Or a finger gun?
A brazen confession. A gauntlet thrown down.
16
Linda Denby’s been waiting an hour by the time we get back, although she could have been waiting since 1983 judging by the poodle-perm and the oversized glasses that cover half her face. It’s a nice face, though. Plump and lined and farmer’s wife rosy. And I kind of like her timewarp vibe. It makes her seem consistent, dependable, not given to flights of fancy or changes in fashion. Probably everything you want in a foster parent.
We’re in the ‘soft’ interview’ room, the pastel-hued one reserved for visitors, not suspects. If you’re helping, not hindering us, you get a nice squidgy sofa and Van Gogh’s ‘Sunflowers’ to gaze on. You also get table service. Someone’s brought Linda a mug of tea – Flowers, presumably, as it’s definitely his mug; LEGEND stamped across the front.
Linda Denby seems inclined to agree.
‘It was so good of that big chap to make it himself. I can’t bear drinking tea out of those plastic cups. He made it just the way I like it too – milky-beige with two sugars.’ She smiles. ‘Holly always used to say I liked a drop of tea with my milk, not the other way round.’
‘Just like my wife.’ Parnell’s opted to sit in.
‘Hey, never mind the big chap,’ I say. ‘It was good of you to come in so quickly and to wait for us. We headed back as soon as we got our colleague’s message, but you know what it’s like at this time on a Friday. It’d be quicker to hopscotch across Central London than drive.’
‘I don’t drive. I can’t,’ she clarifies. ‘Four disastrous lessons in 1982 and that was me done. I don’t need to, anyway, not living in Islington.’
‘You don’t have to drive to be a foster parent?’ I ask.
‘Almost certainly in rural places, but in London, no. There’s far more important qualities than being able to execute a three-point turn.’
‘Such as . . .?’
‘Oh, humour, patience, knowing how to discipline without losing your temper. And in any case, Sean drives.’ Another crinkly smile; I’d say she’s not far off sixty. ‘Sean does the driving and I do the disciplining. That’s another quality you need – teamwork.’
‘Could Sean not come?’ asks Parnell.
She shakes her head; the lacquered perm stays stock-still. ‘No, he had to take a day off for the hospital yesterday – MRI scan, I think a knee replacement isn’t too far off – so there’s no way he could take another, not at short notice. No, I’m afraid I’ll have to do, but I’m sure I can answer whatever it is you want to know.’ A curious frown. ‘Although we hadn’t actually seen Holly for years before she disappeared. We’d send her a birthday card if we knew her address and she’d always call on Christmas Eve – usually drunk as a lord, but the gesture was sweet. She loved Christmas. We only had two Christmases with her, but they were certainly memorable. She made us play “Who can keep their Christmas cracker hat on the longest”. It was a tradition when she was a child, apparently. She won both times. She was still wearing it on Boxing Day – slept in it, would you believe!’
‘This is perfect, Linda,’ I say, encouraging her from the opposite squishy sofa. ‘This is the kind of stuff we’re after. You see, I – we – don’t feel like we’ve got a great handle on Holly yet. I met her friends yesterday, of course, but that’s only one viewpoint.’
‘You met Emma and Kayleigh? They were nice girls. Kayleigh found me on Facebook, told me about the service. ’Course we couldn’t go, what with the MRI.’ She tips her head, looking up at the ceiling. ‘There were another two, weren’t there? Gosh, I forget their names now. Is that awful?’
‘Shona and Josh. And no, not awful at all. It’s a long time since Holly was in your care.’
She reads my cue perfectly.
‘Yes, she came to us in 2003 when she was nearly fourteen. She’d been in the system for three, four years by then, and in that time alone she’d already had several different social workers, two different foster families, two extended stays in a residential unit – not happy ones, either.’
At ten years old, I was in the throes of loathing Dad. My trust had been broken two years earlier when Maryanne Doyle got into his car and he’d lied to the police about ever meeting her. But at least I’d been safe. Safe and warm and loved and fed in my Spice Girls themed bedroom.
‘Why weren’t they happy?’ I ask.
‘There was a real culture of bullying in both of the homes, particularly Sycamore Croft; it had an awful reputation. And I’m not talking occasional name-calling or a bit of scrapping, regrettable as that is. I’m talking brutal hierarchies – the strong ones bullying the weak ones or the younger ones. Physical abuse, definitely. Sexual abuse . . . well, it happened.’ My heart sinks. ‘And no, Holly never complained about the latter, but I always wondered . . . She’d definitely been badly beaten several times. We knew that when we took her in. The problem was she was small, shy, weak when she first came into the system. “Geeky”, one of her social workers called her. She was studious, loved reading, and depressing as it sounds, that can make you a target in some establishments.’ Regret crosses her face. ‘She toughened up, though, no doubt about that. There was nothing shy or weak about the girl who arrived in our home.’
‘She was a handful,’ says Parnell. A redundant observation but it keeps Linda in the flow.
‘Oh, she was. A handful and a half! But then most Sycamore kids were. We were prepared for it, as prepared as you can be.’
‘So what did she get up to?’ I ask.
She puts the mug on the floor, next to her worn sandal. ‘She had “a mouth” as my mum used to say. Our children were older by then, sixth form and university, and I’m sure they’d heard worse, so I chose not to go to battle over that. But she ran away a few times. Stayed out late, drinking and smoking. Very little respect for curfews or homework deadlines. And there were other issues at school – bullying . . .’
I interrupt. ‘Holly was the bully, or she was being bullied?’
‘The former, I’m afraid. The switch from victim to bully is really very common. And not to make light of it, but it was entirely normal, given what she’d been through.’ She brings her hands to her lap. ‘Anyway, I got through to her in the end, and she settled down after a few months. Oh, I’m not saying she was an angel, but she was a nice kid underneath all the front. Even when she was acting out, you couldn’t help liking her. She was funny, sharp, and so, so interested in the world. She wanted to go everywhere, see everything. She was always asking questions. She got back into reading for a while, but it didn’t last – I think she always had the bullies in her head telling her she was a loser, a nerd, a swot – as if that’s a huge insult.’ She rolls her eyes, kindly. ‘No, I’m afraid it was clothes, make-up, vacuous celebrities, that became her passion. Oh, and our dog, Buster – they were inseparable.’
‘So why did she leave you?’ I ask. ‘DCI Tessa Dyer recalls you saying . . . .’