by A J McDine
My heart was now thumping in my chest, and I licked my lips. ‘What?’
‘Unfortunately, the camera points to her house, as you’d expect. But you can see a small section of the garden wall beyond it. I’m going to send you a still now, OK?’
My phone vibrated in my hand with an incoming text. ‘I’ll put you on speakerphone,’ I told her.
I peered at the image on my screen. It showed a double-fronted Georgian house with symmetrical parterre gardens either side of the imposing front door. A double garage to the left and beyond it a boundary wall, built using local flints by the look of it.
‘Can you see her?’ Sam demanded.
‘See who?’ I used my thumb and finger to enlarge the photo. And then I sat down on a kitchen stool as my legs gave way beneath me. Because, her head just visible above the flint wall, was Immy.
‘Oh my God,’ I breathed, staring at the picture until it blurred.
‘So it is Immy,’ Sam said with satisfaction. ‘We thought so, too.’
‘But I don’t understand. I drive past that wall all the time. It must be six feet high. How can it be her? She’s half that height.’
‘It’s five-and-a-half feet tall. DI Jones sent a PCSO out to measure it. The consensus is that Immy must be riding on someone’s shoulders.’
‘Someone under five foot six?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So she didn’t drown.’
‘Put it like this: the DI’s now treating it as a possible abduction.’
‘Which means she might still be alive.’
‘She might,’ Sam said. ‘But the last thing I want is to give you false hope.’
‘I know, I know,’ I said impatiently. ‘What happens next?’ My mind was whirling. ‘Niamh was only about five foot five. It must have been her, after all. But where would she have kept Immy? Have you tried the squat again?’
‘Slow down, Cleo. Niamh’s phone was recovered along with her body this morning, and our tech guys have already started work on tracking her movements over the last week. She was in Littlebourne - at the old warehouse, presumably - all day on Sunday.’
‘She could have left her phone behind when she snatched Immy,’ I said, clutching at straws.
‘She could, but I don’t think it’s likely, do you? And she had no means of transport. We can’t completely rule her out, but the DI is pretty convinced we’re looking for someone else.’
‘But who?’
‘That, to use a cliché, is the million-dollar question.’
‘Surely someone must have seen her being carried up Moat Lane?’ I said. ‘The whole county knows she’s missing.’
‘You’d think,’ Sam agreed. ‘But to date, no one has come forward. DI Jones is keen to send out an updated appeal asking if anyone saw her in the lane, but obviously we wanted to let you and Stuart know first. Is he with you?’
‘No, he’s over at our friend Melanie’s. I suppose you heard about her husband Bill?’
‘Bill Harrison, Immy’s godfather? What about him?’
‘He died in a car crash in Preston this morning. He drove into a tree. Your accident investigation people are up there now.’
‘Nice of them to let us know.’ She paused, then said, ‘How tall was Bill?’
‘Six foot two. Why?’ And then I realised. She was trying to establish if Immy had been riding on his shoulders. But she couldn’t have been, because Bill had been in the garden with us the entire afternoon. ‘Bill didn’t take her,’ I said.
‘I’m sure you’re right, but I had to ask. I need to go. You’ll update Stuart on the investigation?’
‘I’ll ring him now.’ I was about to end the call when she spoke again.
‘Cleo? If you think of anyone, anyone, who might have taken Immy, you’ll phone me immediately, yes?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And thank you.’
‘For what?’
I gazed up at the ceiling. ‘For giving me hope.’
Chapter Forty-Two
Stuart’s reaction took me by surprise. He swore several times, then said, his voice catching, ‘My poor, beautiful baby.’
‘Aren’t you glad there’s a chance she’s still alive?’
‘At what cost? Who knows what she’s going through?’
‘You’re saying you’d rather she’d drowned?’
‘Of course not. I wish she was still safe at home with us.’
‘There is no us, not any more,’ I reminded him.
‘Christ, you know how to put the boot in.’
‘I’m not getting into a fight with you now. I’ll speak to you later.’
After I ended the call, I paced the kitchen, running through a never-ending stream of faces, from the postman to the school caretaker, trying to think of anyone who’d ever shown an unhealthy interest in Immy. And they had to be shorter than five foot six, which ruled out most men. Drawing a blank, I switched tack. Perhaps they hadn’t wanted Immy. Perhaps they’d wanted to hurt us. Stuart was the easy-going, agreeable type of person who offended no one. I was self-aware enough to know that I occasionally rubbed people - especially women - up the wrong way.
I’d fallen out with the neighbours on both sides at our old house after I’d had a large studio office built at the bottom of the garden without telling them first. But that wasn’t enough to warrant kidnapping Immy. I hadn’t yet fallen out with any of our new neighbours, so that ruled them out. My mind drifted to work. Women made up the bulk of our small workforce and I’d sacked a few of them in my time for various failings and misdemeanours, from bad timekeeping and poor performance to petty theft. But what boss hadn’t? And there had been no one recently.
Sheila seemed disproportionately upset with me when I told her about Bill, but she was shooting the messenger. She’d idolised him from the moment she’d started working for FoodWrapped and was clearly devastated by his death. I cringed when I remembered how curt I’d been. I needed to apologise.
I called the office, surprised when our warehouse manager, Roger Banks, answered.
‘Roger, it’s Cleo. Where’s Sheila?’
‘She had to go. Some family emergency. I didn’t want to bother you, so I told her to divert the phones to my mobile. Hope that’s all right?’
‘Of course, thank you.’
‘Only she seemed all of a dither.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘A bit manic, like.’
‘Upset?’
There was a pause. ‘More antsy than upset.’
‘Did she say what had happened? Has her mother had another fall?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t ask.’
‘No problem. I’ll try her mobile. Thanks Roger.’
Sheila’s phone went straight to voicemail, and I left a brief message asking her to call while trying to ignore the sense of foreboding that had settled in my chest like heartburn.
Bill had a manic look in his eyes before he jumped into his car and drove straight at a leylandii tree. Sheila already had an elderly mother to contend with, and I’d dropped the bombshell that Bill was dead. What if it was enough to push her over the edge? I hadn’t been able to stop Bill from killing himself. I couldn’t live with myself if I let Sheila follow suit.
I flipped open my laptop and scrolled through the files on the shared drive until I found our staff contact details and Sheila’s address. Roseacre, School Path, Littlebourne. I’d never been to her house before, so I googled the postcode. School Path was a footpath that led from the main A257 to Bekesbourne Lane to the south of the village. I clicked on the satellite view. Around a dozen properties, each sitting towards the back of large rectangular plots of land, were dotted along the path. Vehicular access appeared to be over a private road to the back of the houses. I grabbed my car keys and phone and left the house.
I parked at the end of a cul-de-sac of identical 1960s bungalows that ran parallel to School Path, earning a curious glance from an elderly man who was dead-heading roses in his neat-as-a-pin front garden. B
efore I left the car, I tried Sheila’s phone again, but again it went straight to voicemail.
I walked the length of the cul-de-sac, turning left when I reached the main road. The entrance to School Path was tucked between two pretty red-bricked, Kent peg-tiled houses. The narrow footpath must have led to a tiny Victorian village school once, but it had long since been replaced by an unremarkable but functional building on the other side of the village.
The properties that fronted School Path were the type that estate agents described as secluded. Tall hedges and high gates meant it was hard to catch even a glimpse of the houses themselves. The ones I could see were mostly bungalows dating from the 1920s, in the days when the architecture was uninspiring, but the plot-size was generous. A couple had been knocked down and replaced with contemporary larch-clad homes which no doubt had obligatory underfloor heating and bi-folding doors onto decked areas at the back.
The bungalows all had names like Oaklands, Woodside and Fairview. I nearly missed Sheila’s place because the rusted name plaque was almost hidden by creeping ivy. I peered into the overgrown garden. Brambles and nettles fought for supremacy and if there had once been a path to the house it had long been swallowed up. Between the weeds and hawthorn bushes, I could just about make out the grey pebble-dashed walls of a bungalow. It looked neglected to the point of dereliction.
Sheila had a lot on her plate, I reminded myself. Fitting a full-time job around caring for an elderly mother with Parkinson’s couldn’t be easy. It was no wonder gardening wasn’t a priority.
I tried the wooden gate, but the handle didn’t move. I rapped on the wood and called Sheila’s name. A skinny tabby cat slunk out from under a fence on the opposite side of the path, leapt gracefully onto the top of the gate and disappeared into the nettles beyond.
The crunch of wheels on gravel made me catch my breath, and I spun around to see a white-haired woman on a mobility scooter approaching. I stepped aside to let her pass, but she stopped the scooter and smiled.
‘You look lost. Can I help?’
I smiled back. ‘I’m looking for Sheila Dixon.’
‘Sheila?’ The old woman’s snowy eyebrows puckered.
‘Do you know her?’
‘Oh, I know her all right. I’ve known her since she was knee high to a grasshopper.’ The woman tapped her polyester-clad knee, then pointed to the bungalow one along. ‘I’m Joyce. I live next door.’ Her faded blue eyes were alight with curiosity. ‘Tell me, how do you know Sheila?’
‘I’m her boss.’
Joyce frowned. ‘Why are you here? Isn’t she at work?’
‘She had to leave early. Some crisis with her mother, I should think. I wanted to check she was OK.’
‘Her mother?’
The way Joyce was openly staring at me was unnerving. I nodded. ‘I expect she’s had another fall.’
She shook her head. ‘Maud died six years ago. Sheila lives on her own, love.’
What?
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course, I’m sure. I went to her funeral.’ Joyce cackled. ‘Sounds like Sheila’s pulling a fast one. It wouldn’t surprise me.’
I faked a smile. ‘Sounds like you’re right. I’d tell her she’s been rumbled, only I can’t open the gate.’
‘Sheila hasn’t used this gate for years. She always goes in the back way.’
‘How do I get there?’
‘Don’t you worry about that. Come with me. One of the fence panels between mine and hers blew over in the gales last winter. It’s her responsibility, but she refuses to have it replaced. You can go through that and give her what for. It’ll serve the bitch right.’
Chapter Forty-Three
Once again, my mind was spinning as I followed Joyce and her mobility scooter through a newly creosoted gate into a garden bursting with summer colour. Why would Sheila pretend her mother was alive? It made no sense. She didn’t strike me as the type to seek the sympathy vote. Perhaps there was an element of truth in Joyce’s claim that Sheila was using her mother as an excuse to bunk off work.
Joyce’s scooter veered off the path and bumped across the lawn towards a small wooden shed, behind which was the perimeter fence. Someone had propped a loose fence panel up against the adjacent panel, leaving a gap. An army of nettles guarded the chink in Sheila’s ramparts.
‘Bill’s always sneaking through and using my beds as a lavatory,’ Joyce said. ‘But if I dare mention it to Sheila, she hits the roof, so I don’t bother any more.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Bill?’
‘Sheila’s cat. She shows him more love than she ever showed her poor mother. He’s a child substitute if you ask me. What’s it they call them these days - fur babies, is it?’
I nodded, still struggling to take everything in.
‘Mind you, he was caterwauling something terrible the other night. I had to put earplugs in to get off to sleep.’ Joyce gave a little shake of her head, then nodded at the gap in the fence. ‘There you go, love. Sheila’s house is just beyond the crab apple tree. My son’s on his way over to take me to the doctor’s, so it’s easiest if you go out the back way. The gate’s next to Sheila’s garage.’
I smiled my thanks and stepped through the gap into the overgrown garden, careful to stamp down the nettles so they didn’t sting me first.
As I made my way through the undergrowth, I tried to pinpoint the last time Sheila claimed her mother had fallen. I knew it was recently, but the last few days were such a blur it was hard to remember. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my inbox, quickly finding what I was looking for. Sheila had emailed on Sunday evening, apologising that she hadn’t been able to drop off the accounts that afternoon because ‘Mother had another tumble’. According to Sheila, they’d ended up in the minor injuries unit. I’d had no reason to doubt her, because I thought ‘Mother’ was alive and well, not dead and buried. I shivered. It was all too reminiscent of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho for my liking. But why would Sheila lie? I hadn’t asked her to drop off the accounts - she’d offered, probably because it was the perfect excuse to see Bill. Bill, who she idolised so much she’d named her cat after him. The more I thought about it, the creepier it seemed.
I told myself not to be so overdramatic. Sheila was a sad, lonely woman who was probably still mourning the death of her mum when Bill offered her a job at FoodWrapped. Having switched her affections from her mother to Bill, it must have been the final straw to lose him, too. That, I reminded myself, was why I was forcing my way through her jungle-like garden. I wanted to make sure she was OK. I didn’t want another death on my conscience.
I was passing the crab apple tree when my phone rang. A glance at the screen revealed it was Stuart.
‘What is it?’ I said.
‘I’m checking you’re all right to pick Nate up.’
I held the phone at arm’s length and checked the time. It was almost three o’clock.
‘Can you?’ I said. ‘I’m in the middle of something.’
Stuart huffed down the phone. ‘I suppose I’ll have to. What’ll I tell him about Bill?’
A movement in one of the bungalow’s windows caught my eye, and I stopped in my tracks. ‘Why are you asking me?’ I said. ‘I told you, I don’t have all the answers. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at home later, all right?’
‘I don’t believe it. Are you at work?’ he groused.
Shaking my head, I ended the call.
The brown paint on Sheila’s front door was cracked and flaky and the grouting around the two stained glass panels was black with mould. The brass knocker, shaped like a lion’s head, seemed over the top for such a modest bungalow. I rapped it smartly. As I waited for Sheila to come to the door, I rehearsed what I was going to say. Part of me wanted to go in all guns blazing. To demand why she’d lied about her mother, and to inform her I was within my rights to call the police to have her arrested for fraud and theft. But the voice of my conscience won over. I came here to check Sheila was all righ
t, and that’s what I would do. The bollocking could wait.
I rapped the knocker again, then flipped open the letter plate. ‘Sheila? It’s me, Cleo,’ I called. ‘I wanted to check you’re OK.’ I crouched down and stared through the letterbox into the hallway, half expecting to see Sheila walking primly towards me, her mouth pursed and her hands clasped in front of her.
But the hallway was empty. Correction. It was empty of people. Because it certainly wasn’t empty of stuff. Cardboard boxes were piled precariously on top of each other, their contents spewing out of them. Old newspapers jostled with bulging plastic carrier bags filled with rags. Other bags were overflowing with old food packaging. An ancient-looking iron with a blackened soleplate had been abandoned on the floor, the lead coiled around its base, and next to it a three-legged pine chair was almost hidden under a jumble of clothes.
‘Christ,’ I muttered. Because the place was in a worse state than Tracey’s Chatham squat. How could a woman who was so fastidious about her own appearance live in such squalor? Sheila’s desk at work was freakishly neat. Files were colour-coordinated, pencils were always sharpened, reference books were lined up in height order. Sheila’s face had been thunderous when I’d once put a business directory in the wrong place. It was almost impossible to reconcile the rubbish-strewn house with the prim, finicky woman I knew.
A crash from inside jerked me back to the present, and I stared into the hallway, looking for the source of the noise.
‘Sheila,’ I called. My voice sounded scratchy, as if I was suffering from a severe case of laryngitis. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘Sheila!’
One of the piles of boxes wobbled ominously and Sheila’s tabby cat jumped down and began cleaning itself, nonchalant as you like. I stood and massaged the base of my back as I wondered what to do. Either Sheila wasn’t here, and I was on a wild goose chase, or she was, but was too embarrassed to open the door to me. In either case, I was wasting my time. I was turning to go when an image pushed its way into my head. An image of Sheila lying spread-eagled on her bed, little white pills scattered over the duvet, an empty bottle of gin on the messy bedside table. What if she’d decided life wasn’t worth living? I couldn’t leave without checking.
