She Is Gone

by Ben Cheetham

“Just Charlie’s things.”

  “How much of Charlie’s stuff did she have?”

  “Two bottles, some nappies and spare clothes.”

  “Only two bottles. Are you certain about that?”

  “Pretty much, yeah. What’s going on, Dad?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”

  Jack hung up and stared uncertainly at Butterfly’s iPhone. After a moment, he tapped in the unlock code and looked through the phone’s contents. He wasn’t comfortable with snooping on her – he’d told himself he would never allow Rebecca’s unfaithfulness to poison his and Butterfly’s relationship with suspicion and jealousy – but surely it was justified in this instance. His stomach felt as tight as a fist. What if he found that Butterfly had been in contact with Karl?

  She’d made no calls and sent no texts that day. The only calls she’d received were from him. Jack wasn’t sure how to feel. On the one hand, it eased his tension to know she hadn’t spoken to Karl behind his back. On the other, it left him no closer to solving the mystery of her whereabouts.

  He briefly lowered his head in thought before striding out of the house. Perhaps one of his neighbours could shed some light on the matter. He didn’t bother with his immediate neighbours. Both those houses were inhabited by young families too busy to notice comings and goings on the street. Instead, he headed for a house on the opposite side of the street. Mrs Turner, an eighty-seven-year-old widow lived there. She sat in an armchair by her living-room window all day long. Nothing much got by her.

  Jack knocked on her door and called through her letterbox. “Mrs Turner, it’s Jack Anderson from number twenty four.”

  A five-foot-nothing barrel of a woman with a grey perm tottered into the hallway, surfing between the furniture to keep herself upright like Charlie did. With frustrating slowness, she made her way to the front door and struggled to slot the key into the lock. Eventually she managed to get the door open. “What can I do for you love?” she asked, turning an ear toward Jack in anticipation of his reply.

  “I’m looking for Butterfly.”

  “Who?”

  “The lady who lives with me.”

  “Oh, the young lady with that great big tattoo on her face.” The way she said it made it clear what she thought of the tattoo.

  Jack was too worried to be irritated by her disapproving tone. “Have you seen her?”

  Mrs Turner thought for a moment. “Now then, I did see her earlier. I was watering the plants in the front window and I happened to see her driving away in her car.”

  “What time was this?”

  “How should I know? I don’t keep tabs on her,” bristled Mrs Turner.

  “I know that, Mrs Turner,” said Jack, smiling patiently. The old lady was obviously keen not to be labelled as a curtain-twitcher. He subtly shifted tack. “So you were watering your plants…” He trailed off so that the old lady could fill in the blanks.

  “Yes, I water them every morning after breakfast.”

  “What time do you have breakfast?”

  “Well I wake up at seven, but I only have a cup of tea. My appetite isn’t what it used to be. At nine o’clock I have a slice of toast.”

  “Nine o’clock,” echoed Jack, frowning. Butterfly took Naomi to school at around half-past eight. If she didn’t stop at the shops and depending on traffic, she usually got back home at around a quarter-past nine. “Was anyone with her? I mean other than the baby? Possibly a man with a dark beard and short white-blond hair?”

  “I’ve no idea. Now that I think about it, I didn’t see her. I only saw the back of her car as she drove away.” Mrs Turner peered at Jack through thick-lensed spectacles. “Is this man a friend of hers?”

  The knowing question told Jack it was time to bring the conversation to a swift conclusion. “Which way was the car going?”

  Mrs Turner pointed south towards Edge Lane.

  “Thanks for your help, Mrs Turner. Have a good day.”

  Jack hastened back to his house. He knew now why Naomi hadn’t seen Butterfly with the missing baby clobber. Butterfly had taken Naomi to school, returned home, packed Charlie’s bottles and other things, then headed out again. But why? And where had she gone? If she’d been heading into the city centre to do some shopping, she would have gone towards Manchester Road, not Edge Lane. Edge Lane snaked northwest through Stretford towards the M60, which joined with the M61 north of the city. The M61 in turn curved north towards Preston and the M6. From there it was a straight run up to The Lakes.

  Jack paced around the living-room, darting glances out of the window every time a car passed. Ten minutes crawled by. Twenty...

  Why would she go out without her phone? He kept asking himself. Especially considering everything that’s happened? His gaze was continually drawn to the box of case files and the more he looked at it the more it seemed like some sort of sign. He glanced at the clock. It was edging towards eleven. With a sudden decisive movement, he took out his phone and called Laura. “I’m sorry about this, sis, but I need a favour?” he said. “Can you pick up Naomi from school and look after her for a few hours?”

  “What about Butterfly?”

  “That’s the thing. She’s not at the house, her car’s gone and I can’t get hold of her.”

  “Do you think it’s got something to do with this ex-boyfriend?”

  “Possibly,” Jack admitted. “There’s another possibility. I have a horrible feeling she might be on her way up to The Lakes to confront the men she thinks murdered her parents and sister.”

  “Bloody hell, Jack. Are you going to head up there yourself?”

  “What else can I do?”

  “Speak to Paul. Get him to put out an APB or whatever you call it for Butterfly’s car.”

  “I don’t think we’re at that point yet. She’s not even been gone two hours. She might just be at the shops.”

  “Or maybe she’s visiting her grandma.”

  A little lift of hope came into Jack’s voice. “You could be onto something there. I’ll give the nursing home a call.”

  “OK. Let me know if you still need me to pick up Naomi.”

  “Will do. Speak soon.”

  Jack hung up and scrolled through Butterfly’s contacts list to ‘Gran’. He pressed dial, and a woman answered, “Golden Year's nursing home. How can I help?”

  “I’m calling about Shirley Ridley. Has her granddaughter visited her today?”

  “Shirley’s not had any visitors this morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jack cut off the call, scrolled through his own contacts to ‘Eric Ramsden’ and dialled. A man with a soft Cumbrian accent came on the line, “Hello Jack. I didn’t expect to be hearing from you again so soon.”

  “I’m afraid we may have something of a situation on our hands, Eric.”

  “Sounds ominous.” There was an apprehensive note in Eric’s voice. Last time Jack had called him about a ‘situation’ in his neck of the woods, twenty one people had ended up dead at the hands of a psychotic cult leader. Jack explained what was going on. “This Robinson character sounds like a real piece of work,” commented Eric. “I’ll tell my constables to keep an eye out. There’s something else you should bear in mind, Jack. There’s still a lot of anger around here about what happened at Hawkshead Manor. If Butterfly bumps into the wrong people, she could find herself in all sorts of trouble.”

  Jack grimaced as his mind flashed back to that horrific night – the flames consuming the manor house, the women and children racked with agony after being fed a deadly brew of death cap mushrooms by their would-be saviour. “I’m about to set off. I’ll call you when I get to Gosforth.”

  Jack found a pen and paper and wrote, ‘Butterfly. You weren’t here when I got home. I was worried so I’ve gone out looking for you. If you read this, give me a call. I love you. Jack.’ He weighted the note down with Butterfly’s phone, then hurried to his car.

  Chapter 14<
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  “Shh,” soothed Butterfly, reaching back to gently rock Charlie’s chair. They were cruising in the fast lane along a stretch of motorway sunken between banks of bushes and trees. Charlie quietened down. His eyes drifted shut. His breathing softened as sleep descended over him.

  Butterfly’s gaze returned to Karl. “You realise you’re going to prison for a long time.”

  He smiled, revealing a gold canine tooth. “I don’t think so. I think this trip will bring out the best of you.”

  Butterfly thought about what she’d learnt about who she used to be – a bitch, a criminal. “You mean the worst.”

  “That depends on your perspective.”

  “The robbery you went to prison for back in 2009, the victims said you had an accomplice. That was me, wasn’t it?”

  Karl shot her a sidelong glance. “I think you know the answer to that. You and me were a good team. The best.”

  Butterfly released a contemptuous breath at the pride in his voice. “If we were that good, how come you got caught?”

  Karl scowled. “Bryan-fucking-Hall.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A whiny small-time cunt I had a falling out with.”

  “Over what?”

  Karl gave Butterfly a meaningful look.

  She touched a hand to her chest. “Over me?”

  “Hall thought he was god’s gift. Thought all he had to do was reach out and take whatever he wanted. Turned out that what he wanted was you. I put him right on that score.” Karl ran his tongue over his teeth as if savouring a pleasant taste. “He won’t ever try to stick his cock in anyone else’s woman again.”

  “You killed him.”

  “Next best thing – I put him in a wheelchair. I should have finished the job. The bloke I fenced the Kensington stuff through turned out to be a mate of Bryan’s. When the coppers picked him up, it took him about ten seconds to start flapping his tongue. That mistake cost me five years of my life. I could have done half that time If I’d given you up.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  Karl turned to her with soulfully big eyes. “You know the answer to that as well.”

  Butterfly dropped her gaze. Part of her was drawn to those eyes. The realisation was more frightening than the gun wedged under Karl’s thigh.

  “I’d have done a life sentence for you,” he continued in an almost imploringly soft voice.

  Butterfly fought the urge to lift her eyes to Karl’s. The drum was playing a rapid beat in her head. Slow breaths, she told herself. Seven in, eleven out…

  The motorway flared out into a tangle of crisscrossing lanes, slip roads and flyovers. “This is near where you were shot, isn’t it?” said Karl.

  Butterfly lifted her head. To the left of the motorway were grassy fields grazed by cows. To the right was an expanse of woodland. She’d returned to those woods with Jack once after the shooting to see if they sparked her memory. Nothing of that night – the night Dennis ‘Phoenix’ Smith stole Charlie from her womb and Ryan Mahon put a bullet in her brain – had come back to her. The woods were just woods. They held no fear for her. Was that a curse or a mercy?

  “I still can’t get over the thought of you with a copper,” said Karl. “The woman I knew wouldn’t have pissed on him if he was on fire.”

  “Then I’m glad she’s gone.”

  “Oh she’s not gone. She’s just…” Karl sought the right word, “sleeping.” He grinned. “My sleeping lioness.”

  The drum rolled a warning through Butterfly’s head. She swiftly changed the subject. “So what’s the plan?”

  Karl shrugged. “I thought we could stop somewhere for a bite to eat.”

  Butterfly narrowed her eyes as if struggling to work him out. “Are you joking?”

  “I’ve heard there’s a pub in Gosforth that does a decent steak. The Rose and Crown. Or we could take a picnic out to Low Lonning. It’s supposed to be beautiful around there. Maybe after that we could pay a visit to Bray Farm. Then we could mosey on down to Phil Beech’s cottage by the River Bleng or Dale Sutton’s bungalow in Seascale.” Karl chuckled at Butterfly’s astonished expression. “I told you, I know everything the coppers know about the murders. And a shit load they don’t.”

  “Such as?”

  “Ah, that would be telling, wouldn’t it now? Let’s just say that necklace isn’t the only thing I could give you that’ll help us get those murdering fucks. The real question is, what are you going to do when we find them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Karl let out a thin laugh that shivered down Butterfly’s spine. “You just love asking questions you already know the answer to. You know exactly what I mean. Are you going to unload a shotgun in their faces, like they did to your mum and sister? That’s what you always said you’d do.”

  Butterfly shook her head vehemently enough to send a shaft of pain through it. “They’re going to prison for the rest of their lives for what they did.”

  Karl threw her a searching glance. “Are you sure about that? Sounds to me like that copper put those words in your mouth. I want to hear what you have to say. What do you think they deserve?”

  Thud…thud… went the drum. Butterfly pressed a hand to her forehead. The daylight suddenly seemed wincingly bright. She closed her eyes, but the darkness behind them was illuminated by lurid images of Beech and Sutton’s faces reduced to bloody pulps. She counted her breaths, but the images didn’t fade. If anything they became even more vivid. Oh Christ, was that what she truly wanted to do to them?

  A shrill sound drew her attention to the backseat. For once, she was relieved to hear Charlie crying. She reached for him. “He’s hungry,” she said when he grabbed one of her fingers and pulled it towards his mouth. “We need to pull over so I can feed him.”

  They were passing grassy fields speckled with woodland. A sign alerted them to an upcoming slip road for Wigan and Bolton. Karl turned off the motorway and pulled over at an isolated layby. “Stay there,” he said to Butterfly. Taking the keys out of the ignition and pocketing the Glock, he got out of the car. He opened the backdoors, flicked on the child locks, then motioned for Butterfly to climb between the seats into the back.

  Dabbing his weepy eye, Karl watched her slide the teat of a bottle into Charlie’s mouth. As was her habit, she hummed to him as he guzzled his milk. Afterwards, she laid him out on a changing mat, removed his dirty nappy, wiped him clean and strapped on a fresh nappy.

  Karl shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just seen. “You’re a natural.”

  “No I’m not,” said Butterfly. “Most days I feel like I’m having a nervous breakdown.”

  “You have a nervous breakdown?” Karl scoffed at the idea. “I used to say you had ice for blood. Nothing fazed you.”

  “Yeah well, if you think robbing houses is nerve-racking, you should try listening to a baby with colic cry for four hours straight.” Butterfly nuzzled Charlie’s nose with hers.

  “M…m…m…” he babbled.

  “Yes I’m talking about you,” she cooed. “My beautiful little bundle of trouble.”

  She returned him to his seat and clambered into the front. Karl turned the car around and headed back to the motorway. Charlie was soon fast asleep again. Karl was prattling on about their past, regaling Butterfly with stories of how unflappable she’d been. Instead of listening to him, she concentrated on Charlie’s soft, steady breathing, letting it soothe away the drumming in her head.

  “We were the best thieves in London,” boasted Karl. “We might still be if I’d put that wanker Bryan in a coffin instead of just a wheelchair.”

  Butterfly pinched the bridge of her nose. “Christ, how could I have loved a man who’d do something like that?”

  “Do you know what you did after you found out what I’d done? You jumped all over me. Gave me the fuck of my life. You said it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for you.”

  Butterfly pushed at the coin-shaped divot in her sk
ull, using the pain to distract her from other feelings. “Please can we not talk for a while?”

  “No problem. I’m used to your silence. You always were a quiet one. You just kick back and enjoy the scenery. We’ll be there soon. It won’t take long to get this murder shit sorted out. You know why? Because when we’re together we’re unstoppable.”

  Butterfly rested against the headrest, running her thumb over the ‘Little Sis’ pendant she’d hung around her neck. North of Preston was mile after mile of flat fields peppered with hay bales drying under the August sun. The further north they got the bigger the sky seemed to become. The landscape took on a rolling quality. Low green hills sprouted on the horizon. They left the motorway behind for a dual carriageway that took them north west towards higher, heather-clad hills before narrowing to two lanes and looping south west through seemingly endless sheep-grazed fields.

  “Fucking hell, look at it,” muttered Karl. “Nothing but grass and sheep. How could you stand living out here?”

  Butterfly had no reply to give. She’d apparently spent a year-and-a-half of her life living at Hawkshead Manor, but that time was a blank. The road curved north towards the bottom end of Lake Windermere. She stared at the ribbon of glistening water, and the white cottages nestled in the wooded hills, wondering, Did I ever pass by here with my parents and sister? Did we stop to enjoy the view or take a walk along the shoreline? Those were the things she wanted to hear about. Not the shit that Karl spouted. But there was no one left who knew about that part of her life. She heaved a sigh.

  After passing the immense mud-flats of Morecambe Bay, the road dipped in and out of wooded valleys. To the north, rugged hills took shape beneath a broad blue sky. The road climbed between slopes of bracken and purple heather, narrowing to a single lane that snaked its way across a vast, empty heathland. To the west, Butterfly caught glimmering blue glimpses of the Irish Sea. Charlie woke up and started bawling again. They stopped for him to be fed.

  “I see what you mean,” said Karl. “I think I’d have a nervous breakdown if I had to put up with that. Does it ever stop?”

  “No, never,” Butterfly replied with an edge of weariness.