Hiding in Plain Sight

by Susan Lewis

  ‘Yes, he rang me back just before I called you. He’s in the Lake District for the next couple of days, taking a break with his brother and sister-in-law, but he’ll be home on Thursday. He’s asked if I can go on Friday.’

  ‘OK, what time?’

  ‘After ten in the morning. Apparently his wife has Alzheimer’s and she goes to a group therapy session at nine thirty. He’s recommended a place for me to stay the night before. The Bell at Skenfrith.’

  ‘I know it. Is that where he lives? Skenfrith?’

  ‘Apparently, yes.’

  ‘Did you tell him Penny was back?’

  ‘I did. He went silent on me. I thought he’d rung off, but then he said, “Yes, come and see me. It’s time we had a talk.”’

  Chapter Nine

  She could see Penny ripping into dolls with a knife, stabbing, tearing, gouging out eyes, slicing off fingers, amputating toes. The dolls were Andee’s, no longer played with, passed on with love to her sister and destroyed by the inner demons that had powered Penny’s growing jealousy. The violence of the dream was still so intense that the very air seemed to crackle and vibrate with it. Maureen was shaking, sitting up in bed, trying to breathe, to shut out the grotesque images that had no place in reality.

  Or did they? Had it happened, or was it a figment of her tormented imagination?

  It was the suspicion of Penny being involved in John Victor’s death that had stirred up the terrible dream, Maureen was certain of that, but thankfully the images were beginning to fade.

  Tears continued to run down her cheeks as she lay in the darkness with no sounds to disturb or distract her. Life had never been easy for Penny. She’d forever been losing friends, making new ones only to lose them too. Teachers found her helpful one day, distant and dismissive the next, and Maureen had always known they didn’t like her. Other parents never seemed thrilled to see her, the way they often were with Andee, and Maureen had seen how hurt Penny had been by that. It had made her feel more protective of her youngest, but she’d clearly never done a good enough job.

  Knowing she wouldn’t sleep again for a while, she took herself downstairs to make some tea. She was still feeling shaky, inundated and disoriented. Having shut out so much for so long, it was as though it was all suddenly trying to come back at once, in her waking moments and in her dreams. Her poor mind was struggling to separate fact from fear, to sort dates and times, to know what had really been said and what hadn’t, where blame lay and guilt had a rightful home.

  Memory wasn’t infallible, especially at her age. It had ways of colouring, distorting events that might not even be real.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Maureen started and turned to find Blake in the doorway, looking sleepy and concerned. Remembering that he and Jenny had come to stay while Andee was in Wales, she felt glad he was there. ‘Had a bit of a dream,’ she confessed. ‘I’m sorry if I woke you.’

  Dismissing it, Blake said, ‘Would you rather be alone?’

  ‘No. I mean, please don’t stay up on my account …’

  ‘I’d like some tea, if you’re making it.’

  A few minutes later they were sitting at the table, gazing into their mugs with the early-morning seconds ticking by and the sound of a brisk wind whistling in the chimney.

  ‘They were very different,’ Maureen stated after a while. ‘Andee was so easy whereas Penny …’ With a catch in her voice she said, ‘I loved her just as much, but I don’t think I showed it or told her often enough.’ Her tired eyes flickered briefly to Blake and away again. ‘I couldn’t reach her the way I could Andee. Sometimes she was like an adult before her time. She would look at me in a way that just didn’t seem right for a girl her age. And yet she could be such a child, needy, insecure, and she’d put on baby voices … Her father hated it when she did that. He’d get cross with her, and she’d do it even more, either to annoy him, or because she couldn’t help herself. I’ve never been sure.’

  ‘She was obviously a complex child,’ Blake said softly.

  Maureen nodded, thinking that complex was putting it mildly, kindly. ‘She’d lie and steal,’ she confessed, ‘mock people who were worse off than herself, and yet at the same time she could be the kindest, most generous person in the world. She’d come up with ways to make money for good causes, dance-a-thons, cake bakes, fancy-dress walks … Everyone used to flock to her then, wanting to be part of the fun. They were full of praise … I think she wanted it from her father most of all, but he wasn’t good at expressing his feelings. He was proud of what she did, of course, but I don’t think she could see it. All she saw was how proud he was of Andee.’ Her eyes went back to Blake’s as a cold dread ran through her. It wasn’t the first time this random fear had come back to her, but this time it was so clear and persistent that she couldn’t move past it.

  Apparently sensing some sort of change, Blake remained silent, allowing her to decide whether or not she wanted to carry on.

  Eventually, in a voice that was barely audible, Maureen said, ‘I never met the child. She was in the same class as Penny, and everyone said what a lovely girl she was. They were on a school trip to Canterbury Cathedral and there was … there was a terrible accident … One of the girls tripped and fell off a pavement into an oncoming bus.’

  Blake’s breathing had all but stopped.

  ‘Why,’ Maureen asked helplessly, ‘would Penny choose, all these years later, to use that poor little girl’s name?’

  Blake took a breath. ‘Are you talking about Michelle Cross?’ he asked quietly.

  Maureen blinked and looked away. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Yes I am.’

  Andee and Graeme had just returned from an early-morning hike along Offa’s Dyke and were now slumped at each end of a cosy sofa in front of the inglenook fireplace at the Bell in Skenfrith. It was a welcoming old coaching inn at the edge of the village, where castle ruins imposed their grandeur from behind a derelict mill and the River Monnow flowed and gushed and meandered its way south to join the Wye.

  Their reunion last night, after not quite two weeks, in one of the pub’s luxurious guest rooms, had taken precedence over everything else, and during their walk this morning Andee had encouraged Graeme to share his memories of bringing his sons to the area, to fish, or canoe, or climb Coedanghred Hill, otherwise known as Heart Attack Hill. There would be time enough later to focus on her issues, she’d decided, and she was enjoying learning more about him.

  She was also intrigued, as was he, by the young guy in leathers who’d arrived on a motorbike just after they had last night. He’d appeared for dinner with an iPod plugged into his jug ears and a phone never far from his fingertips. He’d barely acknowledged them, in spite of Graeme’s cheery hello.

  There was no sign of him now, nor of anyone else, as coffee was served along with a delicious assortment of pastries and a menu for more if required.

  ‘Do you think it’s safe to talk?’ Graeme asked, clearly enjoying the cloak and dagger of it all.

  Smiling, Andee said, ‘We’ve got nothing to hide, so why not? What’s on your mind?’

  With twinkling eyes he said, ‘I confess I’m intrigued to know what you’re going to find out today. Did you tell Trowbridge I’d be with you?’

  ‘I did and he’s fine with it. He sounded very together, as a matter of fact; he didn’t even seem to have a problem hearing, and he must be close to ninety by now.’

  ‘What’s important is how clear his memory is, and from the response you’ve got so far I think we can assume it’s pretty well intact. Are you nervous?’

  ‘A little.’ She checked her phone as it rang. ‘It’s Blake,’ she said, surprise turning quickly to concern. ‘He and Jenny stayed with Mum last night,’ she explained, clicking on. ‘Hi, is everything OK?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Blake assured her. ‘Maureen’s sleeping in. She had a broken night …’

  ‘Did she hear from Penny?’

  ‘No, it was a dream, but she asked me to let you know
that she’s remembered why the name Michelle Cross was familiar to her.’

  As Andee listened to the explanation her insides turned to liquid. Of course. Why hadn’t it come to her before? She might have been at another school when it happened, but she remembered the tragedy, she just hadn’t remembered the child’s name. Then, realising what her mother was really thinking, her head started to spin. ‘Did anyone ever say that it might not have been an accident?’ she finally asked.

  ‘Your mother doesn’t think so,’ Blake replied, ‘but apparently Penny had fallen out with the girl over something, Maureen can’t recall what. She thinks it might have had something to do with Christmas.’

  An hour later, aware of their fellow guest in leathers rambling at a distance behind them like a fascinated tourist, Andee and Graeme strolled through Skenfrith village where sweet peas tumbled over drystone walls, and the medieval church of St Bridget’s with its dovecote belfry and red sandstone walls watched over its visitors and residents with a benevolent air. The cottages were small and quaint; the sky overhead was blue, while the hills cradling the community’s hollow were towering and green.

  ‘I wonder if he knows Penny as Michelle Cross?’ Andee murmured as the pale-haired man with apple cheeks and a bow-legged gait stopped to consult a map. Why on earth had Penny chosen that name when she, of all people, would remember what had happened? It wasn’t good, in fact it was downright horrible.

  ‘Shall we ask him?’ Graeme suggested mischievously.

  Though tempted, if only to let Penny know that her tracker had been rumbled, Andee shook her head and slipped her hand into his. She was so glad to have him here, and so moved by how close they’d been last night, and even now simply walking side by side, that she suspected she was falling quite deeply in love with him. And what a wonderful place it was to be.

  After only a few minutes they reached the gate to the last small white house on the right. ‘Not the bigger, smart-looking place that’s next door,’ Gerry Trowbridge had told her. ‘I’m afraid ours is a bit run-down these days, but you’ll recognise it from the birdhouse in the front garden, and the glorious bundles of buddleia that seem to be trying to take us over.’

  As Graeme pushed open the gate Andee glanced back down the street to where their shadow appeared to be reading something in the parish hall window. When he looked her way she gave him a little wave and stepped in behind Graeme as a formally dressed, rangy man with wispy tufts of grey hair clinging to a balding scalp, droopy red cheeks and watery brown eyes came down the path to greet them. Were it not for his stoop he’d probably have been as tall as Graeme, but as it was he was closer to Andee’s height, and seemed as fragile, yet durable as the cane assisting his progress.

  ‘Andee,’ he said warmly as Graeme moved aside to let her through. ‘It’s been so many years.’ He clasped his arthritic hands around hers, and smiled into her eyes. ‘I remember you well, my dear. Your father was always so proud of you.’

  ‘Hello, Gerry,’ she said, hoping it was all right to be informal. ‘It’s good to see you. You’re looking …’

  ‘Old,’ he interrupted with a chuckle, ‘because I am. I’ll be ninety in a couple of years, if I make it till then. And you must be Graeme. Welcome, I’m very glad to meet you. Any friend of Andee’s is a friend of mine.’

  ‘Are you going to keep them standing around out there?’ a voice called from inside.

  ‘We’re on our way,’ he responded, adding so only Andee and Graeme could hear, ‘My daughter-in-law. She insisted on coming to make sure you had uncracked cups to drink from and well-plumped cushions to sit on.’

  ‘I’m Meryl,’ a cheery-faced, chubby little woman with a melodic Welsh accent and pink-rimmed glasses informed them, as Trowbridge ushered them into what he called the best room. ‘I live over by Abergavenny, so not far away,’ she chatted on. ‘I generally call in here a couple of times a week to make sure they’re still breathing. It’s a bit doubtful sometimes, but today’s a good one. I won’t stay, because I haven’t been invited to, but there’s a nice pot of tea on the table there, and I baked the biscuits myself.’

  ‘She thinks they’re delicious,’ Trowbridge declared, ‘and none of us have the heart to enlighten her.’

  ‘You haven’t got a heart,’ she countered cheerily. ‘Now, don’t go overdoing things, I don’t want to be calling an ambulance, they’ve got better things to be doing with their time than fussing about with you.’

  Amused by the banter, Andee and Graeme said a reluctant farewell to the twinkling Meryl. Andee set about pouring the tea after Meryl had popped back to warn them not to let her father-in-law near the pot, unless they wanted to drink out of their laps.

  ‘She’s a cruel woman,’ Trowbridge sighed as the door closed behind her, ‘and I don’t know where any of us would be without her. She’s a saint with my wife, and I can tell you it needs a saint to be dealing with her at times. Terrible business, Alzheimer’s, but I can’t put her in a home. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘How long has she been ill?’ Graeme asked.

  ‘She was diagnosed six years ago.’ With a shaking hand he brought a dainty cup to his mouth and flinched as the hot tea scalded his lip. ‘But you didn’t come here to discuss my problems,’ he said, putting the cup down again, ‘so I shall wade right in, if I may, and ask if you’re sure it’s Penny.’

  ‘As sure as I can be,’ Andee replied. Then added, ‘Yes, it’s her.’

  ‘And where has she been for all this time?’

  Having half hoped he’d be able to tell her that, Andee hid her disappointment as she said, ‘You don’t seem to doubt my word.’

  ‘I don’t,’ he confirmed. ‘Is this the first time she’s made contact in all these years?’

  Andee glanced at Graeme. ‘It is,’ she confirmed, adding, ‘You sound as though you knew she was alive when the suspicion, or the general belief, was that she’d killed herself.’

  ‘Mm,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘I was never convinced by that suicide note, any more than your father was. Of course, we couldn’t discount it, it was definitely written by her, but there were other circumstances …’ His rheumy eyes moved to Graeme and back to Andee. ‘I’m sure you remember your uncle, John Victor,’ he said.

  Andee tensed as she nodded.

  Trowbridge gave a grunt of dislike. ‘I met a lot of worthless individuals during my time on the force, it goes with the job … He was right up there with the worst of them.’

  ‘So she was with him when she left?’ Andee prompted.

  ‘Him and others.’

  ‘How did you know?’ Astonished that the police had known where Penny was, Andee bit her tongue, determined to hear the rest of the story first.

  Sitting back in his chair, he steepled his gnarly fingers as he let his mind travel across the years to those distant days. ‘The first time she went,’ he began, ‘she was only thirteen. I believe she’d told your parents she was going to stay with a friend, but when she didn’t come back after a couple of days they found out the friend didn’t exist. We, the police, were already organising a search when your grandmother rang your father to say that Penny was at her place. That was only good news until your grandmother told your father who else was there and what was going on. It was very upsetting for the poor dear, I remember how she tried to blame herself, as if anything like that could possibly be her fault. When we got there there was no sign of Victor, he’d taken off as soon as he found out his mother had called us, but Penny was still there. She told us she didn’t want to leave. She was enjoying herself, she said, as if we ought to be pleased for her in some way.’ Trowbridge shook his ancient head in dismay. ‘Such attitude she had, and she was still so young. She kicked up badly when your father and I grabbed her and carried her out to the car.’

  He sighed unsteadily and leaned forward to take another sip of his tea. ‘I’m not sure how long it was before she disappeared again,’ he continued, ‘but the next time we knew where to look. Not her grandmother’s, sh
e didn’t go there, but she was with Victor all right, at a big house in Chelsea, and I mean big. It belonged to some Russian, I forget his name; it was a long time ago.

  ‘He’d rented the place for his people, we were told, and by people no one was meaning family. Don’t ask me where Victor fitted into the picture, I guess he was some sort of drone, you know, one of those types that the very rich and crooked usually surround themselves with … A court jester, a facilitator – who knew what his role was? He must have had one, because he was clearly at home there, and didn’t seem in the least bit upset that we’d found him. I guess, when you’re surrounded by thugs and hitmen and they’re on your side, you can afford to be cocky.

  ‘We didn’t have to tell him why we were there, he told us. He even took us to Penny. There she was, lying on the bed, drugged or drunk, we didn’t know which, and not wearing very much. She was just about conscious, enough to tell us to get the hell out, not using those words exactly, far more colourful. Thirteen years old and she was behaving like a …’ He caught himself. ‘She was like a woman twice her age, and she was clearly learning from the girls she was mixing with.’

  ‘Who were they?’ Andee asked.

  ‘A lot were foreign. In fact, I think they all were, or the ones we met, and of course none of them could speak English, or so they claimed. We didn’t press it, not then, we just wanted to get her out as fast as we could. She didn’t come without a fight, but we got her home eventually and your father tried just about every way he could think of to deal with her. Nothing worked, because she just kept on going back. We always found her in the same place, and because the “people” didn’t want any trouble they usually took us right to her and even helped us to get her out to the car. It damned near broke your father’s heart, I can tell you. Well, it did in the end. We know that.’