Juliet drove out of the estate and down Commercial Road, crossing the river. The Welland cut a deep cleft through the town, bisecting it into two almost equal halves. To Juliet it had always had a mysterious, almost magical quality: a primeval feature of the landscape, for centuries it had played a starring role in the economic and social life of the town. Spalding had once been a busy port, and within living memory sea-going ships had navigated the river, delivering grain to be processed into animal cake at Birch’s warehouse and transporting sheep from the Spalding markets to Northern Europe. The higgledy-piggledy row of colourfully-washed eighteenth-century cottages that lined Commercial Road at its eastern end had originally been built for the families of ships’ captains and their sailors. The river estuary had silted up now and there were more efficient ways of transporting goods and livestock, so the seafarers were long gone. Their descendants had either left for other ports or been assimilated locally as shopkeepers and farm labourers. Juliet wondered how well the good burghers of Spalding and the yeoman farmers who occupied its hinterland had co-existed with their more exotic seafaring neighbours. Had they welcomed them into their community, or looked at them askance and forced them to maintain their own, separate, society? She supposed that reactions would have varied, just as the townspeople still differed in their attitude to incomers today. It would be interesting to know what kind of reception the Vermas had received from their neighbours and work colleagues when they’d first arrived.
Glancing across at the river, she saw a figure walking along the bank. It was a slightly-built man of medium height, dressed in dark clothes. He was carrying something wrapped in a plastic bag. The street lights were dim in this part of the town and she couldn’t see his face, but it struck her that there was something familiar about him. The man glanced around him furtively and, delving into the bag, drew out an armful of what looked like rags and transferred them to a carrier bag. He plucked a piece of something white from the rubble path and stuffed it into the bag. Then he raised his arm and hurled the bag as forcefully as he could into the river. Juliet saw that this cost him some effort, as if his arm was injured. She slowed down the car, intending to get out and confront him, but he disappeared into one of the shadowy alleyways that led away from the bank. She knew that she could spend a long time searching for him there fruitlessly: if he knew the area well, he’d be able to escape into another part of the town without encountering her. She decided to forget it: the river bank wasn’t a good place to be on her own after dark: she’d have to call for back-up if she wanted to proceed, and she didn’t have sufficient reason to tie up police resources in such a way. Fly-tipping in the river was banned, but people did it all the time: catching a litter pest was hardly her priority at present. She stepped on the accelerator again, but filed the incident away in her mind.
When she arrived at the hospital she walked straight into a ruckus. A tall, very tidy-looking man with thick greying black hair and square black-framed spectacles was standing in the foyer, arguing with Giash Chakrabati. For the hour, he was incongruously dressed in a business suit and immaculate white shirt. The night porter was hovering, his expression belligerent.
“I demand to see my wife,” the man was saying. “I insist on talking to the drunken bitch myself.”
“I’m afraid that’s not . . .” Giash began. The night porter interrupted him.
“Look, mate,” he said, addressing the man. “She don’t want to see you and she ain’t in a fit state in any case. End of. Now either you oppit or I’ll make you.”
Juliet met Giash’s eye. She couldn’t help smiling. Giash raised both his eyes to the ceiling, but he was grinning, too.
“Thank you, Mr . . .”
“Barry”, supplied the porter. “Just Barry’ll do.”
“Thanks, Barry, it’s good of you to get involved, but we’ll deal with this.”
“Suit yourselves,” said Barry sulkily, “But just make sure that ’e shuts it. There’s people ill in ’ere. They don’t want waking up. I’ll be just round the corner if you need me.” He indicated a small enclosed kiosk opposite the reception desk and walked off towards it.
Giash turned back to the man.
“He’s absolutely right,” he said. “If you cause a disturbance here, we’ll have to arrest you.”
The man glared at Giash, clearly seething, though when he spoke again he’d lowered his voice.
“I only want to try to find out where my daughter is,” he muttered furiously. “That bitch was the last person to see her. I need to get through to her fuckwit brain, find out what she knows.”
Gerald Arsehole, thought Juliet. Aloud she said:
“Mr Pocklington? I’m DC Armstrong. I’m in charge of the enquiry into your daughter’s disappearance. Would you like to come and sit down?”
She indicated the row of chairs that faced the reception desk. Reluctantly, he chose one and sat on it.
“First of all, how did you know your wife was here?”
“I rang that childminder that Margie’s been working for. She told me that Margie had disappeared and she’d involved the police. She said you were going to see her mother. I decided to go round myself, see what was going on, but there was no-one there. Mrs Lewis next door told me she’d seen two cops carting the silly cow off in a police car; that they’d only just gone. She said she’d heard the word ‘hospital’ mentioned. If that cow has hurt Margie in one of her drunken binges, I’ll . . .”
“Mr Pocklington, we have no reason to believe that your wife has done any harm to your daughter.”
“No? Where is she, then?”
“That’s what we’re hoping your wife can help us to find out. And you, as well, sir, now that you’re here.”
“I don’t see how I can help. And stop calling her my wife,” he replied, gritting his teeth furiously. “But since ‘I’m here’, as you say,” – he wiggled his fingers to indicate invisible apostrophes – “I don’t mind assisting.”
“That’s very good of you, sir,” said Juliet smoothly. She needed the man’s co-operation, but what a prat! As if he were doing her a favour by helping to find his own daughter! She wasn’t surprised that Liz Pocklington was an emotional and physical wreck. What was more astonishing that she obviously couldn’t function without him. Had their relationship been an abusive one? There was an even darker thought lurking in the back of Juliet’s mind. What if there was a grain of truth – or more – in his suspicion that Liz Pocklington was mixed up in her daughter’s disappearance?
Chapter 47
I’m in the kitchen giving Sophia her breakfast when Nancy Chappell appears. Sophia holds out her arms, then looks affronted, probably because Nancy is not Tim. Nancy shoots her a quick glance and looks away. It’s clear there’ll be no love lost between them on either side. Nancy is wearing the same clothes that she had on yesterday. The only difference in her appearance is that her make-up is slightly more subtle, if that’s the correct word for when you exchange plum-ebony lips for scarlet ones.
“Good morning, Nancy. Did you sleep well?”
“Not bad. Tim gone, ’as ’e?”
“Yes. He left before six.”
“I fought I ’eard ’im.”
“I’m sorry if he woke you.”
“That’s all right. I was already awake. I don’t sleep well in strange places.”
I’m embarrassed and search her face for evidence that she means her words to convey more than their surface meaning, but can find none. I don’t think she can have overheard our conversation. She’s scrabbling disconsolately in the workman’s knapsack that she carries. She roots to the bottom of it and scoops something out.
“Fank God for that. I fought I’d lost me fags.” She extracts a cigarette from the packet.
“Got any matches?” she asks. She notices the look of horror on my face. “Don’t worry, I’ll go outside with it. I wouldn’t smoke in f
ront of the kid.”
“There are some boxes of matches in that tin by the hob,” I say. “Help yourself. I’ll get you something for breakfast while you’re outside. Toast do you?”
She pulls a face.
“Not for me, fank you. Never touch breakfast. I’ll ’ave a cuppa black coffee, if that’s all right.”
“Of course. Do you want me to bring it out to you?”
“That’s good of yer, but you and me probably have a few fings to talk about, don’t we, before we go to the office? I presume you still want me to come with you to see those two girls today.”
“Yes, please. But it might not be easy to talk while Sophia’s here. And I don’t know how much she understands.”
Nancy stares at Sophia as if she is a small wild animal.
“Yeah,” she says. “Whatever. Pr’aps when I’ve ’ad me coffee I’ll go to the station to meet Miss Goody Two Shoes, and you could come on later? Is it far to walk?”
I bristle.
“Look, I’m sorry if she was a bit rude to you yesterday, but she’s had a lot on her plate lately. And fine if you want to walk to the station. It’ll take you between twenty and twenty-five minutes. Don’t let me keep you. I’ll tell you how to get there.”
“Hey, steady on!” She places a plum-rimmed hand lightly on my arm. “No need to bite me ’ead off! As I said yesterday, I sympafise with ’er. I know what it’s like to ’ave an overbearing male boss. I’d ’ave been furious, too, if someone like me ’ad turned up on my patch.”
I laugh at the mention of Derry, before I realise she’s also referring to Tim. I can’t be bothered to defend him.
“I must admit Tim’s been behaving strangely just lately,” I say, bending down to unfasten the safety straps of Sophia’s high chair so that I don’t have to look Nancy in the eye. I lift Sophia out and put her down on the floor. It’s now or never, I think. I take a deep breath. “I don’t suppose you know where he went the night before last, do you?”
I’m still not looking at her. There’s a prolonged silence. Eventually I feel compelled to squint sideways at Nancy. I see she’s more profoundly distressed than such a question would normally merit.
“Nancy? Have I upset you?”
She rubs her nose vigorously with the heel of her hand.
“No, it’s not you. It’s me, being silly, probably.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Look, if I tell you, you’ll have to take into account that I’ve got a vivid imagination. I’m probably imagining things ’ere, too. DI Yates wasn’t well when ’e came to see DI ’acker, in any case. That may ’ave somefing to do with it.”
“Something to do with what?”
“It’s nofing, really, just a very trivial fing. But we saw a woman at King’s Cross yesterday and I fought ’e was determined to avoid ’er. As if seeing ’er would embarrass ’im in front of me. I ’ad the feeling ’e’d been wiv ’er recently. And I don’t like cheating men. That’s all.” She shrugged. “I ’ave no right to say this to you. Remember that.”
“You have every right. I asked you about it. As you say, you may be jumping to conclusions. Can you remember the woman’s name?”
“No.”
“Really?” She can see that I don’t believe her.
“Really. I was just trying to take it all in. Honestly. I can remember what ’e said she did, though. ’E said she was a SOCO.”
I pause for a few moments. I’m determined to keep calm.
“I think her name might have been Gardner. Patricia Gardner.”
“That sounds about right, but I don’t fink that’s the exact name ’e called ’er.”
“Patti,” I supply. “Everyone calls her Patti. Is that the name he gave you?”
Nancy nods miserably and looks down at her Doc Martens.
Chapter 48
The small man was at King’s Cross again. He’d stumbled off the early train wearily, clutching in his hand a copy of the Metro that he’d picked up at Peterborough station. He’d managed to elude the staff by moving between the platform, the toilets and the waiting rooms, but it hadn’t been a restful way of spending the night and his damaged ribs and knee were aching. Nevertheless, he’d been quite pleased with the previous evening’s efforts, congratulating himself on a job well done. Despite the lack of sleep, his mood had been too buoyant to be deflated by his various injuries. Until, that was, he’d begun to work his way through the newspaper and spotted a photograph of the girl on one of the inside pages. Ayesha Verma. So that was her name – if indeed it was the same one. The photograph was blurred, made fuzzy by the cheap newsprint, and for a few moments he scrutinised it and managed to convince himself that the picture was of some other girl. Then he read the short paragraph giving details of the girl’s disappearance and knew there could be no mistake.
The policewoman who’d spoken to the reporter was named as DC Juliet Armstrong. He remembered her. He remembered her boss, too. Curious that the cop’s face seemed to keep popping up all over the place these days, although the small man knew he had the febrile imagination of the haunted and his sight wasn’t what it used to be. Yates, that was the name. A country copper: unlikely to have been let loose in the city. Still, it was a good thing the Khans had said to avoid Spalding from now on. He doubted if the cops would remember him, but you never knew. Coppers’ memories were long when they had unfinished business on their books.
But back to the girl. He felt sorry for her, if not for her family. They were just a bunch of bigots who’d deserved to lose her: if they’d left her alone, she’d never have bumped into him. He wasn’t ashamed of having helped her; she’d asked him to, after all. The problem was that Moura had a granite will and no compunction about fitting subject to client. He’d tried to say it was harsh to give her to the sadistic bloody Arab kids, but Moura pointed out that she fitted the profile exactly. End of, as Jas always said when Moura had made a decision. He gave himself a little shake: he mustn’t lose his grip. He had no reason to feel remorse and, besides, he hadn’t been paid yet. Jas kept doling out the money in dribs and drabs, but only for expenses: yesterday he’d barely given him enough on top of his rail fare to buy a sandwich (he’d resisted the temptation to spend the money on this) and hot drinks. Fingers crossed that the girl would find favour: then he would get Jas’s payment and perhaps even a bonus from the Arabs as well.
Passing through the barrier, he thought of the other girl and how he’d met her there. A bit of a madam she’d turned out to be: less submissive than the first one. He wished Moura joy of her, although he knew it wouldn’t take long to mould her. He wondered which client she was destined for. Someone he didn’t know, probably. She was so skinny she looked more like a boy than a girl: the sort of boy he liked himself, as a matter of fact. Definitely not one for the Arabs. The news still hadn’t broken about her; the cops were taking their time, that was for sure.
He wondered why Jas had been so keen on faking the drowning. They hadn’t bothered to lay a false trail for the Indian girl and her disappearance had been much better reported. He supposed it was because the police were likely to assume that her family was behind it: she’d told him she was unhappy because they had a husband lined up for her. There was an expression for it, wasn’t there, when the relatives did away with them for disobeying? Revenge killing, or some such. No, ‘honour killing’, that was it. Strange term. ‘Rooted in dishonour’ was more like it. Now how had that popped into his head? He must have read it somewhere. He shook himself again, an old dog sprucing up its fur. No wonder he felt muzzy in the head after all he had suffered the last few days. What he really needed was a good stiff drink. He drew a handful of coins from his pocket and counted them. He congratulated himself again on not having bought that sandwich.
Chapter 49
Juliet jerked awake from an exhausted doze and tried to focus her swimming eyes
on the woman who lay prone in the bed next to her chair. After vomiting several more times during the early hours of the morning, Liz Pocklington had lapsed into a leaden, stertorous sleep from which Juliet had been advised by the duty doctor not to rouse her until she woke naturally. She was still snoring now, but had shifted her position in the bed. Juliet hoped this was a sign that Liz was gradually waking up. She peered at the clock above the bed and saw that it was almost 7 am. Fuck, she thought to herself, there’s no way I’m going to get into the station before Nancy Chappell arrives there this morning. She thought about giving Nancy a call, then decided against it. It wasn’t her job to run around after an ‘assistant’ she hadn’t asked for.
She eased herself into a more upright position, wincing as some bone in her back clicked rebelliously. She wondered how Giash was coping with Gerald Arsehole. She and the doctor had barred him from entering the side-ward where Liz was being treated and he’d announced belligerently that he’d be waiting outside, demanding to be told as soon as she woke up.
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