Despite her pulling the hoodie closer to her face I see the adoration for my adoptive father written there. It’s the same expression she wore on the day of Mummy Cherry’s funeral, when she served me and Sugar rum in the conservatory. The expression I got so wrong. It’s not physical love but loyalty. Why does she feel such loyalty for Sugar?
Grimly, I toughen my resolve to find the truth. Make a vow. What I’m doing is for Ronnie too. That’s why I ask, ‘How did you manage to get away? Escape? You’ve more or less admitted to me that the three other women went missing. You went missing too.’
The icy walls surround Ronnie again. I’m not surprised. She gets to her feet. ‘I’m acquainted with the underbelly of this city. I’ll ask around about Miriam and if she is in a drug house I’ll find her.’
I nod my thanks but what I next say has nothing to do with Miriam. ‘If the Suzi Lake Centre was such a great place, full of opportunity, what the hell went wrong?’
Ronnie’s shoulders stiffen. ‘Who said anything went wrong?’
Then she leaves me alone, the women’s faces in the photo on my phone staring up at me.
CHAPTER 29
Killing; that’s what I’m doing at North London Police Command Centre. Killing two birds with one stone. I’m standing outside where the only way in is through a high-tech security system. I’m here to appeal to a cop who can help me find Miriam but also can tell me about Sugar’s investigation. The Command Centre is a great big statement of a building, oval-shaped and made mainly of glass. I suppose the glass is the symbolic way of the police trying to assert they have a transparent relationship with the communities they serve. I’m admitted to a reception area that’s spacious and bare except for large posters advertising the upcoming vigil in honour of Poppy Munro.
It’s the same photo; blond, blue-eyed, radiant as a bridesmaid. Poppy as an angel. After what Ronnie said about the media I find the picture disturbing. Representing Poppy this way is bordering on the obscene. What was Poppy really like?
‘Is Commander Dixon expecting you?’ The receptionist draws my full attention.
I’m ready and armed for this inevitable question. Armed? Definitely the wrong word to use within police HQ.
I tell her, ‘I’m sure Commander Dixon will see me. He’s a friend of my father’s, Sugar.’ My tongue tangles with the remainder; I’m not sure how to introduce Sugar. As Carlton McNeil? Carlton McNeil, former fellow officer?
‘Your father is called Sugar?’ She gives it a rating of just below contempt as if I’ve wandered in off the street with some sob story about needing to visit my poor dear old mum in hospital so she can lend me a tenner.
At least she doesn’t throw me out. Instead, she offers me a seat on chairs that are nailed to the floor. I look down at the mini version of the Poppy Munro vigil posters that are stacked on the table in front of me. At the bottom Commander John Dixon has written his own personal pledge to work tirelessly to find her. He finishes with his handwritten signature. It’s a nice touch. Why wasn’t anyone doing the same for the four black women who went missing the same year as Poppy? I take one of the leaflets and tuck it away with my unanswered question.
I don’t know who the receptionist speaks to on the phone, but she’s soon running me off a pass with directions to the fourth floor. Inside the lift I slump against the wall with a silent prayer that Sugar’s friend will be able to help me. When the doors to the lift open, a jittery, young man is waiting for me. He leads me into the inner sanctum of the suite where Dixon’s office is.
I expect his office to feature lashings of wood and old-fashioned masculine style. Instead, it continues the glass theme from ceiling to floor. It makes me wonder, doesn’t all that see-through make Dixon feel exposed? Maybe it’s all bulletproof glass?
John Dixon is what Mummy Cherry would call a man with presence. The brass in his very grand uniform sets off the striking glow of his greying hair. Something else shines through along with the polished brass buttons of his clothes – Dixon is a man used to giving orders.
He stands, his big frame looming over the ground between us. He envelopes my hand in his much larger one. Squeezes. ‘Once again, I was sorry to hear about your mother.’
I know he means Cherry, not the other mother. Cherry was different from Sugar, she liked me to call her Mummy Cherry. I think it made up for her self-imposed sense of inadequacy for having had a hysterectomy in her early thirties. Nothing about Mummy Cherry was ever inadequate to me.