by C J Parsons
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said to Carrie, holding up a shard of turquoise porcelain. ‘I broke your vase.’
Juliet managed not to roll her eyes, but it was difficult. One thing, she thought, running a palm across the surface of her tightly pulled hair. The movement dislodged a hairclip, letting an Afro curl escape. I ask him to do one simple thing . . . and this is the result. She clipped the curl back in place with an aggressive motion.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Carrie closed her eyes for a moment then opened them again. Her voice never strayed outside its narrow band. ‘The vase doesn’t matter.’
Juliet shot the DS a warning look to let him know he wasn’t off the hook as far as she was concerned. What if the vase had been a family heirloom? Or, worse yet, a birthday gift from Sofia?
‘It was an accident,’ Ravi said defensively. ‘I slipped on this.’ He retrieved something from the floor and held it up: a tiny, plastic wagon, its purple wheels still spinning.
Ah. Juliet released a sigh. ‘OK. But please be careful where you step from now on.’
Sofia’s toys still lay where they’d been dropped, making it feel as though she’d only just stepped out of the room and might return at any moment. A naked Barbie sat on the hardwood floor in front of the bookshelf, alongside a half-finished puzzle of a cartoon pig in a red dress. Lego blocks were scattered across the coffee table and a colony of plastic penguins huddled beneath the tripod floor lamp. Juliet wondered how long the girl would have to be missing before her mother finally put the toys away. She hoped she wouldn’t have to find out. But as she returned her attention to the lists of contacts, she was painfully aware that every passing hour drained away some hope of ever finding the girl alive.
She gave Carrie a brief smile of apology for the vase before returning her attention to the names. ‘So . . .’ She pointed to the second column. ‘Tell me about these people.’
‘Those are just co-workers. There aren’t many because I don’t know the names of anyone outside my team, aside from the receptionist. And I don’t see any of them socially.’
Juliet nodded. She’d already sent a DI to Wescott Architects to interview Carrie’s colleagues. They’d all spoken about her designs in glowing terms but seemed to know virtually nothing about her personal life.
‘Do you ever bring Sofia into the office when you’re having issues with childcare? To wait and draw while you finish an urgent project or . . .’
‘No.’
‘Has Sofia’s father ever handed her across to you at the office?’
‘No.’
‘Never swung by and dropped her off because he felt suddenly ill or unable to cope?’
‘No.’
So much for the colleagues. She shifted her attention to the next row. Or rather, the place where the next row ought to have been.
‘Are you still unable to provide a list of your friends?’
‘It’s not that I’m unable.’ Carrie pushed her hands up the sides of her skull, stopping when both palms covered her ears. The pose reminded Juliet of that Munch painting: The Scream. ‘It’s that I don’t have any friends to list.’
Juliet frowned down at the sheet of paper, with its missing row. She had spent much of her career on the force digging through society’s scrapheap, interviewing druggies and misfits and losers. And she’d found that even the lowest of the low were usually able to count at least one friend to their name: a fellow traveller to share the downwardly spiralling journey. So how had a successful, talented, working mother like Carrie Haversen ended up completely isolated?
‘Just to be clear, these don’t have to be close friends. Perhaps a colleague or ex-colleague you’ve met for a drink once or twice?’
‘No.’
‘One of these mothers on your school list . . .’
‘None of them wish to spend time with me. I attempted to form social relationships with them when school first started but . . . I was not successful.’
‘OK, then perhaps an old ex you stayed friends with after . . .’
Carrie spoke slowly, isolating each word. ‘I do not have any friends.’ She took a final gulp of coffee before putting down the mug, pushing it to one side. ‘The way I am makes people uncomfortable. So they choose not to interact with me.’ The words were delivered without emotion: a simple statement of fact.
‘I see. Thank you for explaining.’ As Juliet jotted on her notepad, she tried to imagine a life without girlie chats, pub quizzes or post-work pints. And found that she couldn’t. She had grown up with four siblings and a constant flow of visiting Jamaican relatives, her childhood played out against a backdrop of noise and chaos, her adult years an endless tug of war between her career and her social life. If she had been asked to list all her friends and acquaintances, she would have needed more paper.
‘OK then, moving along . . .’ She flipped to the next page of her notepad. ‘Has anyone shown special interest in Sofia recently? A delivery person or passer-by while you were out walking?’
‘No.’
‘And as far as you’re aware, nobody new has moved into your neighbourhood?’
‘No.’
Juliet bit back a sigh. They were just circling old ground, going nowhere. She needed to open up a new line of enquiry. She cast around for a fresh question.
‘Have you noticed anyone looking at you or Sofia strangely?’
‘I would be unable to judge that. I have social-emotional agnosia.’
Juliet’s pen paused above her notebook. ‘Sorry?’
‘Facial expression blindness. I can’t read emotions in people’s faces. Well . . . Unless the expression is very clear and simple, not mixed together with other emotions.’
‘Facial expression blindness,’ Juliet repeated slowly. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with that.’
‘Yes, you must have, since it affects one in ten people to some degree. You probably just wrote them off as thick-skinned or insensitive or weird. That’s what usually happens.’
‘I see.’ The answer made Juliet feel oddly defensive, as though she’d been accused of something.
‘What is the cause of your condition?’
‘That question has yet to be answered definitively. I was originally suspected of having damage to the amygdala: a part of the brain. But scans showed that not to be the case. I was later diagnosed with Alexythemia. And more recently, with Asperger’s, although that term is no longer used; these days it’s “on the spectrum”. But I was reassessed early this year and told that I don’t really fit into that category either, although I do have autistic traits.’
Juliet noticed that the rapid blinking had stopped. This was clearly old conversational territory: no information-processing required. She thought of Carrie’s flat speech and long silences. She had assumed they were a temporary biproduct of shock. Maybe not.
‘Does this condition also affect the way you . . .’ She hesitated. ‘The way you express your feelings?’
‘Yes. What makes my case unusual is that my internal emotional responses fall within the normal range. I simply don’t display them in the same way as others.’ She tilted her head. ‘Well, I do occasionally, when my feelings are particularly intense. But not often.’
Juliet flipped her pen between her fingers, viewing Carrie through the prism of new understanding. Imagine, going through life unable to gauge other people’s reactions or communicate your own. It went a long way towards explaining her difficulty making friends.
She returned her attention to the sheet of paper: Carrie’s meagre social life boiled down into three columns. She pointed to the last and longest list: sixteen names, all male.
‘So these are your ex-boyfriends?’
‘Yes.’ Carrie plucked at the inside of her wrist again. ‘Actually, no, that’s not true. It’s everyone I’ve had sex with since moving to London eight years ago. Men I
met in bars.’
‘And you are unable to provide their surnames?’
‘Correct. I didn’t ask and they didn’t offer.’
‘With one obvious exception.’ Juliet’s fingertip underlined the name at the top. ‘Simon Ryder.’
Carrie retrieved the now empty mug, peering inside. Juliet hoped she wasn’t going to stop the interview to make more coffee. Things were moving slowly enough as it was. But Carrie pushed the cup aside again.
‘Simon and I had a proper relationship. The others were just sex.’
Juliet jotted on her notepad as she considered this statement. How had he managed to navigate Carrie’s condition? It wouldn’t have been easy for him, building a connection with someone who could neither receive his emotional signals nor transmit her own.
Unless . . . Juliet frowned. What if he’d never wanted to navigate it? What if he’d liked having a girlfriend who couldn’t read him?
‘Let’s go back over Simon’s relationship with your daughter. You describe it as “close”. Has Sofia ever witnessed his . . . symptoms?’ Juliet tried to force eye contact, but Carrie’s eyes were locked on the clock.
‘No,’ she responded, then pinched her wrist.
And that’s when it happened. Somewhere deep inside Juliet, a flash went off: a hot flare that rose through her consciousness like a bonfire spark, straightening her back and lifting her chin into what Alistair called her ‘predator-catching-a-scent’ pose.
That gesture means something.
Juliet was careful to keep her eyes aimed at Carrie’s face even as she shifted her focus downward, to the pale fingers interlocked on the table.
‘Yesterday you described Simon’s parental visits as “uneventful”. Do you stand by that?’
‘Yes.’
The linked fingers broke apart. The left hand turned, so that its back was against the table, exposing the inner wrist.
Pinch.
Bingo. Juliet flipped back through her notebook, returning to the start of their conversation before moving forwards again, skimming through her notes as she replayed the interview in her memory.
‘I’d like to go over these lists again – from the beginning. Are you happy to do that for me?’
‘Yes. I’m happy to do that.’
Then, right then, was when Carrie had plucked at her wrist for the first time.
Juliet’s eyes raced along the shorthand scribbles.
‘These are your ex-boyfriends?’
‘Yes.’
There! That was the next time, just before Carrie had said: ‘Well no, that’s not really true. It’s everyone I’ve had sex with since moving to London eight years ago.’
So what was it about those exchanges that had triggered—
Then she almost laughed out loud. Because, of course, the answer was right there in front of her, spelled out in black and white.
‘No, that’s not really true.’
The gesture was a tell. Carrie Haversen pinched her left wrist every time she told a lie.
Juliet sat back against the chair, triumph swelling inside her as she examined the woman across from her. Carrie stared back, her face an impregnable wall.
Juliet tapped a knuckle against her chin as she chose her next question.
‘Has Simon ever harmed Sofia?’
‘No.’
Juliet could hear the clock ticking in the gap that followed. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth tick, Carrie’s fingers drifted to the soft skin of her wrist.
Pinch.
Shit. So that meant he had hurt her. But why would a loving mother withhold that kind of information? Was Carrie protecting Simon . . . or was she afraid of him? Juliet turned the two theories over in her mind. Despite Carrie’s lack of emotional expression, Juliet was in no doubt that she loved her child more than life itself. So, no, she wouldn’t place her ex-partner’s interests ahead of Sofia’s. And as for fear . . . She’d seen no sign of that either. But what other motive could there be? Unless . . . Did Carrie feel that whatever had happened was her fault somehow?
Juliet leaned across the table on her forearms, reducing the distance between them. Knowing instinctively that it would make Carrie uncomfortable, doing it anyway to throw her off balance.
‘Listen to me,’ she said urgently. ‘My only goal in asking these questions is to locate Sofia and bring her safely home. So it is absolutely crucial that—’
The ring of her mobile phone interrupted the sentence. She glanced at the screen. Alistair. He must be calling from Clearbrook.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, getting up from the table. ‘I’m afraid this is urgent. I’ll be back in a moment.’
Juliet dashed through the house, waiting until Carrie’s front door had closed behind her before answering the call.
‘Alistair. What’s up?’ Hopefully he had made contact with Ryder by now. Perhaps even interviewed him. She walked down the three steps between the door and the small front garden, with its stone slabs and flower tubs, their blossoms drooping. A heatwave had arrived in the night like a bad omen, thickening the air and baking the concrete, smothering the city in smog the colour of a nicotine stain. Juliet unbuttoned the collar of her shirt, flapping the material to ventilate it.
The familiar Irish brogue travelled down the phone.
‘I had a nightmare getting past the reception desk, even with a warrant. I’ve been to maximum security prisons with a more laissez faire attitude. You want to know what I told them?’
Juliet sucked in her lips. She was fond of DI Larkin, but at this moment she found herself wishing he didn’t always have to be quite so . . . Irish. Alistair was a man who lived up to his country’s ‘gift of the gab’ stereotype. He loved a good story and she could feel one building now.
‘Not at this moment. Why don’t you tell me later?’
‘Oh. OK.’ Wounded silence down the phone.
‘We’re racing against the clock here, Alistair. I just need to know what condition Simon Ryder was in, and whether he could be interviewed.’
‘We couldn’t interview him. The thing is he—’
‘Damn,’ she interrupted, heading off another anecdote. ‘It’s essential that we speak to him. We’ve gotten nothing from the CCTV footage, the witnesses in the park or the interviews with local sex offenders. So right now we are running out of leads, and I’m fairly sure the girl’s mother is hiding something about Ryder’s history with Sofia.’ Juliet tilted back her head, frowning up at the sky. A white crescent moon was burned against the blue like a photo negative. A cloud rode across it, casting a shadow that didn’t budge the heat. ‘I need you to go back into that clinic and convince those doctors to give Ryder something to sort him out just long enough to answer a few questions. Can you do that?’
‘No, I can’t. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I couldn’t interview him because he’s not here. He was supposed to check in right around the time Sofia went missing. But he never arrived.’
Four
‘That’s impossible,’ Carrie told the policewoman. She hadn’t realised her hands were fisted until she felt fingernails digging into her palms. ‘He called me on his way there. Sofia disappeared while I was speaking to him.’
The DCI turned to a fresh page in her little notebook and ran a hand down it, as though smoothing an unseen crease.
‘The call you received was from a mobile phone, so he could have been anywhere. For all we know, he called you expressly to draw your attention from Sofia, then waved her over and was leading her away as the two of you spoke. His phone is now switched off, but one of my colleagues is working on finding out where the call was made. So we should know soon.’
Carrie stared across the dining table, nausea squirming in her stomach. Snatches of her conversation with Simon tumbled through her head like clothes in a drier, tossed together with freeze-f
rame images from the park.
Sofia, smiling at her across the playground.
It’s happened again.
Sofia, placing a rainbow trainer on the bottom rung of the climbing frame.
I miss her.
What if he’d been watching the whole time, crouching in the bushes on the other side of the fence – the fence he’d sliced open with a knife?
A knife.
A memory was threatening to bubble to the surface and she pushed it back down. She couldn’t think about that right now. It would only flood her with panic, making it harder to focus. And anyway, wasn’t this good news? It meant that Sofia hadn’t been snatched by some shadowy stranger driven by monstrous appetites. She was with her father. A father who loved her.
The knife. Dark blood on pale skin.
She closed her eyes and banged a fist against the table, trying to beat back the image.
‘Are you OK? Would you like a glass of water?’
Carrie opened her eyes to find the policewoman looking across at her, eyebrows dipped together, nose wrinkled at the top. Carrie noticed, in a vague, uninterested sort of way, that she was pretty: almond-shaped eyes set in almond-coloured skin. Hair that wanted to burst into an Afro cloud, tamed flat by gel and a fleet of hair clips.
