The Hidey Hole

by David Price

part VII

conclusion

Two hours, and several miles later, we found ourselves in a concrete jungle where you wouldn’t want to leave your car unattended. This was the last known address of our bricklayer, a town where people who lived on the ground floor had metal bars fitted over their windows to prevent break-ins! It was just the sort of place where I might have expected to find our man.

An enquiry in a local pub had thrown up an address, and now there were police cars parked on either side of the tenement block he lived in.

“Alright, young lady,” Sgt Broomfield said to Jo-Jo, “this is the moment of truth.”

Michelle Broomfield nodded to a young WPC, who crossed over the road and stood before our bricklayer’s front door, placed a package on the ground, rang the doorbell and then retreated.

Now we could only wait.

* * *

Sgt Michelle Broomfield was a rather jolly-looking woman, for a police officer: ash-gray hair that had once been blonde, a small face, and swanlike neck. Dressed in civvies, she looked more like an ordinary housewife than a police officer, and a very charming one at that.

In fact, I have never been so charmingly made to feel about two feet tall!

“So, Mr Oakleigh, you found a dead body and decided to wait twelve years before telling anyone?”

“Well ...”

“If anybody knows of a crime that has been committed in our area, we do appreciate being informed about it.”

“I...”

“You...?”

“Well...”

“Well what?”

“Look, I’ve no excuses. I know that. I was young.”

“That’s an excuse, and a very poor one, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

Jo-Jo’s mouth was twitching ten to the dozen as she tried not to burst out laughing.

“I know I should have said something...”

“You certainly should.”

“I wish I had. I just sort of... didn’t.”

“Obviously!”

“And now he just sort of... has,” Jo-Jo piped up, and instantly withered under the steely gaze of Sergeant Broomfield.

“The point is: what are we going to do now?” Tammy asked.

“Retrieve the body and make a positive identification. She has no close family living in the area, so we shall have to make arrangements regarding her funeral.”

“I’m sure we can sort something out. I can ask Bob Elwis to put one of his interminable pub quizzes together. Just leave that one to me.”

And happy with the situation, Michelle turned to leave.

“Question.” Jo-Jo raised a finger. “Does anybody remember the name of that builder?”

Michelle, who clearly had somewhere else she’d rather have been, didn’t look too happy to continue the conversation. “What difference does that make?” she asked.

“Do they?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. His name was Derek Salter. He was questioned after the disappearance, but nothing came of it.”

“He’s still on record then.”

“Yes, I looked him up before I came here. He was cautioned a few times for being drunk and disorderly. Nothing recent, and we don’t have an address. I suppose it’s possible that he’s still in the same block of flats he was living in ten years ago.”

Jo-Jo nodded, thought a moment. “If you’ve still got that address, then it’s worth checking it out... on the off-chance, like.”

Michelle nodded, but didn’t seem convinced. “We can check it, but without evidence, there’s not much we can do.”

Which seemed a fair enough comment, but Jo-Jo had other ideas. “Actually, there may be.”

And then she made a suggestion that was just crazy enough to work.

* * *

After a moment the door opened; and there was Salter, an old man rather than a monster, looking a good twenty years older than 61, his face showing the ravages of time and too much alcohol.

He looked around angrily, as though convinced he was being pestered by Tommy-knocking kids.

Then the package caught his eye.

He bent down, picked up the satchel... and the colour drained from his face as the police approached him.

“Mr Salter. We would like a few words with you regarding the disappearance of a girl called Lucy Sullivan.”

He closed his eyes, buried his face in his hands. I’m told that his confession wasn’t long in coming, once they got him back to the station. Lucy Sullivan could now rest in peace.

* * *

Later that day we were near to the bridge, watching Lucy Sullivan’s sad remains being taken away. It was done without ceremony. No onlookers, no members of the press or public. She was a forgotten child.

At least for the moment.

We waited until the police had left.

“Come on,” Jo-Jo said, taking a bunch of flowers out of the back of the car. “Let’s pay a final visit to the bridge.”

And so I followed her.

“Are you ready for this?” she asked, as we approached the archway.

I looked into the darkness, took the torch out of my pocket and nodded.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said. Which meant no, but I shone a light into the darkness and stepped into the archway with her.

* * *

It had been a childhood memory, one I’d rather have erased from my mind.

But as Jo-Jo reminded me, we weren’t children anymore. We were adults, with adult responsibilities, and making sure that Lucy had justice and a decent funeral had been the right thing to do.

And so, for one final time, I visited my little hidey hole to lay down the first of many floral tributes that would be left in memory of Lucy Sullivan.

* * *

Later that day I pulled into a lay-by and got out of the car.

“Where are you going?” Jo-Jo asked.

“To get some wine,” I told her. “We can have a little drink to the memory of Lucy Sullivan.”

And, I thought, to the memory of a long hot summer, and childhood friendships, and to all the forgotten children in the world.

And, hopefully, to a nightmare-free sleep... where I don’t look up and see a ghostly, childish face staring down at me.