by Susan Lewis
Wanting to laugh, Rowzee said, ‘I’m still waiting for a few calls back, but it could be they’re away on holiday. Bill Simmonds dropped a very nice acceptance card through the door earlier.’
Pamela came to a stop, a purplish flush creeping up from her neck. ‘You didn’t tell me you were going to invite him,’ she protested.
Amazed, Rowzee said, ‘He’s been to every other party we’ve given over the years, so why would I not invite him to this one?’
Apparently not having an answer for that, Pamela went crossly on with what she was doing.
‘He says in his card,’ Rowzee continued, ‘that he’ll come and cut the grass during the afternoon so everything’s looking lovely for the evening. Isn’t that kind of him?’
‘If you say so.’
Rowzee eyed her carefully. ‘OK, so what’s Bill Simmonds done to upset you?’ she challenged.
‘Who says he’s upset me?’
‘I can tell. Oh no, did he try flirting with you again?’
‘Let’s drop the subject, shall we? If you want to invite the gardener, you go right ahead and invite him.’
‘Now you’re being a snob.’
Pamela ignored the charge, so Rowzee said, ‘You were going to speak to the girls. As your daughters, and therefore I presume social equals, I think they should be here.’
‘You consider yourself so droll, don’t you,’ Pamela shot back. ‘I’ve left messages for both, and we know they’ll come, because they always do, complete with husbands and children who, I hope, aren’t going to charge about the place making blasted nuisances of themselves the way they usually do.’
‘It would make a change from being frightful nuisances,’ Rowzee commented lightly.
‘Ha ha, very funny. Where are your shoes?’
Blinking, Rowzee looked around. ‘I’m not sure, why?’
‘I just wondered. What’s happened to your toe?’
Rowzee looked down. ‘You mean the black mark on my little toenail? It’s from where you trod on it.’
Pamela eyed her in amazement
Rowzee grinned. ‘It’s always been there,’ she reminded her. ‘You just haven’t seen my nails without polish for a while.’
‘Which reminds me, if you’ve still got some of that Blueberry Pink I’ll borrow it if I may.’
‘You may. Apparently Blake Leonard can make the party, isn’t that lovely?’
Pamela frowned. ‘It’s good for him to get out,’ she agreed. ‘I don’t know if it’ll help take his mind off things, but it has to be better than staying at home tearing himself to pieces. Is Jenny coming with him?’
‘I believe she’s away in Devon with her parents.’
‘She’s always away – and often with the fairies, if you get my meaning. What shall we do if he starts going on about his daughter? I mean, I wouldn’t blame him, in his shoes I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else, but it’ll be a bit of a downer on the . . .’
‘I’m sure he won’t, but even if he does, it’s our job to be sympathetic and supportive, not to treat him, like some people do, as if he’s in some way to blame for what’s happened.’
Pamela’s eyebrows rose. ‘I’ve never done such a thing,’ she retorted.
‘I’m not saying you have.’
Pamela eyed her meaningfully. ‘For all you know he is to blame.’
‘Pamela . . .’
‘I’m just saying, that’s all.’
‘But it’s not what you think, so stop pretending you’re a cold-hearted, ungenerous old bag and take a copy of the guest list with you when you go. If I’ve missed anyone out send me a text.’
Minutes after Pamela drove off she rang. ‘I thought you were going out today,’ she declared.
‘I was, but things changed.’
‘Where were you supposed to be going?’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean, why? Is it a secret?’
Rowzee laughed, for they’d had this very conversation the night before last when she’d tried to find out where Pamela was going. She never had got an answer, come to think of it. ‘I had a meeting in town, but it got cancelled,’ she lied, although it was sort of true, she decided.
‘So you could help Graeme at the shop?’
Rowzee froze. She’d completely forgotten that their brother had asked if one of them could stand in for him today. The things she was forgetting lately, maybe Alzheimer’s really was catching up with her. ‘I’ll call him right away,’ she stated, and ending the call she scrolled straight to her brother’s number.
The line was busy, but he rang back a few minutes later to assure her that he had everything covered.
Ten minutes later Rowzee was at her desk answering the emails she regularly received from ex-students updating her on what they were doing these days, or telling her about something that had reminded them of her, or, more often than not, showing her photographs of new babies as they came into the world.
She enjoyed them all and was meticulous about replying to each one, as well as careful in the way she declined the honour of becoming a godparent. There weren’t so many of these requests, but they happened from time to time, and she was always touched, but firm with herself about not giving in. She really didn’t need any more children in her life. She had plenty with Pamela’s daughters, Graeme’s two sons, and the great-nieces and nephew that had already started to swell the family numbers.
It was wonderful to be a part of the joy that came with a new life, especially in her own family, whom she loved above all else in the world. Her only sadness, which ran deeper than she could ever express, was the loss of her own dear little boy, Edward, to meningitis when he was a mere five years old. Such a cruel and contrary world it could be at times. After so many years of miscarriages and failures to conceive, along he’d come, all nine deliciously healthy pounds of him, when Rowzee was almost forty-five, and it simply couldn’t have been possible for a baby to be more wanted. She’d felt from an early age that she was born to be a mother, so when it finally happened it was as though the years had rolled back and she was in her twenties all over again. Everyone adored him, Victor was besotted and her nieces, both much older by then, had spoiled him terribly, while her nephews, closer to Edward’s age, had been more like brothers than cousins.
It had been a bleak and terrible time for everyone when he was taken, with a sense of shock and disbelief gripping the family that it had been almost impossible to move on from. Rowzee had never stopped grieving for him, and knew that she never would.
It was the most heartbreaking thing in the world to lose a child, but at least she knew what had happened to Edward. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it was like for Blake and the families of children who simply disappeared and were never found. That had to be its own special kind of hell.
Chapter Four
Andee had spent the best part of the day familiarising herself with every aspect of the Jessica Leonard case. Each police force that had been involved, which had included the Met, Greater Manchester, the Transport Police and her ex-colleagues here in Kesterly, had been extremely helpful in taking her calls and providing information. However, it was clear that they were as mystified now by what had happened to Jessica as they’d been at the start of the investigation. None of the calls Andee had made so far to Jessica’s friends in London had in any way contradicted what they’d told the police two years ago. In fact nothing had come to light to make her think that anything had been overlooked, misconstrued or covered up – and considering some of the guest lists of the parties Jessica had performed at, that had surprised Andee.
There was only one anomaly, which had always been there and was still not yet resolved. It was the call Jessica had received just before going into Goodge Street station. Apparently there was CCTV footage of her taking the call – Andee hadn’t seen that yet – which had lasted less than a minute before she’d continued on her way. No trace had ever been found of her mobile, computer or tablet, but the phone compan
y’s records showed that the call had come from a cellular number registered in the UK to a Kim Yoder. An extensive search had been carried out to try and locate this person, both domestically and internationally, but he – or she – had never used the phone again and the address given to the server turned out not to exist.
So all they knew was that after taking the call from Kim Yoder Jessica had entered the station, apparently turned off her phone, and instead of going to Paddington, which was where she’d been heading when talking to her brother minutes before, she’d gone to Notting Hill Gate. Video of her emerging from that station hadn’t come to light until two days after she’d disappeared, for the simple reason that nothing had come to light to direct the investigation that way. She had no known connection with the area, hadn’t, as far as any of her friends knew, ever been there before, and there was no resident, business or business owner using the name Yoder. However, further viewings of the station’s CCTV prior to that June day showed Jessica coming and going on a regular, though random basis, over a period of two months. After leaving the station, she’d cross the road towards Holland Park, only then to disappear apparently into thin air. With no cameras monitoring the streets she was heading into it wasn’t possible to track her movements, and, disappointingly, no private security cameras had produced anything either. Nor had any footage been found of Jessica returning to Notting Hill Gate station on that day, or any other day afterwards.
Having Googled the name Yoder herself, Andee had discovered that it had Swiss origins, was common amongst the Amish communities in the Midwest, and was also the name of a barbecue grill company in Kansas. Naturally police inquiries had extended in all these directions, with considerable help from local law enforcement agencies, but none had yielded any positive results.
Andee also knew now that Jessica’s bank account had not been accessed since that day, though it contained an impressive sum for a girl her age. The deposits had all coincided with the gigs she’d carried out at various embassies, hotels and private homes. No evidence had been found of any other kind of service being offered to warrant such generous fees. These people were simply very rich and apparently didn’t mind throwing it around. Or that was what they’d have the police believe, and with nothing to contradict it that line of inquiry had eventually closed down.
Now, as Andee weaved her way along the crowded promenade heading towards the old town and her meeting with Blake Leonard at four, she’d have liked to remain focused on Jessica, but her own teenage daughter was not allowing it. Since arriving back from uni yesterday Alayna had refused to answer Andee’s calls or emails, but she was on the phone now tearing into her mother as though they’d undergone some kind of role reversal.
‘. . . he’s really upset, I hope you know that,’ Alayna cried angrily. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. He doesn’t know what it’s all about so I think you owe him an explanation, don’t you?’
Stifling a sigh as she dodged a balloon, Andee said, ‘Alayna, this is between me and Dad . . .’
‘You’re my parents. I think that entitles me to an explanation. And what about Granny?’
‘Is Granny there?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I thought not. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if she were. Is Luke at Granny Carol’s yet?’
‘He arrived about an hour ago.’
Stung that he hadn’t called or texted to let her know, Andee was about to continue when Alayna said, ‘You know Dad thinks there’s someone else, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do, but there isn’t. Now, I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll ring later, or maybe we can meet tomorrow for lunch, or a coffee?’
‘If you’re breaking up with Dad, then I’m sorry, but you’re breaking up with me too,’ and with that return to her own age, she ended the call.
Sighing, Andee clicked off her end and tried to refocus her thoughts on what lay ahead. She was almost at Graeme’s shop by now, and the last thing she wanted was to see either him, or Blake Leonard, while she was feeling as distracted as she did by Alayna’s call. Graeme would sense it right away, since he was intuitive that way, and Blake just didn’t deserve her mind to be elsewhere.
She was in the heart of the old town, crossing the cobbled square towards the antique shop, when her phone rang again. Knowing from the ringtone that it was Luke she decided she had to take it, even if it made her late.
As she clicked on she managed to bump into a denim-clad young man with razored red hair and a bullish attitude.
‘Sorry,’ he said, surprising her, for he didn’t seem like someone who’d apologise.
Gesturing an acceptance, she said into the phone, ‘Luke, hi. Are you OK? Alayna tells me you’re at Granny Carol’s. How was the drive back?’
‘Cool. Loads of traffic on the M5, but OK coming across the moor. So you’re definitely going through with this?’
Steeling herself, she said, ‘Yes, I am, but I’m afraid now isn’t a good time to discuss it. Can we meet? Just us, tomorrow?’
‘I’ve got stuff on tomorrow. I’ll call, OK?’ and he rang off.
‘Great,’ she muttered as she disconnected at her end. This really wasn’t going well.
Reminding herself once again that the next hour or so wasn’t about her or her family, she took a deep breath to try and clear her mind, turned off her phone, dropped it into her bag and headed over to the shop.
The first thing she noticed as she opened the door was the extremely attractive young woman sitting at the mahogany desk Graeme normally used. She was clearly very comfortable there with her feet propped up on an open drawer as she turned a wave for Andee to come in into a sweep of invitation to have a browse, while continuing to chat merrily down the phone.
Determined not to listen too closely, although it was apparently a business call and the lovely blonde seemed to know her stuff where antique mirrors were concerned, Andee looked around at the predominantly art deco and oriental display. She’d noticed the last time she was here, a week ago, when she’d first come to see Blake Leonard that Graeme seemed to have changed his stock from when she’d known him before, but there hadn’t been the time to ask him about it then. She wondered if the change was a result of the beautiful young woman’s influence, and decided it almost certainly was, given how comfortably she seemed to blend in with it all.
‘Andee, you’re here.’
Andee turned and broke into a smile. ‘Blake, it’s good to see you,’ she said, holding out a hand to shake. She’d taken to this man on sight, and so was finding herself genuinely pleased to see him again, even if she regretted the reason she was here. ‘How are you?’ she asked.
His expression was wry, showing that he didn’t want to lie, but the truth wasn’t going to get them anywhere either. ‘Will you come on through?’ he offered. ‘Graeme’s had to go out, but he asked me to pass on his regards.’
Refusing to ask who the woman was, Andee followed him through the door marked Private, trying not to wince as the young woman burst into a gale of loud laughter.
‘I made us some tea,’ Blake said, leading her into his cluttered workshop where the pieces he was restoring appeared more traditional than those in the shop. Victorian, Chippendale, Arts and Crafts Revival. Not that she knew much about antiques, but they looked to her to be from those sorts of periods. ‘I remembered that you like peppermint,’ Blake added, glancing over his shoulder.
Sensing the anxiety in his effort to please, Andee put real warmth into her smile. ‘Sounds perfect,’ she said. ‘And you have biscuits?’
‘From the bakery next door.’
As he poured she took out a slender file containing the notes she’d made during her examination of the police files, and perched on a tall stool next to a workbench. Sun was streaming in through the open back doors, casting dusty bands of light over the dozens of crowded shelves and piles of furniture waiting to be polished, or restored or reunited with missing pieces, in much the same way as Blake was waiting to be reunited
with his own missing piece. The air was curdled with the scent of old wood, turps, paint, glue and probably a dozen other ingredients essential to his trade. She found it quite pleasing, she realised.
After setting down the tea and sweeping a mound of stained rags aside, he pulled up a stool the other side of the bench.
‘So what do you think?’ he asked, coming straight to the point.
Putting a hand on the file as she spoke, and wishing she wasn’t about to crush his hopes, she said, ‘What I think is that the police have done a thorough job. You know the case isn’t closed, of course?’
He nodded. ‘But the search has been scaled right back. I realise it has to happen when there are no leads, I just . . . It’s hard to sit there doing nothing when it’s your child.’
Understanding better than he knew, she said, ‘Did you, personally, feel, during the height of the search, that every avenue was being explored? Looking back, do you think something might have been missed?’
His eyes drifted around the many objects in the room, clocks, dolls, musical instruments, cabinets, tables and chairs, and it was a while before she realised that he was caught in a memory, perhaps he was even hearing Jessica’s voice. She knew how it happened, how incredibly real it could feel, so she said nothing, simply waited for him to return to the present.
In the end he said, ‘I’m sorry, what was . . . Oh yes. Actually, my head was so messed up back then that it’s hard to know how I felt, apart from scared out of my mind. I still am, it’s just not always on the surface.’ He looked down at his tea. ‘I can’t think of anything that wasn’t covered,’ he admitted quietly, ‘but she has to be somewhere. People don’t just vanish.’
Knowing that they did, and knowing that he knew it too, Andee sipped her tea, giving him a moment to recover from a build-up of emotion.
‘Four police forces have been involved in the search,’ she reminded him. ‘Presuming everyone interviewed was telling the truth, and there’s nothing to suggest otherwise, the only questions that remain, apart from the obvious one of where is she, is why did she go to Notting Hill Gate station that day when she’d only just told Matt that she was on her way to Paddington? And was the reason for the change of plan connected to the call that came as she was going into Goodge Street station? I think we can assume that it was.’
