When I get through to the police station, I get stalled by someone who says that DI Powell is not available. He doesn’t say that she is out of the building, however, so I take a chance and ask if he will give her my name and say I have some information about the Kelly Field case. This may be completely counter-productive but I’m banking on Paula’s believing that I know things I’m not telling her. I wait a long time, listening to the burble coming from some multiply-occupied room, but eventually the receiver is picked up. ‘I’m putting you through,’ he says.
‘What do you want, Gina?’
And good afternoon to you, too, Paula. I’m well, thank you. How are you?
I consider saying this but instead I opt for matching my tone to hers.
‘Alice Gates,’ I say. ‘You’ll be wanting her fingerprints.’
‘Among others. What has this to do —’
‘But you can’t find her, can you?’
‘We haven’t located —’
‘She’s disappeared, Paula. She disappeared on Monday night. She has been missing for three days. She had a screaming row with her husband on Monday night and no one has seen her since. She has two small sons and they don’t know where she is. She’s a good mother. She wouldn’t have walked out on them. She wouldn’t have gone anywhere without telling them where she was going.’
‘She has not been reported as a missing person. Her husband says she is in London.’
‘Does he say he has heard from her?’
‘No, but —’
‘But you believe him?’
‘We have no reason not to.’
‘Except that she is a member of a group that seems to be under attack. Two dead, one missing and now one assaulted. When are you going to start taking this seriously?’
‘We are taking the death of Kelly Field very seriously. That’s the only confirmed crime we have to deal with, and we are dealing with it. We are also looking into the circumstances of Eva Majoros’s fall. What I can absolutely do without is people like you muddying the water. This is wasting police time and —’
‘If Alice Gates is in London, you should be able to get her on her mobile, shouldn’t you?’
‘We —’
‘But you haven’t, have you? Let me guess. It’s switched off, isn’t it?’
‘There are all sorts of reasons why someone switches off a mobile. Or she may have forgotten to take her charger with her.’
‘Do you believe that?’
There is a silence. Finally, she says, ‘Well, you tell me there was a row, maybe she’s switched it off so her husband can’t call her. She’s waiting for things to cool down.’
‘Three days is a long time for cooling down when you’ve got small children wondering where you are.’
‘Her husband doesn’t think there’s a problem. I can’t institute a misper inquiry if she’s not missing.’
‘You’re not listening to me, Paula. I’m saying it’s very possible that he’s not reporting her missing because he knows exactly where she is – where he’s put her. What you need to be doing is digging up his back garden.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Gina. Listen to yourself. This is fantasy stuff.’
‘Have you looked into his background? He’s a violent man. His first wife divorced him because he put her in hospital with two broken ribs. Alice told me. And he’s a drinking crony of the men in the pub who hate us and think we’re witches. And he was the person who drove Harry Timmins in to the station so he could tell you his cock-and-bull story about Farid Khalil. It’s a load of bollocks but it conveniently lets everyone else off the hook. Do your bloody job, Paula. You’re not stupid. David always thought very highly of you. But you’re being stupid about this because you don’t want to admit that I might be right. So, forget about me, just do your job.’
I don’t know what I expect her to say but what I get is silence, quite a long silence, and then she breaks the connection. I sit in the kitchen for some time with the curtains open, expecting some sort of activity in the road outside. Something must happen, surely, after my outburst, when I said things, to be honest, that I didn’t know I thought until I heard them coming out of my mouth. Do I really believe that Simon has killed Alice and buried her in the garden? I don’t know. I listen for the sounds of sirens. I imagine police rapping on Simon’s door and I imagine them at my door, making good Paula’s threats of arrest. I sit for a long time and nothing happens at all. Will they dig up Simon’s garden in the morning? Probably not. For a moment I have a pang of longing to talk to David, a pang so painful it takes my breath away. I pick up my phone. I did throw my old one into the sea, and my stored numbers with it, but I still know David’s number off by heart. Before I can think about it, I dial it. The number, I am told, is discontinued.
I take Caliban across the road for a pee, I check that the woodburner is damped down and I make a tray of soup and bread, which I take upstairs and place on the table under my bedroom window. It is only eight o’clock but I shall eat this, have a long bath and go to bed with The Diary of a Provincial Lady, my reliable comfort read when all else fails. I sit at the window, with my curtains open, dunking bread into my soup and watching the shimmer of the moon on the sea. The cloud must have lifted, I think. Maybe tomorrow will be a dry day. As I get up to clear my tray, I hear the sound of a door opening below and I see, in the light that spills from his door, Simon Gates coming out of his house. I turn off my light so I can see better in the darkness outside and I can just make out his figure in the pale moonlight. He stands by the sea wall, apparently looking out to sea, and I see a small flare of light – a cigarette being lit, maybe. Then he turns and walks past my house to the top of the steps to the beach. Again he stops to look out, then he starts to descend the steps and disappears. I sit in the dark, watching and waiting for him to come back. As the minutes pass, I wonder if it’s possible that he is contemplating drowning himself, overcome by guilt. It wouldn’t take long in this icy sea. But the boys are in the house, aren’t they? He wouldn’t just walk out on them like that. Then maybe they’re not in the house. Maybe he has sent them to grandparents. Maybe this was planned. On the other hand, maybe he is just being a responsible parent and not smoking in the house. Perhaps it’s just as mundane as that. An odd kind of responsibility if you had just killed the children’s mother. But what – apart from my overheated imagination – says that is what he has done? The burning certainty that swept me along when I was talking to Paula is beginning to die away, and as I see Simon reappear from the beach and cross the road quietly to his front door, I suspect that what is happening here is more of a mundane muddle than I would like to admit. I close the curtains.
I feel, suddenly, so exhausted that even a bath seems too much effort. ‘Leave it alone,’ I say out loud. ‘Ring Andrew. See Farid. Leave the rest to Paula. Anger and pride. Let it go.’
Chapter Fourteen
POSSESSION
Friday 21st February
I sleep well, perhaps because my conscience is now clear, and wake early, brimming with good intentions. I pad downstairs in my dressing gown and slippers, light the woodburner and put the kettle on. Then I find my address book and look up Andrew’s number. I should, I suppose, ring him at work but I’m hoping a call at home will take him unawares. Besides, I’m not sure what sort of reception I might get from anyone in his chambers. I have made scenes there in the past and fear I might get the I’m not sure if he’s available treatment. Better to get him at home, surrounded by the domestic delights of his lovely wife, Lavender, and their charming children, where he can congratulate himself on his escape from me and feel prepared to throw me some crumbs of comfort. Besides, I have found that before breakfast is a very good time to take a man off his guard.
Lavender answers the phone, and I can hear the echoing space of the high-ceilinged Georgian manor house behind her greeting.
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‘Hello, Lavender,’ I say. ‘It’s Gina. How are you?’
‘Oh, hello, Gina. I’m fine – no, Arthur, don’t. It’s Hubert’s, don’t —’
‘And the boys?’
‘Fine, too, thank you.’
Lavender is a sweet woman. The girls and I have always called her The Fragrant Lavender, or TFL. She is twenty years younger than Andrew, not terribly bright, very posh, and wifely in an old-fashioned sort of way. It is as though Andrew drew up a list of all my failings and sketched a blueprint for the perfect wife based on their opposites. She and I get on perfectly well, actually, although I am always beset by residual guilt at having handed over to her a husband so badly rehearsed in the role. This morning, however, I detect a slight edge to her voice, light and sweet though it is.
‘Is this too early?’ I ask ‘I hadn’t realised —’
I look out of the window. It is still dark, really. I look at the clock on the cooker. Seven-thirty-two.
‘Oh no,’ she says. ‘Nothing’s too early for the boys.’ She breaks off and I hear her say, ‘In just a minute, Hubert. You can see I’m on the phone.’ She comes back. ‘What can I do for you, Gina?’ she asks.
‘I wanted a word with Andrew, actually, if he’s —’
‘He’s not here,’ she says, and there is definitely an edge to her voice now. ‘In fact, I hoped it might be him calling. He’s in Argentina. On a case which seems to be taking an unbelievably long time. And our au pair has gone home because her mother’s ill, and it’s half term so Arthur’s not at school, and, frankly —’
‘Oh, poor you,’ I say, restraining myself from pointing out that it must be the middle of the night in Argentina and so an unlikely time for a call. ‘When will Andrew be back?’
‘He hasn’t said.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t suppose he has.’
This was a possibility I had not reckoned with. I don’t know why; Andrew’s work as a lawyer is always taking him off somewhere, and Argentina would be a lot more fun than Kent in February. So, what to do now? My resolutions last night were to phone Andrew and see Farid. Lesley has promised to work on getting to Farid but I don’t expect that to move fast. What else to do?
I make tea and drink it, and by the time that is done, it is light enough to take Caliban for his walk, so I prepare myself against the elements and off we go. As we step out of the house, we encounter Simon and his boys leaving their house. The boys are both carrying mini-sized backpacks and Simon has a larger one.
‘Going somewhere nice?’ I ask
‘Hope so,’ is all Simon says, and they head off to the bus stop.
Dover, I guess, is their destination. There is really nowhere else worth mounting an expedition to on that bus route.
‘Enjoy!’ I call cheerily, and then, as I’m tramping the pebbles with Caliban, the question of what to do next begins to clarify itself beautifully in my mind. I know I resolved to leave the Alice question alone and focus on helping Farid, but I’ve been thwarted by Andrew’s absence and the slow-grinding processes of the Border Agency, and really Alice’s continued absence is worrying and what are friends for if they’re not ready to look for you when you disappear? What occurs to me is that Simon and the boys are clearly out for the day and I am pretty sure I can get into their house. It would be easier, of course, if we had done the neighbourly thing and swapped spare door keys in case of emergencies. Alice did suggest it, in fact, but I stalled, ‘forgetting’ to get a spare cut until the moment passed. I don’t remember why, exactly, I was unwilling to part with a key but I suspect that I just didn’t like the idea that Simon would be able to get into my house.
So, I shall have to break in, but I don’t think that will be difficult. I am not an expert housebreaker, you understand, but I am a connoisseur of human behaviour. I am prepared to bet that a man managing two small boys single-handed and aiming to catch an early morning bus will not have thought to take the key out of the back door.
By the time I get home, I have a fully worked-out plan. I chuck some biscuits into Caliban’s bowl and, without bothering about my own breakfast, I go out into the garden, pull some leeks, wrap them in yesterday’s paper and carry them, with a kitchen chair, down the side of Jack Terry’s house and along the alley that runs behind our houses. At Alice’s and Simon’s garden gate, I position my chair, climb onto it and lean over to unbolt the gate. I am proud of myself for remembering to bring the chair; my working model for this enterprise is an occasion when I had to break into my own house, having left my key in a jacket pocket. On that occasion, I borrowed a chair from Alice to unlock my gate; now I’m returning the compliment. There are advantages to living in a row of identical houses, I realise.
The chair was a bright idea, and so were the leeks. Harry, you see, will be bound to have spotted me, since his main occupation is snooping and I made quite a lot of noise with the bolt on the gate, which was stiff and awkward. The leeks are my excuse for being here. I do give Alice some of my veg from time to time and, though I’m quite sure Simon won’t want to be bothered with them, they will just about do as cover. If challenged, I shall need a bit of a circumstantial story, but you wouldn’t expect to leave a bundle of leeks on a front doorstep, would you?
I force myself not to look up at Harry’s window and I stroll, all innocence, to the back door, where Harry will no longer be able to see me. If he has seen me come into the garden and watches for me to leave, I may be called on to explain why it took me so long (ten or fifteen minutes to scan the house for clues?) to leave a bundle of leeks at the back door. I shall say that I was talking to the cat. This is not an altogether improbable story; he does quite like me, insofar as cats like anyone, and he has come over the fence to greet me. He is a timid creature, terrorised by the boundless energy of the boys – and, I wouldn’t be surprised, the odd kick from Simon – but I feed him when they are on holiday and he does like to commune quietly over a bowl of Whiskas.
The next part of my plan depends on my arm being long enough to reach through the cat flap and take the key out the lock. I get down on the ground and push my arm through almost to the shoulder. The cat is entranced. I grope around for the key, but can’t find it. Has Simon prudently removed it after all? I stand up and squint through the window beside the door. I think I can see the key and realise that I have been groping in the wrong place. I get down on the ground again. I am getting wet and filthy but these are my dog-walking clothes. I grope again. The cat purrs and rubs himself against me helpfully. I touch the key, get a hold on it and tug. It remains stubbornly in place. I yank hard and it flies out and clatters to the tiles inside. I mutter curses; the cat backs off. I look again through the window pane, think I see the key, feel around at ground level and find my hand, suddenly, groping in a mess of something cold and slimy. I pull it out and gaze in horror at my sticky, brown fingers. I sniff them tentatively and get a blast of fishy decay. Cat food that has been around for some time. Why hasn’t he eaten it? Is he afraid to be in the house without Alice? I offer him my fingers to lick but he refuses them. I wipe them on a clump of grass and get down on the ground again to resume groping.
I do, eventually, locate the key, unlock the door as quietly as I can, and step inside. The smell of burnt toast is there again, as it was the day Alice went missing. If Simon can’t even manage the toaster then single parent life must be tough. The kitchen is pretty chaotic and if the rest of the house is the same it’s not going to make my search easy. I know the sort of thing I am looking for. Some years ago, a student of mine went missing and I was in her college room when the police came to search it. Like me now, they were looking for signs of violence, and also for signs that she had made a planned exit. It was much the same time of year – March, I think – so they were looking for her outdoor coat and boots, as well as handbag, suitcase or travel bag, keys, toiletries, mobile phone and so on. There is a little plaque be
side the back door, with three hooks on it and labelled Keys in something like poker work. No keys hang there. Simon will obviously have taken his. Does/did Alice keep hers there, too, or in her handbag? I decide that upstairs may be a better hunting ground.
Accompanied by the cat, I head for the front bedroom and am disoriented to find bunk beds and a chaos of toys and clothes in there. Wondering how Alice and Simon manage to share the little back room, I look in and see that pretty uncomfortably is the answer. The bed takes up almost the entire room. It is unmade and the doors of the fitted cupboards are hanging open. I approach the bed tentatively, lift a pillow and see a pair of pink pyjamas under it. Not Simon’s, I take it. I scan the rack of Alice’s clothes but I don’t know what I’m looking for. I survey the jumble of shoes; there are no boots there. And now I picture Alice’s usual outdoor wear, I see her in smart black leather boots and a longish grey coat. The coat I shall look for downstairs; up here I’m after handbag and toiletries. Travel bags, in this tiny house, must be kept in the loft. I scan the room for a handbag, and as I do so I experience the conventional shiver down the spine. There is a mobile phone on the little shelf beside the bed, on the side where I found the pink pyjamas. I pick it up. It is, I see at once, quite a fancy effort, and I haven’t the time now to work out how to get into it. The cat conversation alibi is already beginning to wear thin. I shall need to take it away with me. It just might be Simon’s but why would he go out for the day without it? And, besides, it seems to belong with the pink pyjamas. I put it in my pocket. If it turns out that it is Simon’s, I shall be in deep shit, but there it goes. If this is Alice’s phone, I’m too scared about what it means to worry about anything else.
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