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Description
Three days after his daughter disappeared, Harry Driscoll phoned the police.
"Cuddle Creek Police."
"Ah, I'd like to report a missing person."
The receptionist gave an assenting grunt. The line buzzed noisily. There was a second of silence and then a loud click.
"Detective Sergeant Dyson."
"I need to report a missing person."
"Righto mate, and what's your name?"
"My name? Oh. OK, my name's Harry Driscoll."
"And your address and phone number."
They were given.
"And the person who's missing?"
"That's my daughter Melissa."
"OK, and what's Melissa's age?"
"Twenty-three."
DS Dyson paused for a moment.
"If she's twenty-three, what makes you think she hasn't just gone off with some friends?"
"She lives with me. She always tells me where she's going, or if she's going to be away. She wouldn't just leave and not tell me."
Dyson sighed. This would be another time-waster.
"Look, come in and give us a description. Bring a recent photo if you can. Then we'll get you to sign a statement, and we can start looking for her."
Harry was at the station within half an hour. He looked bedraggled. But he was able to give a clear description, knew what she'd been wearing when he last saw her, and had a copy of a passport photo she'd had taken only a few weeks earlier.
"Why was she getting passport photos?"
"We were going on a holiday. To Vietnam. I was there in the war."
"Are you sure she hasn't gone off by herself? Had you bought tickets'?"
"Yes, but the tickets are at home. She hasn't taken any money or clothes. It isn't like her. She's never gone missing before."
Detective Sergeant Dyson's crumpled face began to assume a more serious look.
"Then why did you wait for three days to report her missing?"
"I didn't want to think she was gone. I kept expecting her to come back in the door, or ring me."
And he had no idea where she might have gone? No, he didn't. Work? No, she was a university student, but it was the holidays. Any friends she might be visiting? She would have called, he'd already rung them. Names and contact details were given anyway.
"All right. We'll talk to friends and neighbours. We'll want to come and see you at home, check for a diary, address book, mobile phone, stuff like that."
That was fine with Harry. The sooner the better.
Harry was sitting listlessly at the formica table in the lounge-dining room with a lukewarm cup of tea when the police called. DS Dyson introduced Constable Singh, a woman of about Melissa's age. They talked with Harry for a few minutes about Melissa's interests, habits, university schedules and friends, and then went into Melissa's room and began to check through her belongings. That was when things started to change. PC Singh murmured to Dyson, and the two of them turned to look at Harry.
"Would you excuse us for a moment please, sir?"
Harry left the room and returned to his forlorn and scummy looking tea. After about half an hour the two police officers emerged from Melissa's room. They were holding several plastic bags containing books, a phone, some clothing and some swabs. PC Singh looked grim. She glanced at Harry but said nothing.
"I think we've got everything we need," said Dyson. "We'll get back to you in the morning."
At nine the next morning Dyson and Singh knocked on Harry's door. He was at church, a neighbour told them. They always went to church on Sunday morning, Catholic, she thought. But she wasn't sure. Was it important? Probably not.
While they waited, Dyson and Singh began to talk with other neighbours. Did they know the girl? What could they tell the police about her and her father? When was the... |
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