by C J Parsons
‘But she had you.’
When he smiled, his eyes narrowed but didn’t crinkle the way they usually did.
‘Having me was never part of her plan.’ There was a candle on the table between them and Josh extended a finger, passing it through the base of the flame: first left, then right. The candle flickered with its passage. ‘I’m the by-product of faulty birth control.’
‘Oh.’ She supposed the same could be said of Sofia. Josh must have been like that: a wonderful accident. Serendipity. How sad for him, to have lost his mother at such a young age. ‘I read an article about her death. The fire.’
‘Really?’ His brows drew together. ‘Where?’
‘Online. It came up when I Googled your name.’
‘I didn’t think the Abbotsbury Courier had online archives. That must be a new development.’
Carrie shook her head. ‘No, this was just a few lines in the Guardian. It said your mother was a well-known architect who’d died in a house fire. And that you had tried to save her.’
His finger moved through the flame again.
‘My mother’s boyfriend got drunk and passed out on the sofa with a cigarette. I was seventeen.’
‘Oh.’ A pause. What was it you were supposed to say? ‘I’m sorry’? Of all the social conventions she’d been taught, that one struck her as the strangest: apologising for the death of someone you’d never met, as if it were somehow your fault. So instead she asked: ‘What was she like?’
A small, brief smile.
‘Amazing. Talented. Passionate about her work. That’s how I developed an interest in architecture. I studied it myself, did a degree in it, but . . .’ The flame flickered one last time before he withdrew his finger into a tight fist. ‘It appears I didn’t inherit her talent. And you know what they say: “Those who can, do, those who can’t, set up magazines about the things they can’t do.”’
Carrie blinked, puzzled.
‘I thought that expression applied to teaching rather than magazines?’
One side of his mouth lifted.
‘That was a joke.’
‘Was it? Sorry. I have difficulty with humour.’
He took her hand and squeezed it.
‘You’re not missing anything. It wasn’t a very good joke.’
She was grateful to him for that. She thought of the house in the magazine: the cold cleverness of it.
‘Were you and your mother close?’
The question seemed simple enough, but he took a long time to answer it.
‘I worshipped her.’ His eyes dropped to the candle again, staring down into the flame. ‘I would have done anything to make her proud. To show her I was worthy. But—’
‘Is everything OK?’ The waiter’s voice made Carrie jump. She followed his gaze to the root salad, uneaten on her plate.
‘Yes.’ She picked up her fork and popped the baby carrot into her mouth, waiting until they were alone again before continuing. ‘What were you saying? About your relationship with your mother?’
He dipped his spoon into the bowl. ‘I think I’ve said all there is to say about that.’
‘Oh. OK. What about your father?’
He shrugged, one side of his mouth pulling downward. ‘What about him?’
‘What’s he like?’
‘A loser.’ He took a mouthful of soup. ‘A property developer without a creative bone in his body. Not fit to lick her boots.’
‘I mean . . . what kind of father was he?’
Another spoonful. ‘The non-existent kind. They split up when I was three. That’s when she saw what a mistake she’d made, tethering herself to a talentless nobody like him.’
‘Do you ever see him?’
‘No. He’s bitter about being rejected by her, so tries to taint her memory with lies. I avoid him.’
She considered this as she ate a piece of butternut squash.
‘What kind of lies?’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘There’s no point getting into that, is there, since I thought you were only interested in the truth?’
‘Yes. That is correct.’
He tore off another piece of bread and dipped it into the bowl.
‘So ask me something else.’
Carrie didn’t know why she chose the next question. Generally speaking, she didn’t give much thought to people’s appearances. But when she opened her mouth, out it came.
‘What did your mother look like?’
His eyes moved back and forth across her face as he finished chewing the bread.
‘She was beautiful.’ He leaned across the table, caressing her cheek. ‘Like you.’
‘But I’m not beautiful,’ she corrected.
He laughed. ‘Yes, you are. You just don’t see it. It’s one of the things I love about you.’
The things I love about you.
She clasped on to the words, holding them tight. Obviously it wasn’t the same as saying he loved her. But it was close, wasn’t it? Loving things about someone?
He moved the candle aside and leaned closer, staring into her eyes.
‘I recognised your beauty the first moment we met. I still can’t believe my luck that you’re here with me now, that you’re mine.’
His hand was resting on the table, and she reached out tentatively to cover it with her own.
‘Am I? Yours, I mean.’
‘Well. Only if you want to be, of course. Which I sincerely hope you do.’ He looked down at her hand on his and smiled. ‘We belong together, Carrie. An unbeatable team. From now on, it’s the two of us against the world.’
Her eyes slid past him to the Kid Zone, where Sofia was about to add another block to the skinny tower. She moved slowly, as though the block were a bomb that might go off.
‘But there are three of us,’ Carrie corrected.
The tower swayed and crashed to the floor, sending the two children into fits of giggles.
Josh turned in his chair to look at them, picking up his glass of water.
‘Of course. That’s what I meant to say, obviously. The three of us.’
Then he sipped his water and sat for a while, watching Sofia play, not saying anything.
Twenty-four
Juliet wished she could see the expression on the bearded man’s face. She scrolled back a few frames. Froze the image. He was definitely turning his head towards Sofia as she passed. Other children had gone by without attracting his attention. Was that look significant – or was she just desperate, picking on some poor bloke who happened to glance sideways at a passing child?
Juliet leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes with her palms. She was tired, worn down by all the dead ends, the briefings leading nowhere. Yes, some of the Granger Park regulars thought they remembered seeing a park keeper loading a sack onto a cart. But, no, they couldn’t provide any sort of description. Couldn’t narrow it down by age, race, height or even gender. All they’d seen was an anonymous figure in overalls moving through the woods. Greer was right, the arsehole: uniforms were perfect camouflage.
They’d had similar luck (or lack of it) trying to track down ‘anyone suspicious’ spotted loitering around the park in the weeks leading up to the abduction. Well-meaning members of the public had offered up a veritable buffet of candidates: old and young, scruffy and posh, men and women. People with dogs and people without. Men in smart suits and drunks swigging from tins. Granger Park, it turned out, was positively awash with sketchy characters. But none of the descriptions matched each other and none of the so-called ‘leads’ sounded even vaguely promising.
Juliet’s eyes drifted back to her computer screen: the man with the beard. Might as well run him by Osman, see if he knew who this person was. She took out her mobile to call him and saw, with a slap of surprise, that she had nine missed calls. Damn it. She must have
forgotten to take her phone off mute after the morning briefing. When she switched the sound back on, the phone rang in her hand. Alistair’s name appeared on the screen. She frowned. Shouldn’t he be home in bed? He’d been coughing and blowing his nose all through the briefing, looking deeply sorry for himself, so she’d told him to go and get some rest and not to move unless there was an absolute emergency.
And yet, here he was.
‘Alistair?’ There was a pause that told her he was outside somewhere; she could hear the white noise of traffic, a snatch of passing conversation, a man’s voice saying, ‘Stand back, please.’
‘Juliet? Are you there?’ His voice was clogged with mucus. ‘Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Everyone’s trying to call you.’
‘Sorry, it was on mute. What’s going on?’
In the background, a woman’s voice began to wail: a long, rising note of hysteria.
‘I’m at Tudor Park. You need to get over here right away.’ The wail broke apart into a series of hacking sobs. ‘There’s been another one.’
Carrie peered through her windscreen, trying to see what was going on. She always took Tudor Park Avenue between the office and Sofia’s school and had never once come up against a traffic snarl. Yet here she was, trapped between rows of pillared Victorian houses, her view blocked by the white van in front. There must have been an accident up ahead. The van crawled forwards a few inches, its tailpipe trailing a veil of exhaust. She closed the gap and checked the dashboard clock. 1.10. If she wasn’t at the school in twenty minutes, she’d be charged for a full day’s holiday club.
The traffic eased forwards again, bringing Tudor Park itself into view. Carrie experienced a chill of recognition when she saw what was blocking their path: blue-and-white tape, strung across the road just short of the main entrance. A uniformed officer was standing in front of it, redirecting traffic down a side street.
It’s probably nothing, she told herself firmly. Just a fallen tree or burst water main.
She was about to follow the flow of vehicles when she spotted DCI Campbell standing next to that other officer who had worked on Sofia’s case. Alan? Albert? Something with an A. They were inside the crime tape, speaking to a dark-haired woman wearing a yellow dress and sunglasses pushed up onto her head. As Carrie watched, the woman’s face seemed to collapse in on itself. Tears poured down her cheeks.
A car horn blared, jolting her back to the here and now. The uniformed policeman was pointing down the side street with one hand, using the other to wave her towards it. She turned right, following his directions, but instead of continuing on her way, she pulled into a space by the side of the road, ignoring the ‘Residents Parking Only’ sign.
Layers of sirens were building around her as she got out and doubled back towards the park. She couldn’t tell whether they were police, fire or ambulance – only that there were a lot of them. She rounded the corner and the two police officers came back into view. DCI Campbell was jotting down notes as the dark-haired woman spoke in a tear-choked voice that carried across the crime tape.
‘I only looked away for a couple of minutes, just a couple of minutes! Where is she? Where could she be?’
The words sliced into Carrie, tearing open wounds that had only just begun to heal, dragging out painful memories.
An empty climbing frame.
A lone figure in an orange headscarf.
Tara dialling 999.
She walked along the crime tape border until she drew level with the woman in yellow. Then she leaned across, the tape pressing against her thin cotton blouse.
‘Has your daughter been abducted too?’
The blotchy woman turned and stared at her.
‘Abducted?’ she repeated. Then she grabbed at DCI Campbell’s arm, shaking it hard. ‘She has, hasn’t she? That’s what this is! Oh God, oh God!’ And she sank, wailing, to her knees.
DCI Campbell crouched down and put an arm around the woman’s shoulders, speaking quietly. Carrie caught the words ‘absolutely everything we can’ but nothing else.
Watching the woman on her knees, Carrie was swept by a wave of empathy and wished, more than ever, that she was a different kind of person: the kind who knew which words to say to make people feel better.
The male officer approached, ducking under the tape to join her on the other side.
‘You should check the shed where Sofia was found,’ Carrie said to him. ‘In case she’s there.’
‘I’ll make sure that we do. Meanwhile, why don’t we go for a little walk, give them some space?’ His voice was clogged with mucus (had he been crying too? It seemed unlikely; police officers must spend their work days hip-deep in tragedy).
She waited until they’d turned onto the street where she’d parked before speaking again.
‘Did my question upset her? I didn’t mean for it to.’
‘I know you didn’t.’
‘How old is her daughter?’
‘Five.’
Another throb of pain pushed against her chest. ‘I hope you find her.’
‘So do I. Meanwhile, the best thing you can do is stay out of the way and let us do our jobs. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Thank you. We’ll be in touch if there are any developments in your daughter’s case.’ Then he strode back towards the park.
Carrie could still hear the mother’s howls as she turned to unlock her car.
Twenty-five
Juliet watched Zoe Cookson riding the zipwire, her movements made jerky by the park’s CCTV footage. She scrolled forwards, sending the children and parents rushing frantically around the playground, the roundabout spinning into a blur, seesaws pumping like pistons.
There. She stopped the tape. Went back a few frames. Watched Zoe jump off the zipwire, heading along the edge of the playground towards the swings. But halfway there, she stopped. Turned towards something just outside the CCTV’s field of vision. Put a hand over her mouth. Juliet already knew that, in two seconds, the girl would walk towards whatever had attracted her attention and disappear. She froze the image. Was she covering her mouth out of fear? That’s what Alistair had suggested. But, to Juliet, that didn’t make sense. A five-year-old girl wouldn’t stand staring at something that had scared her, then walk towards it. She would run away, towards her mother.
Juliet squinted at the image, chewing on a thumbnail. She would send this to the techies, see if they could blow it up, sharpen the focus. Meanwhile . . . she spooled the footage forwards to the point where Zoe walked out of the shot. She had already scoured every frame of footage in the half-hour periods before and after the point of disappearance. She dragged a hand across the back of her neck, releasing a sigh. Might as well crack on with the next half hour. She hit rewind, sending the playground’s occupants running jerkily backward as time reversed itself: five minutes before the disappearance, ten, fifteen, twenty. Then on past thirty into unexamined footage. Thirty-five minutes, forty. Juliet was speeding past forty-five when she spotted something that sent a jolt right through her. She hit pause, freezing the playground at 12.04: forty-seven minutes before Zoe vanished. She leaned towards the screen, staring at the familiar figure seated on the bench at the edge of the playground. Surely that couldn’t be a coincidence?
She took out her mobile and called Alistair, eyes returning to the screen, to the figure on the bench, the head turned towards the space in front of the swings where Zoe was playing hopscotch, arms out sideways, one leg bent.
‘Alistair,’ she said, as soon as he answered. ‘I’ve found a link between Zoe Cookson’s abduction and the Sofia Haversen case.’
Tara Weldon had the look of a woman who’d been through something. It was in her eyes and the way she held herself, as though she was struggling beneath an unbearable weight. Or maybe Juliet was just projecting that onto her because of what she now knew: the darkness that lay
in her past.
But she wasn’t planning to get into any of that just yet. No, for the moment, they would be sticking to the basics, keeping things polite and matter-of-fact.
‘What were you doing in Tudor Park yesterday afternoon?’ Alistair asked, fingers spread against the cover of the cardboard file in the middle of the interview room table.
‘Tudor Park?’ She frowned. ‘Is this about the girl who went missing from there yesterday? Am I here as a witness? Because I’m afraid I didn’t see anything. I only know about it because I got a news flash on my phone.’ Alistair and Juliet exchanged a look. Tara must have caught it, because her eyes widened. ‘Oh my God . . . you don’t . . . . Do you think I had something to do with it? Am I a suspect?’ She stared across the table at them, her face a portrait of shocked disbelief.
She’s good, Juliet thought. I’m almost buying this.
‘For now, we’re just asking you to help us out with a few questions.’ Juliet flipped open the file and took out the CCTV image of Tara on the bench, pushing it across the table. ‘So can you please tell us what you were doing in the park?’
Tara looked down at the photo.
‘Eating my lunch. As I do most days when it’s sunny.’
‘Tudor Park isn’t near your home,’ Alistair said.
‘No. It’s near my work’
‘Why sit in the playground? There are plenty of quieter, more peaceful locations. The rose garden, for example.’
‘I don’t want quiet. I like the sound of children playing.’ She looked from Alistair to Juliet and back again. ‘Is there something wrong with that?’
‘No,’ Juliet said. ‘But it is unusual, for an adult to go to a playground without a child.’
‘Is it? I don’t see why that should be.’ Tara’s tone was nonchalant, almost bored. She was adapting, finding her mental footing. Which was exactly what they didn’t want.
‘On 28 June, you made a 999 call about a child going missing in Granger Park playground, after leading an unofficial search for her. And now, just twenty-six days later, here you are again, at yet another London park where yet another five-year-old girl has gone missing.’ Juliet leaned forwards across the table, narrowing the distance between them, staring straight into Tara Weldon’s eyes. ‘Quite a coincidence, don’t you agree?’
