by M. A. Hunter
Checking his phone’s display, he answered when he saw DS Nazia Hussain’s name. ‘Talk to me.’
‘I’ve just spoken with a neighbour who lives three or four houses down, and they’ve confirmed it was occupied by an older Scottish couple and a little girl, who she estimated was four to five years old. The neighbour said she would see the woman and child going to the park, and knew them well enough to say hello, but couldn’t confirm the woman’s name.’
Mike’s eyes narrowed. ‘We have a male victim and female suspect, but nobody’s mentioned a child until now. Where is she?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe some of the surveillance footage will help. We’ve completed house-to-house enquiries with everyone in the street who was home and have about a dozen feeds from security cameras and dash cams to trawl through. I’ll get it back ASAP but could do with some help viewing it.’
‘Good, okay, get it back here, and I’ll see who we can spare to support.’
‘Will do, Mike. See you in a bit.’
Leaving the Incident Room, Mike caught sight of Polly just as she turned out of the office, and was tempted to catch up with her and apologise for his assumption, but it would have to wait until morning. He had more important things on his mind; namely, where was the missing child?
Chapter Eighteen
Before – Jess
My eyes fly open as the front door slams closed, and I realise now I must have dropped off, but it can only have been for minutes, rather than hours.
Charlie calls out my name, and I holler back that I’m in the bedroom.
‘Oh sorry, did I wake you?’ he asks, pushing the door open.
‘No, I was on the internet,’ I say, nodding to the laptop still straddled across my legs. ‘How was swimming?’
He remains where he is, leaning into the door frame. ‘Grace did well. I had her swimming to the bottom of the pool to pick up toys and bring them back. Also showed her how to do an underwater somersault. She’ll have to keep practising, but she’s come on leaps and bounds. You should come with us next time.’
I fire him a look of disdain.
‘I know, I know,’ he says, raising both hands in mock surrender, ‘but I’m sure the staff would help us get you into the pool. I could carry you from the changing room to the pool edge if necessary.’
I can think of nothing worse than other swimmers – adults and children alike – staring at the grown woman being manhandled into the pool.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I say to avoid confrontation.
Charlie crouches down, resting his chin on my knee. ‘I’m sorry I shouted earlier. I hate it when we argue, and I’m sorry that I can’t get any time off this week. Things should settle towards the end of the week, and I can ask Doug whether he’ll let me have some time off the week after, if you’d like? We could get away for a couple of days, just the three of us. If you want to visit your mum we can do that, or we could go to the coast and call in at your mum’s on the way back?’
I know he’s trying to make amends, but I don’t think he’s seen the obvious flaw in his plan. ‘Grace starts at school on Wednesday. We can’t take her away for a couple of days the week after.’
‘Why not? It’s only reception class, it’s not like a couple of days out of class is going to seriously impact on her future education and career choices.’
‘It doesn’t matter; there are rules about taking children out of school in term time now. They fine parents and threaten court action in some places.’
His mouth twists into a doubtful smirk. ‘You’re kidding!’
‘I’m not. Once she starts school on Wednesday, our holidays will be strictly limited to half terms and summer holidays.’
‘Oh,’ he says, the disappointment evident in his tone. ‘I hadn’t realised. Well, there’s always next weekend. If Doug would let me finish a couple of hours early on Friday, we could be in Southampton by supper, and spend a couple of nights in a cheap B&B, before coming home on the Sunday. Would that be okay?’
He’s trying so hard, and I’m grateful that he’s clearly been thinking about this morning’s conversation. I press my hand to his cheek. ‘That sounds lovely. Thank you.’
He checks his watch. ‘Hey, I tell you what, why don’t we go out? For lunch I mean.’
I suddenly realise I haven’t heard Grace since he returned, and I strain to hear whether she headed straight up to her room, though usually she’s bursting to tell me what new moves she’s learned in the pool.
‘Where’s Grace?’ I ask when I still can’t hear movement.
‘Oh, she’s at Ava’s. We ran into her and her mum at the pool and they begged me to let Grace go play.’
Ava is Grace’s closest friend from pre-school, and is also due to start in reception on Wednesday. Her mother – Nadine – is all enhanced breasts, bleached hair, acrylic nails, and fake eyelashes. The sort of woman who thinks she could have been a supermodel if she wasn’t so busy with the school run, and who is ogled by all the dads.
‘Oh yes,’ I say, imagining every man at the pool lusting over her bikini body, ‘and how is Nadine?’
‘Very well. She said she’d give Grace her dinner and I could pick her up around five. So, as we are child-free I thought we could go out. Nowhere too fancy, but perhaps a nice pub lunch. What do you think?’
A flash of the last time we went out for lunch fills my vision. A pub full of people gawping at the poor woman struck down in her prime. I’m not sure I can bear it, particularly if we bump into someone we know. At the same time, I’ve been crying out for Charlie and me to spend some time together as husband and wife, and with Grace at Ava’s it would be such a waste to mope around the house.
‘That sounds lovely,’ I begin, tempering my enthusiasm, ‘but can we go somewhere we’ve never been before? I don’t want to end up at The Gate or The Black Horse. Can we go somewhere a bit further away?’
He smiles broadly. ‘I was thinking the same thing. Thought we could have a bit of a drive first, and then stop off when we see somewhere that takes our fancy. Like we used to do. What do you think?’
I’m grateful that he hasn’t argued, and nod encouragingly. ‘I should probably change,’ I say, brushing pastry crumbs from my tracksuit bottoms.
He isn’t brave enough to admit I look a state, and I don’t wait for him to reply before transferring myself back into the chair, and opening the chest of drawers. I used to wear skirts and dresses before my confinement, but I much prefer to keep my useless legs covered these days. I locate some navy suit trousers and a salmon pink blouse, and proceed to shuffle myself out of the T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. I can hear Charlie moving about upstairs, and as I am fastening the buttons on the blouse, he emerges in smart jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. A cloud of cologne follows him into the room, but it’s good to see he’s made an effort.
I allow him to wheel me to the front door and down the makeshift wooden ramp he eagerly installed six months ago. The sun beats down, and my forehead is moistening by the time I’m fastened into the front seat. Butterflies flutter in my stomach, and I feel as giddy as I did before our first date. Today will be a good day, I tell myself.
Living in London, it can be easy to forget just how beautiful a country England is. Ten minutes after setting off from home, and I can barely remember the grubby grey buildings and smog, as all I can see now is bright blue sky – like living inside a real-life watercolour – and rolling green and yellow fields. We’ve been transported into rich countryside, the stench of small farms carrying on the breeze, which fills the car with country air.
The radio is playing quietly as the car picks up speed, the snake-like lane twisting ahead. Part of me wishes Grace was here to share in the stunning landscape, but I know her head would be buried in a book, missing the breathtaking vista. It feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders, and I do all I can to commit this feeling of tranquillity to memory. It will all be over too soon, but for now I’m here, a
nd all is calm.
I start suddenly at a squeal of brakes and a rapidly slowing car. Was I asleep? I don’t remember drifting off, but outside my window the golden fields and high bushes are gone, replaced with ancient-looking stone walls, dotted with the occasional lamppost.
‘Where are we?’ I ask, spotting the burning red of the traffic light through the windscreen.
‘You dropped off,’ Charlie says, turning and smiling affectionately.
I glance at the dashboard clock. It can only have been fifteen minutes since I’d last checked it, and I have no memory of being asleep. It’s disappointing that I allowed myself to miss the rest of the view, and I wish I knew why that keeps happening.
‘We’re nearly there,’ Charlie says as the car lurches forwards. I see a war memorial to my left: bronze soldiers charging with rifles extended, and a tall stone tablet detailing their part in history.
Beyond the memorial, a sea of gravestones stretches to the horizon, a few stray wisps of cloud lying just above. The air is chillier here, and I stab at the button to raise my window, the skin of my arms prickling. The graveyard and memorial disappear into the reflection of the wing mirror, and I now see we’ve arrived at some kind of village, an empty market square bordered by bespoke shops. There’s a bakery, pharmacy, newsagent, and café, all of them closed. Further up there’s a pub, with two men sitting outside smoking pipes and glaring at the passing traffic, but it’s impossible to tell if they’re actually looking at us or gazing into the void. It doesn’t look like the kind of pub where guests are made particularly welcome.
Something stirs in the back of my mind. ‘We’re nearly there?’ I repeat back to Charlie. ‘Nearly where? I thought we were going to stop when we saw somewhere nice.’
He doesn’t answer at first, slowing a fraction to read a road sign, before accelerating again.
‘I know,’ he says, ‘but then I remembered that pub we passed – must be last year – which we both thought looked like somewhere we’d like. Do you remember?’
I have no idea where we are, nor do I recall a pub we once saw, but my grumbling stomach won’t allow me to argue. There is something vaguely familiar about the geography, and I’m now hopeful our journey will end soon, as a small wave of nausea ripples through my body. Charlie was right; I really should have made more of an effort to eat breakfast. I’d give anything to have that croissant back to gobble up.
Then, as we round the next bend, I spot the large converted barn, with a beautifully landscaped garden at its rear, and a large chalkboard advertising traditional Sunday lunch. I do now remember seeing this place before, and we did indeed comment that it looked like a fine establishment.
It’s just after midday and the car park is already pretty full. Charlie locates a marked bay near the front door and pulls in, placing the blue badge on the dashboard, before exiting the car to collect my chair from the boot.
‘I hope they have a table,’ I say, as Charlie opens my door and helps me shuffle onto the cushion.
‘I phoned ahead and made a reservation,’ he says, without a beat, and I can’t ignore the nagging sensation playing at the back of my mind.
Thought we could have a bit of a drive first, and then stop off when we see somewhere that takes our fancy.
Those were his words before we left home, and I know he didn’t phone ahead from the car. Even though I’d drifted off, I would have heard him had he made a phone call, which means he’d already had this place in mind when he suggested we go out for lunch. Is there something sinister in that, or is it just his attempt to be romantic? I will just have to give him the benefit of the doubt, as there isn’t time to go somewhere else now.
He wheels me away from the car, locking it, and then pulling me backwards through the pub’s open doors. The smell of sage and onion stuffing wafts through the air, and then the sweet smell of vegetables and the saltiness of the beef waiting to be carved on the stand. I’m salivating as we stop at the table and he tells the maître d’ our name. He smiles at Charlie and me before ticking us off his list, and asks us to follow him.
The wheelchair bounces as Charlie forces it over the uneven wooden floor. The ceiling hangs low, thick black beams jutting out in all directions, as if the barn was built by a child and might collapse at any moment. The windows are so small that little light penetrates, and the spotlights on the struts securing the ceiling are on full beam. Even so, it’s still pretty dark in the corners we pass.
It’s lucky that Charlie did think to book ahead, as there isn’t a vacant table anywhere I can see, though as we head past the bar, I realise there is additional seating upstairs. I hope they haven’t reserved us a table up there. I don’t want the indignity of Charlie having to carry me up the spiral staircase.
I’m suddenly uneasy as we near the steps. I’d thought going somewhere where nobody knew us would keep inquisitive stares at bay, but every time I look up, I see a pair of eyes on me, swiftly followed by an empathetic and encouraging smile.
We detour past the spiral staircase, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I can’t get over how much floor space this place has. We’re now heading towards the back of the pub, and there are still tables everywhere I look. At least the pub’s popularity bodes well for the quality of the carvery.
And that’s when I see it. Two closed doors directly in front of us, each with fifteen or so small windows, but covered by a net curtain of some kind, impossible to see through. Why would we have a table booked in a private room at the back of the pub?
I don’t have to wait long for an answer, and as the maître d’ pushes the doors open, my gaze falls on the large round table, and the dozen pairs of eyes staring back at me. I want the ground to swallow me up.
‘Surprise!’ Charlie exclaims.
Bile builds at the back of my throat. So this is why he suggested we go for a drive today; this is why he said we could stop somewhere random for lunch; this is why he’d booked ahead; his intention was always to drag me into a room full of former friends – people I haven’t seen since I was discharged from hospital. People I haven’t wanted to see because of the painful memories each will drag up.
Chapter Nineteen
Before – Morag
When Angus told me he’d hired a private investigator, the first thing that sprang to mind was the old-school gumshoe in the mould of Raymond Chandler: fedora, five-o’clock shadow, and cigarette in mouth. The man who arrived on our doorstep five minutes ago couldn’t be much further from that description.
For starters, he barely looks old enough to be out of school. He has one of those closely cropped ginger beards that hipsters preen on a daily basis, like an exotic facial bonsai. And far from stinking of tar and tobacco, he actually arrived on a bicycle, and carrying a transparent plastic bottle of something green.
‘Kale smoothie,’ he tells me, slightly out of breath. ‘My partner has me on a detox.’
He’s wearing a skin-tight shirt and shorts in a palette of yellows, greens, and blues. I wouldn’t be seen dead outside in such an array of colours, let alone in an outfit that really leaves little to the imagination.
‘Do you mind if I bring my bicycle inside?’ he asks Angus. ‘It’s a racer and I don’t want it to get stolen.’
Angus glances at me before nodding, and watches as the younger man lifts the lightweight frame onto his shoulders and carries it into the corridor, where he balances it against the radiator.
‘Hi,’ he says, once the bike is secured, and thrusting out a hand. ‘I’m Lawrence.’
More of a surname than first name if you ask me, but I don’t say this, biting my tongue instead.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask.
He holds up the bottle of green. ‘Thanks, but I’m off tea, coffee, alcohol, and dairy. Just water, fruit, and vegetables for me this week. All organic, of course.’
The pained expression on his face suggests that he believes his odd choice of diet makes him heroic in some way, like his abstinence is somehow
saving the world.
I boil the kettle regardless, as I know it is the time of the morning that Angus likes a coffee, and quite frankly it gives me an excuse to avoid having to make small talk with this strange young man.
Angus shows him through to the living room, and when I join them with the coffee minutes later, Lawrence is leaning forward, hands pressed against the windowsill of the bay window, one leg thrust out behind him, and the other tucked up into his body. Angus simply shrugs when I look at him. Lawrence swaps legs and repeats the process, before turning back to face us.
‘Sorry,’ he offers, ‘that must seem a little strange, but if I don’t warm down properly after a bike ride, I’ll struggle to make it back later on.’
I perch on the edge of the sofa next to Angus, whilst Lawrence sits at the opposite side of the L-shape, and turns to face us. It’s only now I realise he is wearing a small satchel, the same colour as his outfit, and he slips this over his head and unzips it. Withdrawing an electronic tablet, he punches in a PIN, and swipes through the screen, until he locates what he is looking for.
‘Before we begin, I need to discuss with you my standard contract terms. I find it is much easier to discuss matters like money and hours upfront, so we both know what it is I’m going to do and how. I appreciate discussing money can be somewhat taboo, but ultimately it’s just a business transaction between consenting adults, right?’
If I didn’t know why he was here, I could almost be shocked at the subtext of his patter.
He passes the tablet to Angus, who lifts it onto his lap for us both to read.
‘So,’ Lawrence explains, ‘I charge sixty pounds per hour for surveillance, prorated to the actual time spent watching. Individual background checks are a thousand pounds each, but I will seek confirmation from you before commencing additional checks on associated parties of the person you’re seeking.’ He fixes us with an empathetic look. ‘There is no such thing as a typical investigation, which means that sadly there is no “flat rate” for the type of services I offer. Every private investigator is unique, and whilst many of the techniques and processes we carry out are similar, every case is ultimately different. If you decide you cannot afford my services, I won’t be offended, but I would prefer to know upfront, so we don’t end up wasting each other’s time.’
