by C J Parsons
She had, of course, run a background check ahead of the interview; Josh Skelter was the only child of a single mother, a well-known architect who had died in a house fire when he was seventeen. A Guardian news brief had provided a bare-bones account of how young Josh had risked his life trying to rescue her from the flames.
Which made him . . . what? A natural-born hero? A serial rescuer?
Alistair leaned forwards in the seat next to hers, parking his forearms on the table.
‘It never occurred to you to call Sofia’s mother?’ he asked. ‘Or 999, for that matter?’
Skelter settled back against the metal chair (bolted to the floor, so it couldn’t be used as a weapon). His long legs were stretched out under the table, crossed at the ankles. He looked very relaxed for someone facing two police officers, a one-way mirror and a barrage of questions. But then, why shouldn’t he look relaxed? He was, after all, the white knight in this little story: the good Samaritan who had ridden to the rescue and saved the girl. Who was even now helping police with their enquiries.
Except there was a problem: Juliet couldn’t read him. Not at all. She had spent the last hour probing and pushing, attempting to find some foothold on the chinks and contours of his character. But it was like trying to scale a smooth wall.
He put his glasses back on and gave the two of them a small smile.
‘The point of my walks is to unplug from work for an hour. Bringing my mobile phone along would completely defeat that purpose. Which is why I always leave it behind, on my desk.’ His eyes moved from Alistair to Juliet and back again. ‘Look, a frightened little girl asked me to take her home. So I flagged a taxi and did just that. It really is that simple.’
Juliet opened the file she was holding, taking out half a dozen newspaper clippings: front page stories dominated by photos of Sofia. She spread them across the table.
‘And you didn’t recognise her from the news? Didn’t realise that she was the subject of a massive, high-profile search?’
‘I run an architecture magazine and Tuesday was our monthly deadline.’ He toyed with the chain around his neck, running the ring back and forth along it (a woman’s ring, Juliet noted, the silver shaped into a zigzag on one side. She wondered fleetingly who it had belonged to). ‘The days leading up to it are long: late nights, dawn starts. Barely a moment to breathe, let alone read the news or watch TV.’
‘You run an architecture magazine. And Carrie Haversen is a respected architect. Had you met before yesterday?’
‘We will, of course, have crossed paths at industry events: award ceremonies and so on. And I am aware of her work. But I don’t know her personally.’
‘Let’s go back to your walk for a second,’ Alistair interjected, leaning back from the table and crossing his arms behind his head. ‘You say you were on deadline, not a second to spare, yet you decided to go for an evening stroll through an isolated corner of Perivale?’
‘Yes, I go for a walk most days, to clear my head. I like that path because it’s quiet.’
Leaving the newspaper cuttings on the table, Juliet returned her attention to the case file, allowing silence to build as she read one of the pages inside. Then she lifted her eyes to Skelter’s.
‘So, to recap your statement: you heard a child’s voice screaming and crying from a shed at the end of a private garden, scaled the back fence to access the property and then attacked the lock with a shovel you found in the garden before kicking open the door to free her.’
‘That is correct.’
She lifted her gaze from the document.
‘It didn’t occur to you to try knocking on the door of the house to see if anyone was home, to ask if the child who lived there might have become trapped in the garden shed while playing? Or even just to ask for the key?’
‘No one’s living there now. It’s empty.’ He gave her a slow smile. ‘But I’m guessing you know that already.’
She tossed down the file and crossed her legs.
‘This isn’t about what I know. This is about us trying to understand the thinking behind your actions. Because, to be perfectly honest, some of it doesn’t make sense to me.’
He tilted his head. ‘Then allow me to clarify. I knew for a fact that nobody lived there because the entire row of houses had to be evacuated four months ago after the ground they’re built on was found to be unstable – too many monster basements dug too close together. There’s a legal battle grinding through the courts even as we speak. Meanwhile, everyone in the affected area has been ordered to move out or risk being swallowed by a sinkhole.’ He waved a manicured hand in the air. ‘And before you ask how I happen to know this, it’s because we did a big piece on it in the magazine: a cautionary tale. Anyway, the path itself is on stable ground and the absence of anyone living along it makes for a quiet, peaceful walk.’
‘A peaceful stroll through sinkhole territory,’ Alistair said dryly. ‘How idyllic. But just to dot my “i”s and cross my “t”s . . . can you tell me where you were on June 28th at 4.20 p. m.?’
‘That’s easy. Holed up in my office.’
‘And there are people who can confirm this?’
‘Of course. My secretary for one. Gabby Wells. Her desk is right outside my door.’
Juliet folded her arms across her chest as she searched Skelter’s face for clues, some subtle signal or emotional vibration: a flicker in his gaze or a hitch in his breath. But there was nothing, just an infuriating blankness. Was this how it was for Carrie Haversen all the time? she wondered. How could she stand it?
Alistair looked at Juliet, transmitting silent messages: a sour mouth-twist of frustration (I am out of ideas) then a subtle lift of the eyebrows (You got anything?). She answered with a small head-shake. The interview was over.
She returned the clippings to the case file and they both stood up.
‘Thank you for coming in.’ She held out her hand for Skelter to shake, wanting to see whether his palms were sweaty. ‘We appreciate your cooperation.’
The handshake was neither damp nor dry, loose nor firm.
‘Any time. Happy to help.’
London Architects’ Monthly was located on the top floor of a converted Edwardian fire station fronted by brick arches through which fire trucks had once raced in a hot blare of sirens. Now the arches were sealed with cool glass, allowing passers-by to glimpse the stylish interior: the curved sweep of the reception desk and the frosted glass staircase rising behind it with no visible means of support, so it appeared to float against the orange brick.
Josh Skelter had a corner office at the back of the top floor: a high-ceilinged space containing an art-deco desk covered in papers (neatly stacked), a leather swivel chair and a bookcase lined with reference books and back issues of the magazine. There were two windows covered by linen blinds and a thriving ficus in a ceramic pot.
‘Was there something in particular you were looking for?’ Gabby Wells asked, hovering in the doorway as Juliet flipped through the papers on the desk (invoices, copies of articles, architects’ drawings).
Skelter’s secretary was a pudding-faced woman in a bright floral muumuu with an eager-to-please expression.
‘No, I’m just having a look around.’ She gave the secretary a smile. ‘You’re lucky to work in such a lovely building.’
Gabby Wells beamed. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? The Observer did a whole spread on it in their design supplement. But not until we’d already done one, obviously; it wouldn’t do to get scooped by the competition on our own building!’ She laughed louder and longer than the joke deserved.
Juliet forced a chortle before taking out her notebook and flipping it open.
‘Just to go back over your statement: are you absolutely certain that Mr Skelter was in his office between 4 and 5 p.m. on Sunday?
The secretary nodded firmly, making her surplus chins quiver.
> ‘Oh yes. As you can see, my desk is right outside his door. We were coming up to the monthly deadline, our busy time. Mr Skelter popped out for a takeaway at lunch, but after that he had to write the Editor’s Introduction and go through the proofs, so he asked not to be disturbed. Usually he gets those things done a lot earlier, but there were some issues with the cover story so I guess he fell behind. I stuck my head in to say goodbye before I left at seven and he was still working away. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was there till midnight.’
Juliet observed Gabby Wells closely – the angle of her gaze, the set of her limbs, the cadence of her voice – for signs that she might be lying or holding something back. But there were none. Which meant that he had been inside this room at the exact time Sofia was taken. She would of course dot the ‘i’s and cross the ‘t’s by checking the CCTV footage from the lobby and the street, but for now it seemed that Josh Skelter was exactly what he appeared to be: a good Samaritan who had happened to be in the right place at the right time.
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ Gabby Wells asked.
‘No. You’ve already been a great help. Thank you.’
The humidity seemed to have thickened while Juliet was inside. It wrapped itself around her in a clammy layer, pasting her shirt to her back as she walked along the street, scanning the shop fronts for private CCTV cameras. Station House was in the middle of Newman Road, flanked by a Greek restaurant and a faded pharmacy with a two-for-one deal on pregnancy tests. She stopped outside a news agent with a camera aimed conspicuously at the magazine rack outside the front door. But it turned out to be a dummy, to deter would-be shop lifters. A jewellery shop further down had a more promising camera and she was about to go inside when her mobile rang.
Carrie Haversen’s flat voice travelled through it.
‘Can you update me on the progress of the investigation?’ A two-second pause, then: ‘Please.’
‘Hello, Carrie. I will contact you if there are any major developments. But as things now stand—’
‘Sky is reporting that the man who returned Sofia is being questioned.’
‘Yes, Josh Skelter has been assisting us with our enquiries.’
‘Sky implied that he might be a suspect.’
‘That’s completely untrue,’ Juliet said crossly. Bloody reporters. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact; I’ve just confirmed that Josh Skelter was working in his office at the time Sofia was taken.’
‘I see. So you have made no progress whatsoever towards catching my daughter’s abductor?’
Juliet pulled a hand across her eyes. Was that an accusation? An expression of disappointment? Or a simple statement of fact? The featureless voice made it impossible to tell.
‘We are making progress; we have ruled out all the people on your list and are now focusing our efforts on the park, canvassing for witnesses and interviewing staff. I will contact you if there are any breakthroughs. OK?’
‘I just feel . . . Not knowing is very . . .’ There was a pause during which Juliet could hear Sofia’s voice singing in the background. ‘Here Comes the Sun’. She smiled at the sound. Carrie exhaled into the phone. ‘Very well. I will wait for you to call with an update. Goodbye.’
And the line went dead.
Eight
Carrie woke up and screamed. She’d been dreaming that Sofia was buried somewhere along an endless grey beach and she was clawing with her bare hands, trying to dig her out. But every time she threw a scoop of sand aside more spilled down into the hole, rising up its sides, like a grave being filled.
She sat up in bed, gasping like a caught fish, heart kicking as she waited for the nightmare to dissolve under the daylight leaking through her curtains. She pressed both palms against her eyes as her body downshifted out of panic mode, slowly resuming its normal rhythm. She rolled her shoulders to free the tension lodged there. Then she glanced at the bedside clock and did a double take. 8.42. She hadn’t slept this late in years; Sofia always woke her well before eight. Throwing aside the duvet, Carrie walked quickly down the hallway to her daughter’s room, with its wooden ‘Sofia’s Place’ sign, the lower curve of the ‘S’ tucked beneath the cartoon figure of a cat. As usual, the door had been left ajar. Carrie eased it all the way open and stepped inside.
Sofia was lying under her duvet with her eyes closed, one arm flung above her head, the other wrapped around Penguin Pete. Her ‘Starry Sky’ nightlight was still on, the projected stars now barely visible against the mint-green walls, overpowered by the morning sun. Carrie bent to kiss her daughter’s forehead, listening to the gentle push-pull of her breathing. A slow surge of love rode through her. Normally Sofia would be bursting with new-day energy at this hour, filling the house with chatter and racing footsteps, snatches of songs and requests for Cheerios or Nutella on toast. But the stress of the last few days had clearly wiped her out.
Best let her sleep.
Carrie went downstairs and put a tin of defrosted bread dough into the oven (Simon had taught her how to make it), setting the timer before heading back up to her room to get dressed. She was pulling a T-shirt over her head when the doorbell buzzed. Must be the office courier.
Osman, her boss, had told Carrie to take as much time off as she needed. But she was keen to get back to work . . . so long as that didn’t mean being separated from Sofia; she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. So Wescott had arranged for her to work from home. She jogged down the stairs, thoughts already filling with her latest project: creating a modern wing for a Victorian hospital.
As she opened the door, Carrie was trying to remember whether you were supposed to tip couriers. So when she saw who was on the other side, she froze with surprise.
Josh Skelter stood before her wearing a brown leather jacket and a sideways smile.
‘Good morning. I hope you don’t mind my dropping by unannounced.’ He held up a pink bag with string handles. ‘I bought a little gift for Sofia, but the police wouldn’t let me have your phone number, so I couldn’t call ahead.’ The wind picked up, rifling through his hair. ‘I know it’s a bit early, but five-year-olds aren’t known for their luxury lie-ins, so I thought I’d take a chance.’ The side-smile spread so that the two sides balanced out.
Carrie blinked, thrown off stride by this unexpected social situation. What was the correct response? Was she supposed to invite him in? Or just take the bag, thank him and send him on his way? Fortunately, his next words provided the answer.
‘Is it OK to pop in for a minute? I’d really like to say hi to Sofia and give her the gift myself. But only if it’s not too much bother.’
She blinked for a moment, then opened the door all the way, standing aside to let him pass.
‘You rescued my daughter, treated her kindly and have been ruled out as a suspect in her abduction. You are therefore welcome to visit my home at any time without advance notice, even if social convention dictates otherwise.’
He chuckled right after she said this and Carrie wondered why.
Josh had been in her house for less than half an hour when he asked the question: the one Carrie had been hiding from since Sofia’s return, refusing to let inside her head. Because she was afraid that, once it got in she’d never get it out.
The two of them were drinking coffee on the sofa, his ankle propped on a knee, foot jiggling. He had taken her through a blow-by-blow account of the rescue from the shed and his ‘debrief’ with the police. He’d asked how Sofia was, and Carrie had told him about the hospital test results (no lasting damage from the chloroform, no signs she’d been hurt or abused while unconscious).
A long pause had followed, during which Carrie had sipped coffee, ears straining for sounds of movement upstairs.
That’s when he’d said it, the words sliding into her head like a dark snake, burrowing downward to coil around her chest.
‘Are you afraid Sofia’s abductor might come fo
r her again?’
The silence upstairs suddenly took on a sinister weight. She imagined a shadowy figure moving along the bedroom hallway; a black-gloved hand pushing open a door. Brown eyes, round with fear.
She put down her mug. ‘I need to go check on Sofia.’
‘Oh . . . God. Carrie, I’m so sorry.’ His voice followed her as she rushed up the stairs. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
But she was already at the top, dashing down the hallway, throwing open the bedroom door.
Sofia was just as Carrie had left her: eyes closed, dark hair trailing across the pillow. She shifted in her sleep, snuggling deeper into the duvet.
Relief spread outward from Carrie’s core like warm liquid, loosening every part of her. She stood for a moment, watching her daughter’s face, listening to the music of her breathing. Then she went back downstairs.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Josh repeated, when she returned to the sofa. ‘I shouldn’t have brought that up. And anyway, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. The police are bound to make an arrest soon.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Tell you what.’ He retrieved his cup from the coffee table. ‘How about I change the subject with a completely unrelated question?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded gratefully. ‘Please.’
He took a sip of coffee and looked at her with one eyebrow slightly raised.
‘Do you remember me?’
She blinked, perplexed. What did he mean by that? He couldn’t be referring to the day he’d brought Sofia back – because that would be a ridiculous. It wasn’t as if she could ever forget the man who had appeared out of nowhere with her daughter in his arms, like a genie granting her dearest wish.
Carrie’s thoughts moved back in time, to the moment she’d opened the door to find Josh standing there.
