Roger Cryer stared at him quizzically, as if that question raised several more fundamental ones. Questions about the competence of Culver Valley CID, thought Simon bitterly. Yes, of course the answer was obvious – to everyone but Proust, Charlie, Sellers, Gibbs and the rest.
‘Custody of Felix,’ said Roger Cryer. ‘And revenge, for the hurt she’d caused him. Laura left him. He didn’t take it very well. I think he went to pieces a bit.’
Simon wrote this down in his notebook. Not quite the version of events Vivienne and David Fancourt had given Charlie. What had she said at the team meeting? He found her physically repellent and tedious. He was relieved to be rid of her. That was it, word for word. Simon’s memory was more reliable than Roger Cryer or David Fancourt. A discrepancy, then. ‘How do you know he went to pieces?’
‘Vivienne Fancourt told us, David’s mother. She did everything she could to persuade Laura to give the marriage another go. She even came round here to talk to us, see if we could persuade her. She and Laura didn’t like each other, never had. Why would she be so keen to persuade Laura to try again, unless it was for David’s sake? She saw how devastated he was and, like any mother, she did what she could to help him. It didn’t work, though. Laura’s always known her own mind. Once’s she’s decided, there’s nothing anyone can do.’
‘Here we are.’ Maggie Cryer returned with a small blue jug. She began to pour the tea, three cups, even though Simon had declined.
Her husband looked as if he was fighting the urge to say more. It wasn’t long before he lost the fight. ‘Revenge.’ He nodded. ‘David’s that way inclined. There was a problem about Maggie and me seeing Felix, after Laura died,’ he said.
‘Oh, Roger, stop, please. What good will it do?’
‘Do you know when we last saw Felix? Two years ago. We don’t bother any more. We pretend we haven’t got a grandson. Felix is our only one, too. But in the end it was tearing us apart. Everything changed after Laura died, overnight. Literally, overnight. They changed his name from Felix Cryer to Felix Fancourt, took him out of the nursery he loved, where he was really happy, really settled, and plonked him in that bloody ridiculous toffee-nosed grammar school. It was as if David and Vivienne were trying to turn Felix into another person! We were only allowed to see him once every few months, for a couple of hours at a time. And we weren’t allowed to see him on our own. Vivienne was always with him, chaperoning. Feeling sorry for us.’ His face grew redder as he spoke. His wife had closed her eyes and was waiting for him to finish. Her stiff posture suggested that she was bracing herself against his words.
Simon grew more and more puzzled as he listened. According to Charlie, Vivienne Fancourt had made this very complaint about Laura Cryer, that she had tried to keep Felix away from David’s side of the family, that she had not allowed them to see him unsupervised. Was it possible that David had done the same to Laura’s parents after his wife’s death? Did he see it as a battle between the Cryers and the Fancourts, with Felix as the prize?
‘We tried talking to David, even tried begging him,’ Roger Cryer went on. ‘But he’s made of stone, that man. Whatever we asked for, he said no. He wouldn’t say why.’
‘You said Vivienne Fancourt appeared to feel sorry for you,’ said Simon. ‘What did you mean?’
Maggie Cryer shook her head, as if to speak on this subject were beyond her.
‘She knew we wanted to see more of Felix, that David wouldn’t let us,’ said Roger. ‘It was obvious she pitied us. She kept saying how hard it must be for us, and it was, but her saying that only made it harder. Especially when she couldn’t stop talking about all the things she and Felix did together.’
‘That was why I gave up,’ Maggie whispered. Her hands shook. Simon noticed that the backs of them were covered in brown spots. ‘Because seeing Felix meant seeing her and. . .’ She shuddered. ‘I used to be ill, sometimes for days afterwards. The last straw was when she told me Felix had started to call her Mum. I just couldn’t do it any more after that.’
‘She was bloody insensitive about it too,’ said Roger Cryer, patting his wife’s skinny arm. ‘Almost in the same breath, she told us she’d had to remind Felix who we were that morning. He’d forgotten, he hadn’t seen us in so long. She realised how bad it sounded and apologised, but, I mean, there was no need for her to tell us that, was there?’
Simon was surprised when Maggie Cryer tutted and pushed her husband’s hand away as if it were a spider that had crawled into her lap. ‘Roger’s a terrible judge of character when it comes to women,’ she said. ‘Insensitive! She said that deliberately. And all the other things. She didn’t feel sorry for us at all.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Her husband looked mystified. ‘She damn well did. She said so all the time.’
‘Because she knew it was the best way to hurt us. And we could never prove she was being deliberately nasty.’
‘But you think she was?’ Simon was confused.
‘Of course. If you say something hurtful by mistake, you make sure never to do it again, don’t you? You don’t keep saying the same thing, to the same person, or people. When a clever lady like Vivienne Fancourt makes hurtful remarks again and again, she means them, all right.’ Simon looked at Maggie Cryer’s hands. They were clenched, two tiny knots of fist in her lap.
25
Wednesday October 1, 2003
The bath is spotless. Nobody would ever know. Nobody will ever know. Satisfied that I cannot make the tub shine any brighter, I have a shower, scrubbing every inch of my body, wondering if I will ever feel clean again.
I wrap two large bath-sheets around myself and hurry to the bedroom. My wardrobe is unlocked and the key is in the door. I choose an outfit: baggy trousers and a jumper. These will fit me properly. I hate myself for the pathetic gratitude I feel. Most people take for granted that they will be able to choose their own clothes. There is nothing to stop me walking out of the front door of The Elms and never coming back. Nothing except David’s threat: I could take steps to ensure that you never see Florence again.
The phone rings, making me jump. I am certain it is Vivienne, ringing to check up on me. I wonder if I should answer it, until I hear David’s voice downstairs. At first he speaks too quietly for me to hear anything. When he raises his voice, I can hear that he sounds cross, far more interested in communicating his own opinion than trying to gauge the opinion of whoever he is talking to. It can’t be Vivienne.
I hear him say, ‘Exactly, to teenage boys, and I guarantee, they’ll love it. No. No, because that’s not the way we’d market it. No, I can’t on Friday. Because I can’t, all right? Well, what’s wrong with talking about it right now?’ Russell. David’s business partner.
I have an opportunity. The thought paralyses me. David will be on the phone for at least fifteen minutes. His conversations with Russell are never short, particularly when there is a point of contention. He has never told me what they argue about.
I tiptoe to Vivienne’s bedroom and push open the door. The bed is made, as always. There is not a crease on the lilac-coloured duvet. Four photographs of Felix stand on the dressing table, two of him with Vivienne. The room smells of the cream she puts on her face every night. I see her white embroidered Chinese pump-style slippers under the bed, laid out neatly one beside the other, exactly as they would be if she were standing in them. I shudder, half expecting them to start moving towards me.
My phone. That’s what I came in here for. I drag myself out of my superstitious reverie, walk over to the bedside cabinet and pull open the single drawer. There it is, exactly where I knew it would be. Switched off. If I am insane, as everyone seems to think I am, how did I know that it would be here? Vivienne said it was in the kitchen.
I turn it on and phone Simon Waterhouse on his mobile. He wrote down the number for me last time we met, reluctant to have me ring him at the police station. I tore up the piece of paper, but I memorised the number. I leave a whispered message for him, saying that
he has to meet me again tomorrow, at Chompers, that I need to speak to him urgently. This time our conversation will go well, I tell myself. He will come away from our meeting believing me; we’ll be allies, and he will help me. He’ll do whatever I ask him to.
I go back out on to the landing and hover for a few seconds, to check that David is still talking to Russell. He is. I can’t make out his words any more – he is speaking too quietly – but his voice has the back-and-forth tone I hoped it would. I am as sure as I can be that the conversation is not nearing its conclusion.
I know I ought to put my phone back in Vivienne’s cabinet drawer in order to avoid arousing suspicion, but I cannot bring myself to. I need to hold on to it. It is a symbol of my independence. Let Vivienne think that sneaking into her room and stealing it is another symptom of my madness, my illness.
I rack my brains for somewhere I can hide the phone. If I put it back in my handbag, Vivienne will take it out, as I am certain she has once already. There is only one room in the house that Vivienne never goes into: David’s study. Nobody goes in there except David, and even he hasn’t set foot in it since Florence was born. Vivienne’s cleaners, who come for a full day once a week, are strictly banned. As a result, the study is much dustier and messier than the rest of the house. It is full of David’s computers, music systems, CD racks offering nothing but classical music and the complete works of Adam and the Ants, his collection of science-fiction novels – row upon row of spines, each one displaying a strange, off-putting title – and several filing cabinets.
After looking around, I decide that behind one of these would probably be the safest hiding place. I am about to investigate this possibility when my eyes come to rest on David’s computer. Another means of communication with the outside world, the normal world beyond The Elms.
I lower myself into the swivel chair and turn on the machine, hoping that its faint buzz is not audible. I tell myself I will only have to be nervous for a few moments; if David has heard anything he will be up here in seconds. My heart pounds as I sit and wait. Nothing happens. I hear David’s voice through the floor, angry again, still in the middle of his argument with Russell. I exhale slowly. Safe. This time.
On the computer screen, a small box tells me that, in order to log on, I need to enter a password. I swear under my breath. I had assumed David’s computer would be like mine at work, with the password stored in the memory, the logging-on process automatic.
I type in ‘Felix’, but a sign flashes up to inform me that I am incorrect. I try ‘Alice’ and ‘Florence’, but these too are rejected. A shiver of dread makes my skin prickle as I type in ‘Vivienne’. This is also unsuccessful. Thank God for that, at least.
Perhaps men are less likely than women to choose the name of a loved one, I think. But what else might mean something to David? He doesn’t support a football team. It occurs to me that he might have been clever and chosen a word that no-one would ever associate with him, something totally random: tombola, candelabra. Or the name of a place, perhaps. I try ‘Spilling’ with no success.
I close my eyes, thinking furiously. What else, what else? I wonder why I am even bothering. There are billions of words, any of which could be the one David has chosen to use as his password. Even if I had time to eliminate all the things he definitely wouldn’t have chosen . . . I almost laugh at my next, ludicrous idea. It is worth a try, I suppose. After all, I now know that my husband has an appetite for sick jokes.
I type ‘Laura’ and press return. The sign-in box disappears and the screen turns blue. In the bottom right-hand corner an hour-glass symbol appears as the computer begins again to whir gently. I am dizzy with shock. David only bought this machine six months ago. As recently as that, he chose the name of his hated ex-wife as his password. Why? You were always second-best after Laura. Did you know that? No, it can’t be true. I am absolutely positive that David only said that to hurt me.
But I haven’t got time to think about it any more, not now. I get in to Hotmail as quickly as I can and set up a new account. The process takes longer than I thought it would, and I begin to sweat as I go through the seemingly endless stages. After what feels like hours, I have a hotmail account and address: [email protected].
I hear David’s voice again. ‘Anyway,’ he says. Something about the tone of that one word makes me panic. There is an end-of-conversation edge to his voice, an air of someone who wants to wind things up. Perhaps he is wondering what I am doing up here. I have been left unattended for too long.
I press the ‘off’ button on the computer and the screen immediately turns black. I run from David’s study into our bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar and standing behind it.
‘No, I’ll ring you at the weekend,’ says David. ‘Oh. When will you be back? No, all right, then. Read me their letter, if you’ve got it there.’
I intended to send an e-mail to Briony thanking her for the cuddly toy she’d sent Florence and saying it would be nice to meet up in a few weeks, once things are on the way to being back to normal. I have to believe things will get back to normal. If I’d had time, I could have gone on to describe the awfulness of the past week, told Briony all about Florence vanishing and Little Face appearing. I am desperate to tell her these things – she, I know, would believe me without question – but I decide I can’t risk going back to the computer. In my state of heightened tension, I cannot work out how much it matters that I did not succeed in sending this message.
Laura. How many times have I heard Vivienne call her a monster, a despot, a horror, a harpy, both before and after her death? I have lost count. I always assumed David felt the same way, but now, for the first time, it dawns on me that even if he disagreed with his mother, he wouldn’t have the courage to say so in public. After everything that he has done to me, I cannot believe that I feel like crying because, six months ago, he chose Laura’s name as his computer password instead of mine.
‘Hang on, hang on,’ I hear him say to Russell. ‘They’ve totally missed the point. We had a perfectly adequate supplier, and they offered us terms which . . .’
I stare at my mobile phone. To go back into David’s study would be tempting fate, but when I try to think of an alternative hiding place – one in the bedroom, say – my mind is a giant blank. I decide to risk the study, mainly because I know it would never occur to either David or Vivienne that I would go in there, under any circumstances, let alone hide something there.
I insert my hand into the gap between the nearest filing cabinet and the wall. It might be wide enough, but only just. My fingers hit a corner of some kind. It feels like cardboard, but the space is not big enough for me to be able to get a grip on it.
I stand up and, as gently as possible, nudge the filing cabinet forward a little. A navy blue envelope file that was trapped in a vertical position falls on to its side against the wall. I pick it up and open it. It contains three pornographic magazines. I open one and recoil when I see a picture of a naked woman tied to a table. I freeze, my face a cartoon of shock, not knowing what to make of this anomaly. David wouldn’t find this sort of thing erotic. What is it doing in his study? It simply isn’t possible, and yet here it is, in my hands.
I notice a couple of sheets of paper on the floor that have fallen out of one of the magazines. One is a letter, on watermarked blue notepaper. ‘Dear David,’ it begins. I look at the bottom of the page. The letter is signed, ‘Your loving father, Richard Fancourt’.
My eyes widen. At last, a name. And proof that David’s father exists. At least this explains the magazines. They are there to act as a distraction from what David really wants to hide. He must have reasoned that, in the event of me or Vivienne finding the folder and opening it, we would not investigate too closely once we had seen a few of those horrible pictures.
With half my mind standing guard, monitoring David’s continuing conversation with Russell, I skim-read the letter, trying to take in the crucial points. David’s father is remarried. He is
sending this letter to The Elms because he has heard that David still lives there. He is sorry he was not a better father. He is sorry he has not been in touch all these years, but it was probably for the best. The letter is frustratingly long. I try to take in all the words at the same time: wife pregnant . . . little brother or sister . . . if not for my sake then for his or hers . . . hope we can re-establish contact . . . baby due in September . . . retired from academia . . . taken up bridge . . .
‘Alice! What are you doing?’
‘Getting dressed,’ I call back, nauseous with sudden terror. I stuff the letters and pornographic magazines back into the file and replace it, pushing the cabinet against the wall. I am so afraid of being caught that I lose my balance and stagger back, crushing something small and hard with my right foot. I grab it, and my phone, and run from the study to the bathroom, locking the door when I get there. David is still talking to Russell. He interrupted his call to check on me. That is how little he trusts me.
Once I am safe, I examine what I am holding. It is a little dictaphone with a tape inside it. There is probably nothing on the tape apart from David’s notes about some computer game or other, but I want to listen to it anyway. I glance at the thin wooden bathroom door and decide it isn’t safe to do so now. It is all too easy to imagine an immobile presence on the other side. The Elms is a house in which the cracks of light under doors are often interrupted by dark patches the size of feet.
I bury my mobile phone under a pile of clean towels in the bathroom cupboard. It ought to be safe there for a while. Then I slide the dictaphone with the tape inside it into my trouser pocket where it will be completely covered by my baggy jumper, and walk downstairs with forced casualness, like a woman who is concealing nothing.
26
Entry from DC Simon Waterhouse’s Pocket Book
Little Face Page 21
