Finding Stevie, page 11
‘Wouldn’t know about that,’ Fred said, which of course was part of the problem. Fred had been so dismissive of Stevie’s friendships and lifestyle choices that he had no idea who his grandson had been associating with or what he’d been doing.
‘So you can’t think of anywhere he might be?’ I asked. ‘The police are sure to ask me.’
‘Police? Why are you telling them? It’s only six o’clock.’
‘Yes, but Stevie should have been here at four-thirty, he’s not been in touch, so technically he’s been missing for an hour and a half. As his foster carer I have a duty to contact the social services and then report him missing to the police.’
‘And then he’ll breeze in, pleased with himself and enjoying all the attention,’ Fred said.
‘Possibly, but better that than the alternative – that something dreadful has happened to him.’ I didn’t want to alarm Fred, but his blasé attitude was not only annoying me, it was dangerous. Young people, especially those struggling with issues such as Stevie, are vulnerable and need protecting. All Fred saw was a stroppy teenager hell bent on antagonising him. ‘If he gets in touch or arrives there, will you let me know, please?’
‘Yes,’ he said bluntly. ‘But I doubt he’ll come here if he’s in trouble.’ Which, sadly, was probably true.
I tried Stevie’s mobile phone again, but it went through to voicemail. I told Adrian, Lucy and Paula to help themselves to dinner – there was a casserole in the oven – and I’d join them when I’d phoned the social services. They knew Stevie hadn’t come home and were aware of the procedure I had to follow, as I’d had to report other young people I’d fostered missing. At this point they weren’t unduly worried, more concerned – as I was – but as the evening wore on that would change.
Following procedure, I telephoned the call operator at the social services and briefly explained why I needed to speak to the emergency duty social worker. She took my details and said the emergency duty social worker would return my call as soon as possible and certainly within an hour. That was standard; had it been an emergency I would have phoned the emergency services directly – fire brigade, police or ambulance. I quickly went through to the kitchen, where I gobbled down some dinner and plated up some for Stevie. While part of me thought that Stevie was just cooling off somewhere after the incident at school and would come home soon, there was always the chance that something bad had happened – something connected to whatever had been worrying him for the past week.
The landline rang just as I’d finished eating. It was Peggy, wanting to know if I’d heard from Stevie. I said I hadn’t, and that I was waiting to hear back from the duty social worker and would phone her as soon as I had any news.
Twenty minutes later the duty social worker returned my call. The duty social worker doesn’t usually know the child, so I had to give him Stevie’s background information, which he noted, including Stevie’s date of birth, the reason he was in care, the type of care order and the circumstances leading up to him going missing. I explained what had happened at school and that he hadn’t been in touch since – either with me or with his grandparents. He advised me to leave another message on Stevie’s mobile saying that I had spoken to him, and that if he didn’t return home or contact me by 7 p.m. then I would have to report him missing to the police. The mention of the police sometimes prompted the young person to get in touch, then, with the barrier they’d erected around themselves lowered, it usually became easier to open the line of communication and for them to return home. He said I should telephone him to let him know the outcome.
Increasingly concerned for Stevie, I followed the duty social worker’s instructions and called Stevie’s mobile again. It went through to voicemail, so I left a message: ‘Stevie, it’s Cathy. I’m worried about you, love. Can you phone or text me, please, to say you’re OK? Whatever the problem is, I am sure we can sort it out. I’ve just called the duty social worker and he told me that if you haven’t got in touch by seven o’clock I should report you missing to the police. Come home, love, please, we miss you.’ I ended the call. It was dark outside now and bitterly cold, and I was worried Stevie was out there somewhere alone and, for whatever reason, too scared to come home.
Adrian came downstairs. ‘Shall we go out and look for him, Mum?’ he asked.
I was touched. ‘That’s nice of you, but I wouldn’t know where to start looking.’ I’d done similar before when a young person had gone missing, but then I’d had an idea of where they might be as I knew who they associated with and what their favourite haunts were (for example, Joss in Girl Alone). Now I had no idea where Stevie might be, and neither did his grandparents.
Adrian nodded. ‘Try not to worry. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.’
I smiled weakly, for, as Adrian knew, with every passing minute our concerns would grow.
At seven o’clock, with no word from Stevie and following the duty social worker’s advice, I telephoned the police – not 999 (the emergency services number) as I would have done if a small child had gone missing, but our local police station. Once connected, I explained to the officer that Stevie, aged fourteen, was a looked-after child, that I was his foster carer and the circumstances surrounding him going missing. Of course he wanted to know if he’d gone missing before and I explained that he had when he’d lived with his grandparents, but not since he’d been with me. He asked for a description and what Stevie was wearing – his school uniform – if he had any health issues or if he was depressed or suicidal. I said he’d been quiet the previous week, which had made me think something was worrying him, but I didn’t think he was suicidal, although of course you can never be sure. The officer wanted the name and contact details of Stevie’s social worker and his grandparents. I had them ready. He said he’d send an officer to my house as soon as one became available, and in the meantime Stevie’s details would be circulated through the police computer. He told me to have a recent photograph of Stevie ready to give to the police, which I also knew. I always made sure I had at least one good photo of the child I was fostering for official use, in addition to family photographs of the child’s time with us, a copy of which the child kept to remember us by.
I thanked the officer and felt some relief that the police were now looking for Stevie.
A few minutes later Adrian came into the living room with his coat on. ‘I’m going to walk around the block and up to the High Street to make sure Stevie’s not in the area and worried about coming back.’
‘Thanks, love, that is kind of you.’
‘It’s better than doing nothing,’ he said.
Then Lucy and Paula appeared, slipping on their coats. ‘We’re going too.’
Tears sprung to my eyes; I was so moved by their thoughtfulness. ‘Thank you. Don’t be too long, though. I don’t want you getting cold.’ Although it was early March, the temperature at night was dropping to freezing. ‘I’ll wait here for the police to arrive. I’ll call you if Stevie comes home.’
Yet while I appreciated their concern, the fact that they were going out to look for Stevie seemed to heighten the seriousness of what was unfolding. I still hoped that Stevie would breeze in shortly as Fred said he’d done when he’d gone missing before, but as time passed I thought it less and less likely.
By 8.30 I was starting to worry where my three children were, and was about to phone one of their mobiles when Adrian texted to say they’d got delayed and were now on their way back, although they hadn’t seen Stevie. As soon as I heard the front door open I was in the hall to meet them.
‘You must be freezing,’ I said. ‘You’ve been gone ages.’ They looked cold.
‘We helped a guy in the High Street,’ Adrian explained as they took off their coats.
‘Mum, did you know there’s a man sleeping rough in the High Street?’ Paula asked, shocked.
‘No, I didn’t.’ Although I was aware the number of rough sleepers in the country was increasing.
‘He’s in a doorway in an old sleeping bag,’ Paula said. ‘We bought him sausage and chips and a cup of tea.’
‘That was kind of you.’
‘He wasn’t very old,’ Lucy added. ‘I’d guess mid-twenties. I asked him why he was there and not with his family, but he wouldn’t talk to us.’
‘I’m sure he appreciated the food and drink,’ I said.
I feel it’s a disgrace and a dreadful indictment of our society that anyone has to sleep rough. It’s a sad fact that a sizeable proportion of those sleeping rough are care leavers. Looked-after children leave care at eighteen and then receive some support until they are twenty-one (longer if they are in education or training). During the transition to independence they are usually put in a hostel, lodgings or a small council flat, then they are on their own. With little or no family support, they often struggle to pay their bills. They fall behind with their rent and are eventually evicted. One recent study showed that 25 per cent of homeless people in the UK have been in care, and 20 per cent of care leavers become homeless within five years of leaving care. Shocking statistics.
Peggy telephoned and I told her I’d reported Stevie missing and was waiting for the police to arrive, and that Adrian, Lucy and Paula had checked the local area. She thanked me and began to tell me all about what had happened when Stevie had been living with them and gone missing, reliving it, when the front doorbell rang – two firm rings.
‘Peggy, I have to go,’ I said, interrupting her. ‘I think the police have arrived.’
‘Tell them if they want to search my home they need to wait until morning – the kids are in bed. Last time they woke them.’
Saying a quick goodbye, I went into the hall just as Adrian was opening the front door.
Chapter Twelve
Something Much Worse
Adrian and I showed the two male police officers into the living room and we all sat down. Lucy joined us, but Paula stayed in her room. The lead officer asked me questions as the other officer took notes: about his background, the reasons for him coming into care, how long he’d been living with us, the events leading up to his disappearance and so forth, much as I’d already given when I’d reported Stevie missing. I appreciated Adrian and Lucy being present. When they were young, as a single-parent foster carer I’d had to face situations like this alone. Now they were older it was reassuring to have them by my side for moral support and also to supplement details I might have missed. I told the officers what steps we’d taken to find Stevie, including leaving messages on his mobile, contacting his grandparents and that Adrian, Lucy and Paula had looked for him in the area.
‘Do the police know there’s a man sleeping rough in the High Street?’ Lucy asked the officers.
‘Yes, he should be on his way to a hostel now,’ the lead officer said. ‘We spotted him on our way here. They make room at the hostel in really cold weather, even though they’re full.’
‘Good,’ said Lucy. Although I remained concerned that anyone should be sleeping on the streets in the first place.
The officers asked if Stevie kept a diary or had left a note and I said I didn’t think so. They asked if he took drugs or drank alcohol, and I said I was sure he didn’t because he’d seen what they’d done to his mother. They asked about his usual hangouts, and if he had a laptop or tablet, and I confirmed that he had a laptop but had taken it to school that day. A call came through on the second officer’s phone and they both paused to listen to it. It was in respect of another young person who’d gone missing but had just been found at the home of her boyfriend. ‘We usually find runaways within twenty-four hours,’ the lead officer said, which was reassuring.
‘But what if they’re not found?’ Lucy asked, worried.
‘Then we keep looking until they are,’ he said with a positive smile.
As I expected, they wanted to search the house. As well as confirming that Stevie wasn’t here, they’d be looking for any clues that might suggest where he could be. I showed them into our kitchen-diner first and they had a look around, opened and closed a few cupboard doors and looked out the back door. As we returned into the hall we passed the walk-in cupboard under the stairs and the lead officer paused and asked, ‘What’s in there?’
‘A mess,’ Lucy quipped. I opened the door so they could see in. It held the vacuum cleaner, broom, dustpan and brush, a no-longer-used gerbil cage, shopping bags, bric-à-brac and anything we didn’t use but didn’t want to throw out.
Satisfied, the officers followed us into the front room.
‘Does Stevie use that computer?’ the second officer asked, referring to the PC.
‘He hasn’t done,’ I said.
They looked around and then Adrian headed our little procession upstairs to Stevie’s room. ‘It’s very tidy for a fourteen-year-old lad,’ the lead officer commented as we went in.
‘Yes, Stevie keeps his room neat,’ I agreed.
They gave this room a more thorough search and looked under the bed, pulled back the duvet, checked inside the pillowcase, drew back the curtains, and opened and closed the drawers. Stevie’s make-up, nail varnish and floral cosmetics bag were in the top drawer, but they didn’t comment. Only when they opened the wardrobe door did their expressions change and I saw them do a double-take. ‘They’re bright,’ the lead officer said, glancing at me. ‘Does Stevie wear these?’
‘Yes, sometimes,’ I said.
‘And the make-up in the drawer?’
‘Yes, but not for school. He’s in his school uniform.’ I felt Stevie’s privacy was being invaded, but then again, if he hadn’t gone missing the police wouldn’t be here rummaging through his private belongings. Until now I hadn’t mentioned gender, as it hadn’t seemed necessary, but as they examined his clothes and checked the pockets I thought I should say something. Lucy got in first.
‘Stevie is gender-fluid,’ she said proudly. ‘That means he doesn’t have a fixed gender and likes to dress femininely sometimes. I’ve helped him with his make-up.’
‘He’s gay?’ the lead officer asked me.
‘No, he’s undecided,’ I said. ‘Although he did go to an LGBT nightclub before he came to live with us.’
‘At fourteen?’
‘Yes.’
He tutted. ‘Do you know which one?’
‘No, sorry. I don’t.’
They checked down the side of his wardrobe, looked in a carrier bag hanging on the back of the door and the pockets of his dressing gown, then, with a final glance around, the second officer said, ‘There’s nothing in here.’
We all came out and I showed them round the landing to our bedrooms. When we came to Paula’s room I knocked on her door and stuck my head round. She was propped up on her bed, reading. ‘The police need to have a look in here,’ I said. She got off her bed and stood beside it, clearly embarrassed, as both officers came in and looked around. Although it was necessary, it was an imposition. They thanked her on their way out and I showed them my bedroom and finally the bathroom.
‘There’s nowhere he can hide in there,’ Lucy said pointedly.
The junior officer smiled at her. ‘You can never be sure.’
Downstairs again, we stood in the hall as the officers prepared to leave. They confirmed that Stevie’s details had already been circulated, and we should contact them if he got in touch or returned home, which they felt sure he would do before long. They said they would visit his grandparents; I didn’t tell them what Peggy had said about not going there until morning. It seemed rude and I doubted that waking Kiri and Liam would be a factor in timetabling their visit, with their busy work schedule.
It was after 10.30 by the time the officers had left. Sammy came out from his hiding place behind the sofa and curled up in his basket, and by eleven o’clock we were all upstairs getting ready for bed. I left my mobile phone switched on and within reach on my bedside cabinet in case Stevie phoned, then lay in the dark running through the day’s events and wondering where on earth he could be. Suddenly I was startled by the landline ringing. I quickly grabbed the handset. ‘Cathy?’ It was Peggy wanting to know what had happened when the police had visited. I told her, said I’d phone her when there was any news and wound up the conversation. I think she would have liked to talk for longer, but it was nearly midnight and I was shattered.
I lay in the dark again with my thoughts buzzing like trapped flies, and tried to imagine where Stevie might be. My bedside clock clicked away the time: 12.30, 1.07, 1.43. Then I must have dropped off, for suddenly I was awake again, and aware my mobile was ringing.
‘Yes?’ I said immediately, answering it.
‘Is that Cathy Glass, Stevie’s foster carer?’ a male voice asked.
‘Yes.’ My heart began thumping wildly as I sat bolt upright and switched on the bedside lamp.
‘It’s one of the officers who visited you earlier. We’ve found Stevie. He’s in the car with us.’
‘Thank goodness.’ I breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘Is he all right?’
‘Just a bit cold. But there is a problem.’ My stomach churned.
‘What?’
‘He doesn’t want to come back to you.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s not saying. He just says he can’t.’
‘I don’t understand. Can I speak to him?’
‘No, he doesn’t want to talk to you.’
Not only was I hurt, but it seemed to reflect badly on me as a foster carer that Stevie didn’t want to come home or even talk to me.
‘Has he given you any idea why he ran away?’ I asked.
‘No. We’re going to contact the social services now. They’ll have to find him a bed for the night.’
‘What about his grandparents? Can’t he stay there for tonight?’
‘He says he doesn’t want to go there either.’
‘You’ve spoken to them?’
‘Yes. They know he’s safe.’
‘Where did you find Stevie?’ I asked.
