No Time To Cry

by James Oswald

  ‘Connie?’ She stares at me, then turns and looks over her shoulder. ‘I thought you were in the spare room?’

  ‘There was some stuff I had to do. Probably should have asked for a key or something.’

  Charlotte follows me through to the kitchen and starts making coffee. I look around for the cat, find her lying on a cushion beside her cage. She looks up at me warily, almost as if she knows what’s coming next.

  ‘Don’t suppose you want a pet.’ I bend down and offer a hand to the creature. She sniffs me, then rubs the side of her face against my finger and starts to purr. I think it’s the first time I’ve heard her make any sound at all. The wound on her head is starting to heal already, but it’ll be a while before the hair grows back, and she’ll always have one split ear.

  ‘You’re not really serious, are you?’ Charlotte looms over me, a mug of coffee in each hand and a look of horror on her face.

  ‘No. Not really.’ I stand up a little too swiftly, take the offered mug. ‘She’s my responsibility, after all.’

  ‘What’s the plan, then? You going back to your flat?’

  I considered it, early this morning when I first woke up. Cosseted by the luxury of this substantial house, the threat to my life felt less serious than it had when Wee Jock had told me about the price on my head. There must be loads of Met detectives who’ve pissed off criminals enough to become a target; that’s why generally speaking we don’t live anywhere near our beat. But something like this is taking it a step further, and however small the bounty might be, someone’s already been willing to give it a go.

  ‘No. It’s not safe. Can’t hang around here any longer either. I don’t want to be seen by the wrong people.’

  Charlotte’s face is a picture of alarm as the implications of what I’ve just said settle in her mind. ‘Oh my God. You don’t think—’

  ‘Don’t worry, Char. No one’s going to come breaking down your door. I’ll be gone just as soon as I’ve finished this coffee.’ I lift the mug in her direction, enjoying the aroma and not rushing to drink. ‘And I’ll take the cat too.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  It’s an innocent enough question, although part of me thinks it would be better if as few people as possible knew.

  ‘Thought I might do you a favour and go looking for Izzy. Not officially, mind you. I can’t do it as a cop, and I’m not a licensed private detective either. But she’s near enough family that I’ve got a good excuse if anyone asks me what I’m up to.’

  Something flickers across Charlotte’s face as I speak. Not relief or anxiety, but an expression I can’t quite read. And then it morphs into a big smile, as genuine as I’ve ever seen her give anyone. She puts down her own mug and grabs me into a hug that’s rather more intimate than I’m expecting. I manage not to spill coffee all down her back, but it’s a close call.

  ‘Oh, that’s so wonderful, Connie. I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘Let me find her first, OK? I’m not making any promises. This whole suspension nonsense might blow over in a couple of weeks, and then I’ll have to go back to my real job.’

  Charlotte seems as unconvinced as I am. I’ve pretty much told my boss I quit and he was happy with that. I can’t see myself back with that team any time soon.

  ‘Where will you go first?’

  ‘Back to where she was last seen. That’s how we always do these things.’ I drain the dregs of the coffee and put the mug down beside Charlotte’s. I knew as soon as I even started to contemplate looking for Izzy that I’d have to do it, but it’s only now I’ve said it out loud that the truth hits home.

  I’m going to have to go back to my old school.

  15

  The cat glares at me from her cage, sitting on the front passenger seat of the Volvo as I pull onto the A1 and drive north out of London. It’s been a while since I’ve come this way. I like the car though. It has a solidity to it, and despite its many, many miles the engine is as sweet as a nut. The last time I owned a car was not long after passing my test; that wonderful feeling of freedom you only get in your late teens, before the reality of life comes crashing down.

  I fiddle with the ancient radio, trying to find something that isn’t Radio 4. Maybe if I had some actual CDs I’d be able to slot them in one by one and listen to some music, but I’m not even sure they make them any more. Perhaps seeing my hand through the bars of her carrier box, the cat yawns wide, reaches out a paw towards me. I’m not sure if it’s helpful to be reminded I’m not entirely alone.

  ‘What are we going to do with you, puss?’ I don’t expect an answer, so I’m not disappointed when I don’t get one. It’s a good question though. I don’t even know where I’m going to sleep tonight, and sooner or later I’m going to have to let her out to do what cats do. I probably should have bought a harness and lead; she’s bound to run off as soon as I let her out of the cage. On the other hand, that would solve the problem of what to do with her.

  Who am I kidding? I could no more abandon her by the roadside than I could refuse to look for Izzy. That’s not how I work.

  ‘There must be some way to get some music out of this shit piece of—’ My frustration with the radio is cut short by the trilling of my phone. It’s wedged into a cheap stand suckered to the windscreen, and a brief glance tells me that Detective Superintendent Bailey is trying to get in touch. I’m tempted to ignore the call, but sense prevails. A tap on the screen brings up the speakerphone mode. If he can’t hear me over the noise of the car, that’s his problem.

  ‘Where the fuck are you, Constable?’

  So it’s constable now, not Fairchild. At least he’s not calling me Connie, like Charlotte insists on doing. Christ, but I hate that name.

  ‘Good morning to you too, sir. I’m on the A1, northbound.’

  ‘Are you driving?’ As if that’s not obvious from the sound quality of the call.

  ‘Hands-free, sir. All above board.’

  ‘Didn’t know you even owned a car. What are you doing leaving London?’

  The lie comes easily to my lips, even as my brain knows I’m going to pay for it later. ‘Thought I’d take the opportunity to go home for a few days. See the old folks, catch up with friends. Been a while since I had any real leave.’

  ‘Home?’ Bailey manages to make the word sound like he’s unfamiliar with the concept. It wouldn’t surprise me.

  ‘Harston Magna, sir. Little village in Northamptonshire.’

  There’s a pause, and I almost convince myself I can hear pages being shuffled as the detective superintendent looks through my personnel file. ‘I know where it is, Constable. Just surprised. Way I heard it you never really got on with your parents.’

  Way you heard it I was responsible for Pete’s death too. Idiot. ‘They’re not the only family I have there, sir.’

  Another pause, and I realise that he’s not yet come to the point of the call. ‘Well, it’s a bit irregular, dashing off and not letting anyone know.’

  I consider telling him that it’s a bit irregular not posting a uniform officer outside my flat after someone’s broken in and tried to kill me, but I realise the irony would be wasted. Concentrating on the road and not answering seems the better option. Sooner or later he’ll get to the point.

  ‘I need . . . Professional Standards need to know where you are. They’re not done questioning you yet, you know?’

  ‘I’ll be a couple of days tops, sir. It’s not like I’m trying to flee the country or anything. Besides, last time I spoke to PS they said they were done with interviews for the foreseeable.’

  Something that might be a grunt but might equally well be a glitch over the wireless filters out of the tinny speaker on my phone. I jiggle the charging lead I bought for it, just in case it’s not working.

  ‘Would it help if I phoned in my location every day?’ Annoying, I know, but at lea
st it will keep him off my back.

  ‘Better if you stayed in London where we can keep an eye on you.’

  ‘I’d believe that more if you were actually doing it.’ I speak the words under my breath, and yet somehow the phone picks them up. I can almost see Bailey’s face reddening even though this is only a voice call.

  ‘With that sort of attitude it’s no wonder you’re under investigation. I want regular location updates, and I expect you back in London by the start of next week, understood?’

  ‘Sir.’ I keep my tone flat, a little rebellion that’s no doubt completely lost on him. He says something that might be ‘Good’ and then the line goes dead. Call ended, my phone reverts to its satnav function, flashing to tell me my junction is coming up in a few hundred yards. I indicate, pull off, slow down for the roundabout, all the time aware that DS Bailey never told me what he was calling about. It doesn’t matter. The fact that he knew I wasn’t at home is enough to set me on edge. There’s only one way he could have known that.

  There are few places I’d rather visit less than Saint Humbert’s School for young ladies. It sounds like the scene for jolly japes and making friends for life, but in truth it nearly broke me. My parents sent me there as a bewildered seven-year-old, and I grew to both fear and hate its cold corridors and capricious staff. A third of my life, ten long years, I spent in a state of constant, nervous tension. You could never relax there, and home wasn’t much better. It’s hardly surprising I fucked off out of there at the earliest opportunity. I’m not surprised Izzy did the same. She was always a smart kid.

  Originally a priory, the oldest buildings on the site date back to the fourteenth century. Or at least that’s what the teachers used to tell us. Usually with a sneering tone that suggested we’d never amount to anything much, and certainly nothing as venerable as the stone and mortar around us. I loved the grounds, perhaps because they were extensive, heavily wooded and easy to hide in. The rest of it I would happily have seen burned to the ground, a sentiment I wasn’t alone in if the regular fire alarms were anything to go by.

  Thirteen years since I finally left, swearing I’d never go back, my first impressions are of a driveway shorter than I remembered and a collection of buildings less impressive and forbidding. Long before I reach the bleached stone steps leading up to the front door, it opens and a rather sour-faced woman appears from the shadows. There’s no one particular thing about her, but her clothes seem somehow old-fashioned, her hairstyle a little too contrived. She looks no older than me, but at the same time ancient as the hills. I imagine she fits in here perfectly.

  ‘Can I help you?’ At least her voice is modern, not clipped and nasal like some extra from a Carry On movie. Her question leaves me momentarily dumbstruck though. I hadn’t really thought through what I was going to do once I got here.

  ‘Umm. Constance Fairchild. I was a pupil here a few years back.’

  She gives me a look exactly the way Matron used to, back when I was ten. It almost works.

  ‘Look, I’m a police officer, but this is unofficial business. I’ve been asked to look into the whereabouts of Izzy – Isobel DeVilliers. I’m a friend of the family.’

  ‘Isobel. Yes.’ Somehow she manages to put a lifetime of disdain into those two words.

  ‘Look, I know she’s run away. I know it’s not the first time either. I’m not here to judge whose fault that is, just to find out where she’s gone.’

  I’m beginning to feel a bit annoyed by this woman with her slightly sneering expression. If she wasn’t two steps higher up than me I’d be a head taller than her and the peering over the spectacles look wouldn’t be half as effective.

  ‘Not sure how we can help, really. Isobel was put on the train along with a number of other girls. It’s not uncommon once they’re her age, as I’m sure you know. We have no control over her once she’s left the grounds.’

  ‘What about her housemistress? Is she not concerned?’

  The young woman draws herself upright, nostrils flaring as if I’ve insulted her and all her family. ‘I am her housemistress, and I can assure you Harriet House cares deeply for all its girls.’

  That’s not the Harriet House I remember, but I keep that to myself.

  ‘As it happens, I have just been discussing Miss DeVilliers with the headmistress. It’s not a happy situation at all. Quite apart from the girl herself, we’ve the parents of all our other pupils to think about.’

  Of course they do. That’s who pays their salaries, after all. It’s time to take a hold of this situation and start treating it like a proper investigation. Stop acting like the teenager who left here in disgrace. Two quick steps bring me face to face with the woman. ‘If the headmistress is in, I’d probably be best talking to her, then. After that I’ll drop by Harriet if that’s OK?’

  I know the way to the headmistress’s office, of course, but there’s still that ingrained feeling of wrongness about going there. You only ever went because you were being punished, because you had been sent. Still, I square my shoulders, take a deep breath and only pause a few seconds before knocking lightly on the door.

  ‘Enter.’

  One word, one simple little word, and I’m a teenage girl again. Sweat forms on my scalp and under my arms, a clamminess in my hands as my body responds to years of conditioning. It’s stupid, I know. I’m thirty years old, not thirteen. Until a week ago I was a success in my chosen career, someone the pupils here might have looked up to. I’ve interviewed men and women who have murdered people in cold blood, but obeying that command fills me with far greater terror. I’d assumed Mrs Jennings would have retired by now too. It’s been a dozen years since I left this place, after all, and she was ancient then.

  Deep breaths, Con. I grasp the familiar brass handle, shiny with the fear of many thousands of miscreant girls, turn it slowly and push open the door.

  She’s sitting at her desk, horn-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of her nose as she peers over them to see who I am. It’s definitely Mrs Jennings, but she’s smaller than I remember her, shrunken in on herself. Her hair’s more white than grey now, thin like spider silk and clinging to her skin as if she died several years ago but didn’t notice. I wouldn’t put it past her to be so spiteful, even to death.

  ‘Constance Fairchild. Of all the girls I might expect to turn up unannounced . . .’ She doesn’t finish the sentence, instead pushes back her heavy wooden chair and levers herself upright. Her frailty is obvious, as is the way she fights it. There’s a walking stick leaning against the side of the desk, but she leaves it where it is and walks slowly across the room towards me. Then she extends a bony hand, trembling slightly, to be shaken.

  ‘You’ll be here about the DeVilliers girl, no doubt.’ Her touch is warm and dry, almost waxy, like the shed skin of some reptile. Her grip is strong though, and she tugs me towards the far side of the room, where a couple of old high-backed leather armchairs sit either side of an unlit fire. ‘Come, sit.’

  I do as I’m told, remembering these chairs from many a previous visit. I was never allowed to sit in them before, mind you. That was a privilege reserved for prefects and adults.

  ‘They tell me you joined the police force. Service. Whatever they call it these days.’

  ‘That’s true. I’m a detective constable in the Met. Part of a specialist team dealing with organised crime in the capital. It’s . . . interesting work.’

  Those grey eyes might be a bit more clouded than I remember, but they still cut through me as if they can see my thoughts before they form. ‘And Isobel DeVilliers has been abducted by the Notting Hill Mafia?’

  ‘Ha. No. Not exactly. It was her sister, Charlotte, who asked me to look into it. She’s concerned their parents aren’t perhaps as worried as they should be.’

  ‘And the Metropolitan Police are fine with you conducting an informal investigation.’ Mrs Jennings nods like a doddery ol
d lady, but I’m not fooled.

  ‘This has got nothing to do with them. I’m on leave and just asking a few questions. It’s fine if you don’t want to help.’

  Mrs Jennings sits a little more upright, a frown spreading across her lined face, and for a moment I wonder if I’m going to be sent to the changing rooms for a cold shower.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to help, Constance. It’s just that there’s very little I can do. Isobel is a gifted child, but troubled. I seem to remember another young girl in my charge who was much the same, and I didn’t get very far trying to control her either. That little stunt you pulled the day you left is still talked about, you know.’

  I expect chiding in her words, but instead there’s something else. Is it pride? ‘Well, I guess we’re both Harriet girls. I see the new housemistress is just as spiky as her predecessor.’

  ‘Daphne? Yes. She can come across as cold, but she’s good at her job. She worries more about Isobel than she should. Certainly more than her parents seem to care.’

  ‘That’s something I find strange too. I mean, I don’t know the DeVees all that well, but even so. You think they’d have called the police or something. Seems like nobody’s done anything to find Izzy until Charlotte came looking for me. And Char’s never cared about anyone in her life except herself.’

  Mrs Jennings gives me one of those infuriatingly knowing smiles of hers. ‘Oh, I think you do Charlotte a disservice. People change. They grow up and accept their responsibilities. Look at you, after all. Who’d have thought the girl who once smuggled teenage boys into the dorm for an illegal end-of-term party would end up as a pillar of society? A police officer?’

  16

  Mrs Jennings’s parting words echo in my ears as I walk past empty classrooms and across the concrete yard where we all played during break. I can’t stop wondering at how small everything feels, how close together. Yes, I was only little when I first arrived, but by the time I left I was pretty much fully grown. Was my spirit so crushed that only the intervening years have allowed it to grow back to normal size? Is that why it takes just moments to reach the house common room, rather than the age it always seemed to take before?