‘Yes,’ I say, wishing him dead.
‘Look at you, covered in food. You’re a dirty pig.’ David takes the dustpan and brush out of the cupboard beneath the sink and starts to brush the food off my jumper, but all he does is rub it in. My once cream jumper has a large, wet, orangey-brown patch on the front.
I try to wipe my face but David takes my hand and places it firmly at my side. ‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘You don’t get to make a mess like that and then clean yourself up, as if nothing’s happened. I let you do that with the bath, but it’s about time you learned that you have to live with the consequences of your actions. You were determined not to eat the nice meal I cooked for you, so you can wear it instead.’ He hands me the dustpan and brush. ‘Now sweep that mess off the floor, and when you’ve collected as much as you can, put it back on the plate. You can have it for supper later. Maybe you’ll be hungry by then.’
He stares at me. I stare back. In what strange game are we opponents, I wonder. David’s harsh expression flickers, as if he might be thinking the same thing, that the two of us are reading out lines from some bizarre script without stopping to question, because that would be too hard, the parts we are playing.
30
9/10/03, 6.30 pm
The Brown Cow pub was a short walk from Spilling Police Station in the centre of town, and might as well have been linked to it by a covered walkway, so popular was it with bobbies and Ds alike. It had recently been refurbished in dark, polished wood, with a non-smoking room and an extended menu that offered chicken breast stuffed with Brie and grape mousse as well as the more traditional pub fare that Simon was used to.
Tonight he didn’t feel like eating. Alice and the baby had been missing for six days. Not enough was happening, apart from in Simon’s head, where his deepening preoccupation with Alice and what, precisely, she meant to him was beginning to starve his brain of oxygen. His mind had become a dark trap. He could no longer block out thoughts of how he had failed her, possibly endangered her life and the lives of two babies.
He felt uncomfortable, sensing that there was a half-formed idea snagging at the back of his mind. What was it? The Cryers? Richard and Maunagh Rae?
He wasn’t in the mood for drinking with Charlie, but she’d insisted. They needed to talk, she said, and so here they were, with a pint of lager each and a prickly atmosphere between them. So far they’d discussed bank accounts. While Simon and Charlie had been interviewing the Raes, Sellers and Gibbs had spent the afternoon looking into the Fancourts’ finances. They had found nothing amiss, no mysterious sums of money that had vanished without trace. In other words, thought Simon glumly, no evidence to suggest that David Fancourt or any of his nearest and dearest had paid Darryl Beer to do their dirty work.
He stared past Charlie to the picture on the wall behind her. It was of a brown cow, aptly enough. The animal was in profile, standing in a forest clearing. Simon thought the picture was good until he noticed that the natural light that fell around the cow looked quite unnatural, more like rays from a spotlight than beams of sun. For a second, he thought he might be about to grasp that stray idea, the one that was eluding him. But then the moment passed and, irritatingly, he was none the wiser. Was it something to do with money?
‘If Fancourt’s having an affair, he’s keeping it bloody well hidden,’ Charlie moved on from matters financial. ‘That’s what Sellers says and . . . well, he ought to know. He’s the expert.’ Simon waited for her to say something crude about Sellers’ sex life, and was surprised when she didn’t. It wasn’t like her to miss an opportunity. ‘Oh, and this Mandy woman. It appears she and her live-in bloke have taken their baby and gone away. France, a couple of their neighbours said. To buy booze. I’m not sure they’d have been able to get the baby a passport so quickly, though. And the neighbours could be wrong, or lying – this is the Winstanley estate we’re talking about, after all. Who goes on a booze cruise two weeks after having a baby?’
‘Interesting,’ said Simon, feeling his heartbeat quicken. Perhaps more than interesting. Significant, maybe. They were on the verge, he sensed it.
‘Yeah, well. The Snowman’s certainly in a quandary now.’ Charlie allowed herself a small, vindictive smile. ‘He has to decide whether to pursue it further, on the basis of Alice Fancourt’s say-so alone, or wait a while and hope Mandy and family reappear.’
‘What do you reckon?’
‘Proust doesn’t care what I think.’ Charlie sighed. ‘I don’t know. If it were my decision to make, I reckon I’d follow it up.’ She looked at Simon. ‘Mandy hadn’t even been discharged from midwife care. She didn’t tell anyone she was going – the midwife, the health visitor, her doctor. No-one. Not that that means she’s got Florence Fancourt, but . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Simon, I’m sorry I’ve been a bitch to you.’
‘Right.’ He was relieved. This surely signalled her intention to revert to her more usual behaviour, which was all he wanted. Then resentment flooded his mind. Now that he knew she was sorry, now that she’d confirmed that she was the one in the wrong, he could withhold his forgiveness with confidence. In private. She’d see no sign of his true feelings.
She smiled at him, and Simon felt immediately guilty. He’d let her down badly, at Sellers’ party, and she’d forgiven him. Charlie was hopeless at hiding her feelings. Simon knew she still thought well of him, in spite of everything. Why did he relish the opportunity to hold a grudge against her? Was she right? Was he addicted to the idea that he was hard done by?
‘I think we need to have a long, frank talk,’ said Charlie. ‘Otherwise things are going to become impossible between us.’ There was an awkward silence. Simon tensed. What was coming? ‘Right, well, I’ll start, then,’ she said. ‘I was really hurt that you said all that stuff in front of Proust and everyone, without telling me first.’
‘About the Cryer case?’ Again Simon felt that unsettling twitch somewhere in the depths of his memory. What was it, for fuck’s sake?
‘Yeah. Were you deliberately trying to make me look like a dick?’
‘No.’ Why on earth would she think that? he wondered. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t sure I was going to tell you, Proust or anyone. I thought you’d all shout me down. I didn’t realise Proust was in favour of looking at the case again until he said so, and as soon as he did, I thought: here’s my chance.’
Charlie frowned. ‘And it didn’t occur to you that I might have liked to hear about it first?’
‘What does that matter?’ said Simon impatiently. ‘We’re all working together, aren’t we?’
‘You made me look like an idiot. I should know what’s going on, and you made it bloody obvious to everyone that I didn’t.’
‘Look, normally I’d probably tell you stuff first, but I didn’t think you’d be all that receptive. You’d already made it clear you thought there was no doubt Beer was guilty.’
Charlie sighed. ‘You made some good points. I still think, on the balance of probabilities, Beer’s our man, but I’m not so pig-headed that I wouldn’t listen to a new angle. You must think I’m shit at my job if you think I’d do that.’
‘I don’t think that at all,’ said Simon, surprised.
‘Maybe I am. Why didn’t any of that stuff you said occur to me? I was the officer in charge.’ Simon had never heard Charlie express doubts about her own abilities before. It made him feel uncomfortable. ‘Well?’ she said.
‘Well what?’
‘Do you think I’m shit at my job?’
‘Don’t be daft. I think you’re brilliant at it. Everyone does.’
‘Why don’t you sodding well tell me that, then?’ said Charlie quietly. ‘Why do you make me beg for reassurance?’
‘I don’t!’
‘You just have!’
The conversation was accelerating, becoming more unpredictable. Simon took a deep breath. ‘It would never occur to me or any of the team to reassure you,’ he said. ‘You don’t need it. You always seem so confident. Too confident, some
times.’
Charlie was silent for a few seconds. Her next question, when it came, was an unwelcome one. ‘Have you told anyone about . . . what happened at Sellers’ party?’
This was exactly why Simon avoided long, frank talks. ‘No. Of course not.’
‘Nobody? I’m not asking you to name names. I just want to know if everyone’s laughing at me behind my back, that’s all.’
Simon’s mobile phone began to ring in his pocket. He glanced awkwardly at Charlie.
‘Forget it.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘You’d better get that.’
It was PC Robbie Meakin. Saved, Simon thought.
‘You lot are looking into the Laura Cryer case again, right?’ said Meakin.
‘Who is it?’ asked Charlie. She hated not knowing who Simon was speaking to, and persistently interrupted every call he took until he told her. One of her many infuriating habits.
‘It’s Meakin. Sorry, mate, yes, we are. Why?’
‘We’ve just arrested a young lad called Vinny Lowe, friend of Darryl Beer’s, for possession of Class A drugs. In with his stash was a bloody great kitchen knife. Lowe swears blind it’s Beer’s.’
‘Where was it found?’
‘A health club, of all places. Waterfront, on Saltney Road.’
Vivienne Fancourt’s health club. And Alice’s. And then, suddenly, Simon had it. He recalled Roger Cryer’s exact words, digested their full significance. He nearly turned to Charlie and blurted it out in a jolt of excitement. He stopped himself just in time. He wasn’t prepared to risk her assigning this particular lead to Sellers or Gibbs to follow up. When it really mattered, Simon preferred to work alone.
31
Thursday October 2, 2003
‘What on earth . . .’ Vivienne backs away from me in disgust when she sees the flaking, dried food on my face and neck, the smeary stain on my jumper. I am sitting at the kitchen table. David wouldn’t allow me to leave the room. ‘I thought you wanted to spend more time with the baby,’ he said. ‘You can’t touch her, obviously, not while you’re covered in that mess.’
Vivienne looks angrily at him. ‘Was it too much to ask you to keep things under control for one morning?’ Felix stands behind her, in his turquoise blazer and trousers, the Stanley Sidgwick uniform. He looks at me in the way people look at road accidents, horrified and fascinated.
‘It’s not my fault!’ David whines like a toddler. ‘I cooked her some food, but she refused to eat it. She tried to throw it at me. I caught her arm to stop her and it ended up all over her. As you can see.’
‘Why didn’t you make her get changed immediately? She’s filthy! It’s all over her face.’
‘She refused! She said she didn’t care what she looked like.’ He picks up Little Face and leans her against his shoulder. Her turned head slots into the crook of his neck. She is awake, but as David pats her back her eyes start to close.
Vivienne walks slowly towards me. ‘Alice, this behaviour is simply not acceptable. I won’t have it in my house. Is that clear?’
I nod.
‘Stand up! Look at me when I’m speaking to you.’
I do as I am told. Behind her, David is smirking.
‘All those clothes must go in the wash. You need to have a shower and get changed. I won’t have such . . . slobbishness in my house, I don’t care how unwell you are. I thought I’d made my point and you’d understood it, after the bathroom incident, but clearly I was wrong.’
I cannot think of anything to say to this, so I remain silent.
‘I see that you haven’t even got the decency to apologise.’ I know that Vivienne is about to issue a punishment and I am frightened of what it might be. She sounds as if she has reached the end of her tether. If I said sorry it might calm her down, but I can’t find the words. I am a block of ice. ‘Right. Suit yourself,’ she says. ‘From now on you won’t get dressed at all. I’ll take all your clothes and put them in the attic, with Florence’s. You can wear a nightie and dressing gown, like a mental patient, until I say different. Is that understood?’
‘But . . . the DNA test. I’ll have to get dressed for that.’ My voice shakes.
Vivienne’s cheeks flush. I have enraged her by making a good point. Clearly, in her anger, she forgot about our appointment at the Duffield Hospital, its incompatibility with the penance she’s devised for me. ‘I don’t want to hear another word out of you,’ she says, her lips thin and white with fury. ‘And I can’t bear to look at you in those disgusting, dirty clothes any longer. I won’t have it! Take them off and I’ll wash them. You should be ashamed of yourself, creating work for other people with your . . . dirty protests!’
She turns to face the window. David grins at me.
I start to count in my head as I remove my jumper. The white bra I am wearing beneath it is also stained orange and yellow, so I take it off. David’s smile widens. He nods at the waistband of my trousers, where there is a small patch of brownish grease. I know that Vivienne regards even the smallest mark on one’s clothing as unacceptable. With trembling fingers, I begin to take off my trousers, praying that no part of the meal went any further.
Vivienne turns round. When she sees me, her mouth drops open and the skin on her neck wobbles. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ she demands.
I stop, confused.
‘Pull up your trousers! How dare you? What do you think this is, a massage parlour? How dare you stand in my kitchen naked?’
‘But . . . you told me to take my clothes off so that you could wash them,’ I sob. David covers his mouth with his hand, to hide his amusement. Vivienne wouldn’t notice anyway. She is incandescent with rage, thinking that I am deliberately trying to provoke her. Tears pour down my face and I fold my arms to cover my bare chest. I cannot bear the injustice or the humiliation for much longer. ‘I thought you meant that I should do it straight away,’ I try to explain, though I know it will do me no good. Vivienne finds me repulsive.
‘I meant that you should go upstairs, wash and change, and bring down your dirty clothes for me to wash. I did not mean that you should strip in broad daylight, in my kitchen. The blind isn’t even down! Anyone could see you!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t want to hear it, Alice. Go and clean yourself up and put on some nightwear. Now!’
I run from the room, weeping. I keep thinking that I have been through the worst, that nothing more horrible can happen, and I am wrong every time. This particular disgrace wounds me more deeply than any of the others because I did it to myself. Of course Vivienne didn’t mean for me to undress in the kitchen. I should have known that – I would have known it, were it not for the way David’s sick mind has worn me down over the past few days, warped all my perceptions, twisted the way I look at everything. How delighted he must have been to see me subject myself to a degradation he hadn’t planned and wasn’t expecting, to realise that he has belittled me to the point where I am now so ready to abase myself.
I lock myself in the bathroom and cry until my eyes are slits and my vision blurs. I do not dare to look in the mirror. For so long, I have thought of Friday as the goal. After that, the police will have no choice but to become involved. I will have help, at last. But what sort of person will I have become by then? Will I be in a fit state to be a mother to Florence, even assuming I am lucky enough to have the chance? For the first time, I am not sure.
32
9/10/03, 8 pm
‘I don’t understand you lot!’ Vinny Lowe shook his head wearily. ‘I can’t see why you’re making such a big deal of it.’
‘Cocaine’s a Class A drug,’ said Simon. He and Lowe, who resembled a bulldog on tranquilisers, were in an interview room at the station. Lowe’s solicitor, a mousy middle-aged woman in a cheap suit, sat beside him. She had said nothing so far, just sighed occasionally.
‘Yeah, but it wasn’t like I was selling it. There was hardly any there and it was for my own personal use. There’s no need to come over all heavy,
is there?’
‘The manager of Waterfront doesn’t see it that way. The stuff was hidden in his establishment, in the crèche, of all places. Inside the baby-changing unit. Nice touch.’
‘My girlfriend’s the crèche manager,’ said Vinny.
Simon frowned. ‘And your point is?’
‘Well, where else could I have hidden it? The crèche was the only bit I had access to. When I popped in to see Donna. Is she going to lose her job?’
‘Of course. She helped you to hide Class A drugs in the crèche,’ Simon explained slowly. Lowe shook his head, wide-eyed, as if to suggest that it was a crazy, mixed-up world he lived in if this sort of thing could happen. His solicitor sighed again.
‘Look, I’ve already spoken to the plods that arrested me about this. And then they turned round and said I had to talk to you too. How come?’
‘We’re interested in the knife that was found with the drugs in the baby-changing unit.’
‘I already said, that’s nothing to do with me. Must be Daz’s.’
‘Darryl Beer?’
‘Right. It’s been there for ages. I just left it where it was.’
‘How long exactly is ages?’
‘I don’t know. Over a year. Two years? I can’t really remember. It’s just always there.’
Simon tried to catch Lowe’s solicitor’s eye. No wonder she couldn’t be bothered to enter into the spirit, with such a moron for a client. ‘Did the knife appear in the baby-changing unit before or after Beer got sent down?’
‘Fucked if I can remember that! Must have been before, I guess.’
‘Did you see Beer put the knife inside the unit? Did he tell you about it?’
‘No, but it must have been him. No-one else knew about our lock-up. That’s what we called it.’ Lowe grinned.
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