there was. As it is he starts moodily sifting the paperwork on her desk, whilst I tackle the telephone that has a smart businesslike answering machine which is flashing red..
The first voice is a woman, hesitant, timid. “Beverley, it’s Mummy. Please dear, if you’re there, pick up the phone. Don’t leave us out in the cold ….. Daddy didn’t mean what he said …can’t we ? … Please dear, you’re all we’ve got … Please answer.” It’s not even my own mother, but I’m feeling guilty, and the tears are prickling at the back of my eyes. OK Mum, I think, I’ll call you when I get off duty. I know I don’t keep in touch, but we usually just finish up rowing don’t we? I’m missing the next message and I have to skip it back. This time a man’s voice, sounds nice, plans for a trip away. It’s her birthday. “She’s gone off with her boyfriend.” I call over to Anwar, who grunts. the next call is Mummy again. The voice still pleading and hesitant. “Can’t we meet for your birthday. Come to Sunday lunch, perhaps you could bring your friend. The voice sounds strained over this bit; doesn’t she know his name even? I can sense dislike, disapproval.
Not a problem I’ve ever had. My Mum is always guaranteed to take what she thinks is Dave’s side. Particularly in the well worn, “When are we going to have any grandchildren?” debate. I am not natural, it seems, no motherly instincts at all. I could murder Dave when he says notheing. We agreed. We agreed.
Next a young girl’s voice. “Come on Bev, a few of us are going down to London, for a theatre maybe. Show Patrick you mean business. Come away with us and stop moping around waiting for him. You deserve better. Ring me back”. No number unfortunately, that would be too easy. Mummy again, getting really worried now. Poor little Beverley should have caved in and called back by now, and she hasn’t. Mummy is fearing the worst. Perhaps she has good cause, some past history maybe. There is genuine fear in her voice. Families and their secrets, families and all their secrets.
Now somebody trying to get her to go to a presentation of Spanish Holiday properties, where she is sure to come away with at least a video recorder, maybe more. Ha bloody Ha!
Now the man again, presumably this is Patrick. Embarrassed , apologetic. He can’t make it after all. He has to go into the office and put the finishing touches to that Rochester report. Very, very sorry, he’ll make it up to her, etc., etc., The friend again, on a mobile, traffic noise in the background. “Well, Bev, last chance, we’re at the roundabout by Sainsbury’s, we could still pick you up. Oh well, hope Patrick is giving you a good time, but we’re taking bets that you’re sitting at home by the phone as usual and just not picking up. Cheers anyway, and Happy Birthday”.
Patrcik again “Bev I ….” and he’s cut off. Just my luck, a faulty machine. I try to get his number, but it’s not available. Pity she didn’t notice, or reset her machine before she did whatever she did. I feel sorry for the girl, under pressure from her parents and obviouslly being conned rotten by this Patrick character. “Bet he’s married, and can’t get away. Men are such swine.” Why did I say that? I don’t know anything about this guy. I expect something sharp from Anwar, but he doesn’t say anything, just sits down on the edge of the bed, and crumples up into tears, real tears, and great sobs.
Shocked is not the word. What do I say? What do I do? Tentatively I sit on the bed beside him, and feeling very clumsy take his hand. I don’t remember that we’ve ever really touched before. “What is it Anwar? You’ve had the miseries all morning. Is it the marriage business again? Are they pushing you into it with someone you don’t want?” I’m surprised he hasn’t pulled his hand away. Then he looks at me with his big tearful black eyes and says “It doesn’t matter who they pick for me Mandy, the truth is I’m already married. What am I going to do Mand, what am I going to do?”
Ye gods, what am I supposed to say, what am I supposed to do? Now that he has started it all comes pouring out. He is secretly married to a girl he has been in love with since school days, a local girl, a white girl, and now there is Sunil, four months old and the most amazing baby ever born. Surprisingly I find it quite easy to do the motherly thing. I put my arm around him and hug him tight, I tell him reassurances. He must face his parents with the truth. He’s not on his own, there are trained people on the Force who can give him help and advice. He’s not on his own, he’s got me and Dave, and all his mates to stand by him. My Mum would have been proud of me. No, actually, whe wouldn’t. she’d just look smug and say “I told you so”, and we’d start arguing again. But it’s the truth, I am finding it the easiest and most natural thing in the world to hold and comfort this little lost boy in his grown up uniform
Then, gradually I become aware that there are two people standing in the doorway, a man and a woman, slight sun tans, luggage, bags full uf duty frees. And they are looking at us in a very puzzled sort of way.