I was going to ask her how he’s doing, but her darkening expression tells me that’s probably not the best idea right now. Maybe they’ve had a row.
After this, there doesn’t seem to be much left to say. My daughter-in-law politely declines my offer to stay for lunch and we give one another a brief hug before she leaves.
It hasn’t been ten minutes since Claire left, before the doorbell chimes again. Maybe it’s Oliver. Perhaps he’s changed his mind and decided to come over after all. I answer the door hopefully, only to be disappointed, the swooping in my stomach returning with a vengeance. Standing on the pavement are a man and a woman both wearing suits – DI Meena Khatri and DS Tim Garrett.
‘Hello, Jill. May we come in?’ DI Khatri looks serious and I’m sure I must be in deep trouble over my failure to report Laurel’s phone call. I knew Claire should have left it to me to tell them. Now they obviously think I was trying to hide something.
I take a step back. ‘Of course. Come through.’
They follow me into the kitchen and accept my offer of a cup of tea. I busy myself making it, while they sit on the floral sofa and make small talk for a moment, chatting about the warm weather and admiring my pretty garden through the back window. I bring their drinks and a plate of biscuits over and sit on the armchair, waiting for them to get to the point. They each help themselves to a custard cream and compliment me on my tea-making ability.
Finally, DI Khatri clears her throat. ‘Would you mind if we record our conversation?’
I can hardly say no. ‘Um, yes, that’s fine.’
She states the day and our names and sets a small recording device on the coffee table. ‘We’re here to ask about the phone call your ex-daughter-in-law, Laurel Palmer, made to you while you were at the fair on Saturday.’
Neither of them take their eyes from my face as I feel myself flushing. I can already tell that I’ve turned a deep shade of beetroot, making it look as though I’m guilty of something.
I take a breath and decide to be completely honest. ‘I told Claire about Laurel’s call this morning and was planning to come and see you next.’
‘We were wondering why you failed to mention it on the night in question, when you gave your statement. It seems like quite a big thing to omit.’
‘I know.’ I pause before ploughing into my explanation. ‘I’d convinced myself the call wouldn’t have made any difference to the outcome of Bea going missing. The hall of mirrors had become so crowded that, even without Laurel’s phone call, it was hard to keep an eye on the girls. They were flitting about from one mirror to another.’
I wait for them to comment, but they just continue looking at me so I press on, my fingers twisting in my lap. ‘I did actually ignore her first call, but when she called again, I thought it might be important, which is why I eventually picked up. Since that night, I haven’t been able to stop thinking that if I hadn’t answered it, I might never have lost sight of Beatrice. The truth is, I feel guilty for taking the call…’
‘Laurel called twice?’ Khatri’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. ‘Must have been something important. So what was the reason for her phone call?’
‘I think she just needed cheering up.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Khatri pushes.
‘Just by what she was saying. She said she was feeling down because she isn’t making enough money from her art to give up her shifts at the restaurant where she works. Let me see, she also said that her flatmates are always going out and having fun, while she’s either at home or working.’
‘And do you regularly speak to Ms Palmer?’
‘Um, yes, I suppose I do. She was married to my son and we always got along well. So we stayed friends even after they divorced. I feel a bit sorry for her.’
‘Did your son and daughter-in-law know about your continued friendship with Ms Palmer?’
‘I’m not sure how that’s relevant,’ I reply, instantly regretting my sharp tone.
‘In these types of investigations, we like to get a full picture.’
‘I haven’t kept our friendship a secret, but I haven’t exactly shouted about it either. I didn’t want to wave it in Claire’s face. Nobody wants to hear about their husband’s ex, do they?’
‘So would you say you get on better with Laurel Palmer, than you do with Claire?’
Goodness, I would never have expected for the police to be so… probing in their enquiries. I can’t even see what this would have to do with Beatrice’s disappearance.
‘Jill?’ Khatri interrupts my thoughts.
‘I don’t really know. I suppose so. Laurel and I have more in common – she’s an artist and I used to be an art teacher.’
‘How would you characterise your relationship with Claire Nolan?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Are you on good terms?’
I think back to this morning. ‘Yes.’
‘Have you always been on good terms?’
‘I’d say this business with Beatrice has brought us closer.’
‘And before that?’
‘We’ve never been on bad terms, I just…’ I realise that I don’t want to start getting into mine and Claire’s differences over Beatrice. That Claire wasn’t happy about me looking after my granddaughter. I worry that the police might start thinking that our shaky relationship has something to do with Bea’s disappearance. That they might even start suspecting me.
‘You just what?’ Khatri prompts.
I’ve forgotten what I was even saying. ‘I don’t know. My mind’s all over the place.’ I realise that I need to calm down. I need to concentrate on what I’m saying, but I’ve already started panicking. I can’t seem to think straight.
‘I was asking about yours and Claire’s relationship. About how well you got on before Beatrice went missing.’
I try to slow my thoughts. ‘We got along fine, but I wouldn’t say we were the best of friends.’
‘Did you ever argue?’
‘No.’ I don’t tell them that I used to complain to Oliver about her. That I would ask why on earth he let her get away with not allowing me to look after my one and only grandchild. Things might have improved drastically between us since this morning’s incident, but I’ll never truly forgive her for denying me proper access to my darling Bea.
I take a breath and fix them both with a steady gaze. ‘Do you have any news about Gavin Holloway?’ I ask, proud of myself for regaining control of my emotions.
‘We’re still exploring all avenues of enquiry,’ DS Garrett replies.
It doesn’t seem as though they’re willing to expand any further and I don’t want to prolong their stay. Thankfully, they end the interview and finish their tea, taking a biscuit each for the road. Thank goodness Claire didn’t report my shoplifting incident. I was paranoid that I was going to accidentally mention it myself. As I close the door behind them, I almost collapse with the stress of it all. What a day it’s been.
Twenty-Nine
CLAIRE
I can’t sleep. The air is as heavy and thick as unstirred treacle. This evening’s argument with Oliver replays in my head over and over like a bad gif. I’m having déjà vu. I can’t believe he got drunk again after everything we talked about. After he promised he would do everything he could to help find Bea. He admitted that he didn’t go to his mum’s today. He just drove around and then ended up in the pub again in a repeat performance of Monday. What’s happened to my husband? I really didn’t believe he was the sort of person to crumble like this. I thought he’d put up more of a fight for our child. But no. Instead he’s chosen to check out.
With Oliver passed out downstairs on the sofa, I feel as though I’m the only person left in the world. The only one left to cope with the darkness that’s pressing in on my head and crushing my chest. I’m suddenly aware of my bedside clock ticking, and it’s strange because I’ve never noticed it before. The sound seems to expand, filling the emptiness until I can’t think of anything
else. It’s driving me crazy. I sit up and scrabble for the bedside light, knocking over my glass of water in the process and swearing aloud. Eventually I find the light switch and click it on.
Taking a moment to breathe, I lean back against the headboard. The ticking sound has shrunk a little, but it’s still there, still too intrusive. I lunge for the alarm clock and pry off the back cover, using my one decent-length nail to flick out the batteries, dropping them onto my bedside table and giving a sigh of temporary relief. It’s 3.20 a.m.
A fox cries outside, the sound sinister and eerie, befitting my current state of mind. All I need now is a howling wolf and a crow tapping on the window pane. I throw off the bed sheet and get up, pad across to the window that overlooks the garden, trying to see if I can spot the fox. Earlier in the summer we had cubs playing on the garden terraces, rolling around and looking so cute that Beatrice wanted to try to tame them. I haven’t seen the little creatures for a while. Maybe if I spot them now it will be a sign that we’ll find my daughter soon. That Bea’s coming home.
I throw the window wide open and peer into the darkness, straining my eyes for any movement, for their small dark shapes, their glinting eyes, or the white brush of a tail. But all is silent and still.
I breathe in the warm night air, a faint breeze whispering across my arms. I wish it were morning already. How am I going to pass the time between now and then? Because there’s no way I’ll be falling back to sleep. My brain is spooling backwards and projecting forwards, worrying and imagining everything and anything. I lift my gaze upwards towards the dark hill behind the house, to the deep velvet sky above. A couple of stars wink down at me, their cold light uncaring. I glare at them, envious of their lack of feeling, wishing I could be so still and stoic.
As I bring my gaze back down, movement catches my eye. A dark shape. A person in next door’s garden! Could it be an intruder? My heart pounds as I step back behind the curtain and watch the figure walk along the path towards the end of the garden. By their height and stature, I’m pretty sure it’s a man. Did he break into the garden through the hedge at the back? Or maybe he’s already broken into the house and now he’s leaving. I should call 999. He turns briefly to look up at Philip and his mother Sue’s house and I see that it’s not an intruder after all.
It’s Philip.
What’s he doing out there at this hour? He’d better not start hammering. Although it’s not as though I was getting any sleep anyway. He’s heading towards the shed and it looks like… yes… now that I look again, there’s a faint glow of light in the shed… a silhouette at the window. Someone’s in there! From their outline, it looks as though it’s someone with long hair – a woman, or… a girl.
With a creeping sense of unease and a booming heartbeat, I wonder if it might be my daughter in there. After all, how well do I know Philip? He’s in his mid-forties, lives with his mother, doesn’t speak much, never seems to have any friends over. My God, what if Beatrice is in that shed?
Forgetting any quarrel I may have with my husband, I hurry downstairs to the living room to where Oliver is sprawled on the sofa, snoring lightly, his mouth open. It smells like a brewery in here. I pull at his shoulder. ‘Ollie, wake up.’ I shake his arm. ‘Oliver… Ollie, get up.’ He’s absolutely blotto. There’s no way he’s waking up right now, and even if he did, he’d be no good to me or Beatrice. I seriously feel like punching him. Instead I settle for pushing his shoulder angrily and letting out a frustrated growl. ‘Idiot!’ He gives a loud snore in response.
I shake my head in disgust and rush back upstairs to the window. Philip’s no longer in the garden, but I can see his outline through the shed window. The person with him is a similar height… so not Beatrice then, but a woman. I put a hand to my heart and lower my head taking a few deep breaths. For a few moments, I really thought it might have been her in there.
So what’s Philip doing out in his shed at three thirty in the morning? I cross the bedroom and bring the stool from my dressing table over to the window where I sit and watch. They’ve disappeared from the window, but they can’t stay in there forever. I’ll wait until one or the other of them leaves before deciding what to do.
The fact that Philip is meeting a woman in his garden shed should really be none of my business, but with everything else going on, I can’t dismiss it as nothing. As I can’t sleep anyway, I may as well try to work out what’s going on. Maybe Philip has a girlfriend, or maybe it’s just a hook-up, or it could be something else entirely. Hopefully, time will tell.
As the minutes drag by, my eyes grow heavy and I find myself stifling yawns. Why am I growing sleepy now all of a sudden? Where was this tiredness hours ago when I needed it? If only it weren’t so warm in here. If only my bed wasn’t two steps away begging me to climb back into it. I give myself a shake and pat my cheeks, resting my arms on the windowsill for a while. Eventually, my patience pays off.
I shift the stool back from the window as the door to the shed opens and Philip emerges, followed by the woman. I can’t make out her features, but she has long hair and she’s wearing a long flowing dress. According to the time on my phone, they’ve been in there for a little over two hours. As they tiptoe through the garden towards the house, I draw back even further, hoping the curtains and the darkness of the room will shield me from view if they should happen to look up.
The quiet hum of their murmured conversation floats up to me. The woman’s voice is low and somehow familiar. She looks over towards our garden and I almost cry out in surprise. It’s Laurel! What’s she doing with my neighbour? Surely she and Philip aren’t… are they?
They soon move out of view and I hear the clank and scrape of Philip’s side gate opening and then closing, followed by the dull thud of Philip’s back door closing. I rush to Beatrice’s room to look out over the front of the house. A minute later, I make out the shape of Laurel sashaying down the road, her red hair illuminated by the street lamp, her green maxi-dress swirling around her slim body. She must have parked further away, not wanting to risk me or Oliver seeing her car.
This is all really weird. Laurel and Philip? I would never in a month of Sundays have put those two together. And it’s a bit strange that she’s visiting her ex-husband’s neighbour. That doesn’t feel like it’s a coincidence. I wish I could talk to Oliver about it, but I don’t want to talk to a drunk, hungover Oliver; I want the sober, sensible Oliver. The Ollie I know and love. No time for self-pity, I need to act before the sun comes up. Which will probably be any minute. I already sense a faint lightening in the sky.
I rush downstairs and pull the torch from one of the cupboards in the utility room, slip my toes into a pair of old trainers and step outside in my nightdress. I hope to goodness Philip isn’t looking out of his window, but I can’t worry about that right now. I have to get a look inside that shed. I make my way up the steps in our terraced garden, thinking about the damaged fence panel that I’ve been asking Ollie to replace all summer. Thank goodness he never got around to it. The edging baton has come away from the slats and I’m able to pull them back and squeeze through the gap into Philip and Sue’s garden.
It feels different now that I’m on the other side of the fence. Unfamiliar and dangerous. Despite the hour, it’s still so warm out here. My pulse is racing and there’s sweat forming under my arms, running down my back. I traverse a flower bed, heading for the crazy-paved path that leads to the shed. I glance back at Philip’s house with a shiver of fear, but the windows are all dark and still, the curtains all drawn tight, apart from in the opaque bathroom window which is also dark. I’m hoping he’s gone back to bed.
I turn back to the path and pick my way up it, grimacing as I step on something soft and squishy, gagging at the thought that it might have been a slug. Finally, I reach the shed. My heart is thumping now, the blood whooshing in my ears as I peer through the window, suddenly worrying that there might be another person inside, or people, plural. Pausing, I cock my ears, listening… but all is sil
ent. I switch on the torch and shine it through the glass. On first look, the shed appears to be deserted, but the interior is not at all what I expected.
Despite its shabby exterior, the inside has been done out like a cosy den. The walls are half-panelled wood, painted sage green, with artwork hanging on them. There’s a sofa in there, with a folded quilt and cushions – looks like it’s a sofa bed. I angle the beam around some more and note a sink, a fridge, and a small table and chairs. There’s a pad and paper on the table with a pot of colouring pens and pencils. But Philip doesn’t have children. Neither does Laurel. A chill slithers along my veins. I’ve got a bad feeling about this…
Day Six
Things are really ramping up now. So many theories. So much distrust and blame. And Oliver is doing a wonderful job of imploding his marriage. Going missing all day would have been enough, but getting smashed every evening is a nail in the coffin for his relationship.
They all think that searching the streets and interviewing suspects is edging them closer to Beatrice. They think that social media campaigns and putting up posters will bring them success. They have no idea how far off the mark they are. No idea at all.
Thirty
CLAIRE
Back in the house, Oliver’s still crashed out on the sofa, his face awash with a faint dawn light that’s creeping over St Catherine’s Hill and in through the lounge window. According to my phone it’s a little after 6 a.m. I’m clammy with sweat and beyond exhausted. What does all this mean? Philip and Laurel, of all people. And what about the paper and coloured pencils in the shed? Does that mean they’ve had a child in there? Should I go back and break in? Call the police? Could they have Beatrice?
I lean over my husband. ‘Ollie.’ My voice sounds too loud in the silent living room. He doesn’t stir, so I give his arm a shake. ‘Ollie, wake up.’
My Little Girl Page 17
