partner, was heading off early this morning, so we had a few drinks and an early night. That’s how I didn’t notice she was gone.’ She folded her arms against her chest, staring at Fleming.
‘Where’s he gone?’ Fleming asked, turning back to the woman again.
‘Manchester. He’s a lorry driver. He had to leave at five this morning to get the early ferry across.’
‘This would be Mr Finn, would it?’ Lucy asked, pointing to the picture on the mantelpiece.
‘No,’ Sinead said, with a confused laugh. ‘That’s Seamy.’
‘What’s his full name, Mrs Finn?’
‘Sinead, Jesus,’ the woman replied. ‘Seamus Doherty.’
‘Who does he work for?’
‘H. M. Haulage. Harry Martin’s his boss. He’s H. M.’
‘I see,’ Lucy said, jotting down the name. ‘Sarah wouldn’t be with Mr Doherty, would she? Maybe went to keep him company?’
Sinead shook her head. ‘No. They don’t really get on. Sarah’s dad left a few years back and it’s still raw, like. You know?’
‘How long have you been with Mr Doherty?’
‘A year or two.’
‘Does he live here?’
Finn nodded. ‘When he’s not working. He drives a lot.’
‘Have you checked with him that Sarah’s not with him at the moment?’
‘His phone’s switched off,’ Sinead said. ‘Besides, he’d have phoned to let me know if she was with him.’
‘And what about Sarah’s father? Would she be with him?’
‘I doubt it,’ Sinead said. ‘He lives in Australia. He headed out for work and never came back.’
‘How did Sarah take to you having Mr Doherty staying here?’ Fleming asked.
‘It’s my house, isn’t it?’ Sinead said.
She lifted another cigarette, lit it off the butt of the smouldering one she held, then flicked the dead one into the fireplace. She folded her arms again, facing Lucy and Fleming, as if challenging them to disagree.
‘Of course,’ Fleming said. ‘Look, before we start a full search for Sarah, DS Black is going to take a quick look through the house. Just to double-check that she’s not here. Is that OK?’
She bristled a little, perhaps at the implication that she may not have looked for her own daughter. Before she could speak, though, Fleming raised a placatory hand.
‘I’m sure you checked already, but sometimes we get called out to houses and the child in question is hiding somewhere inside. Sometimes they enjoy all the fuss and attention of people searching for them. It won’t take long.’
‘Please yourself,’ Sinead Finn said. ‘I’ve looked for her already.’
‘I understand,’ Fleming said, attempting a smile. Not quite managing it. ‘A fresh pair of eyes and that. How about you sit and tell me a bit more about Sarah? Give us a sense of who she is.’
Chapter Twenty
Lucy went to the rear of the ground floor first and worked her way up. The back room was a small toilet, plain. A raft of coats hung on coat pegs screwed to the wall. She patted through the coats; just to be sure Sarah wasn’t in there. The kitchen and dinette were next. There were precious few places where a fifteen-year-old girl could hide.
The kitchen itself was small, something accentuated by the amount of stuff cluttering the worktops. The remains of a Chinese takeaway from the previous evening congealed to two plates. The tinfoil trays remained, half filled, among the torn scraps of a brown paper bag. Two wine bottles sat next to them; one empty, the other perhaps a quarter full. Two glasses sat beside it. The sink was filled with older dishes again: a pan with spaghetti sauce hardened to the surface, a scattering of plates and cups beneath it, forming a pyramid of crockery that spilled over onto the draining board.
The next room was the sitting room where Fleming and Sinead Finn sat. Lucy could hear a snippet of the conversation as she passed the room and headed up the stairs to check the first floor.
The upper floor had two bedrooms and a bathroom. The bathroom was to her left. She took a quick
‘Where’s he gone?’ Fleming asked, turning back to the woman again.
‘Manchester. He’s a lorry driver. He had to leave at five this morning to get the early ferry across.’
‘This would be Mr Finn, would it?’ Lucy asked, pointing to the picture on the mantelpiece.
‘No,’ Sinead said, with a confused laugh. ‘That’s Seamy.’
‘What’s his full name, Mrs Finn?’
‘Sinead, Jesus,’ the woman replied. ‘Seamus Doherty.’
‘Who does he work for?’
‘H. M. Haulage. Harry Martin’s his boss. He’s H. M.’
‘I see,’ Lucy said, jotting down the name. ‘Sarah wouldn’t be with Mr Doherty, would she? Maybe went to keep him company?’
Sinead shook her head. ‘No. They don’t really get on. Sarah’s dad left a few years back and it’s still raw, like. You know?’
‘How long have you been with Mr Doherty?’
‘A year or two.’
‘Does he live here?’
Finn nodded. ‘When he’s not working. He drives a lot.’
‘Have you checked with him that Sarah’s not with him at the moment?’
‘His phone’s switched off,’ Sinead said. ‘Besides, he’d have phoned to let me know if she was with him.’
‘And what about Sarah’s father? Would she be with him?’
‘I doubt it,’ Sinead said. ‘He lives in Australia. He headed out for work and never came back.’
‘How did Sarah take to you having Mr Doherty staying here?’ Fleming asked.
‘It’s my house, isn’t it?’ Sinead said.
She lifted another cigarette, lit it off the butt of the smouldering one she held, then flicked the dead one into the fireplace. She folded her arms again, facing Lucy and Fleming, as if challenging them to disagree.
‘Of course,’ Fleming said. ‘Look, before we start a full search for Sarah, DS Black is going to take a quick look through the house. Just to double-check that she’s not here. Is that OK?’
She bristled a little, perhaps at the implication that she may not have looked for her own daughter. Before she could speak, though, Fleming raised a placatory hand.
‘I’m sure you checked already, but sometimes we get called out to houses and the child in question is hiding somewhere inside. Sometimes they enjoy all the fuss and attention of people searching for them. It won’t take long.’
‘Please yourself,’ Sinead Finn said. ‘I’ve looked for her already.’
‘I understand,’ Fleming said, attempting a smile. Not quite managing it. ‘A fresh pair of eyes and that. How about you sit and tell me a bit more about Sarah? Give us a sense of who she is.’
Chapter Twenty
Lucy went to the rear of the ground floor first and worked her way up. The back room was a small toilet, plain. A raft of coats hung on coat pegs screwed to the wall. She patted through the coats; just to be sure Sarah wasn’t in there. The kitchen and dinette were next. There were precious few places where a fifteen-year-old girl could hide.
The kitchen itself was small, something accentuated by the amount of stuff cluttering the worktops. The remains of a Chinese takeaway from the previous evening congealed to two plates. The tinfoil trays remained, half filled, among the torn scraps of a brown paper bag. Two wine bottles sat next to them; one empty, the other perhaps a quarter full. Two glasses sat beside it. The sink was filled with older dishes again: a pan with spaghetti sauce hardened to the surface, a scattering of plates and cups beneath it, forming a pyramid of crockery that spilled over onto the draining board.
The next room was the sitting room where Fleming and Sinead Finn sat. Lucy could hear a snippet of the conversation as she passed the room and headed up the stairs to check the first floor.
The upper floor had two bedrooms and a bathroom. The bathroom was to her left. She took a quick
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