The Sting of Death

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Well this isn’t going to get us anywhere,’ he said briskly. ‘Mrs Stacey at ten thirty; Mr French at one. Things to do, partner. No time for idle gossip.’

  The ringing of the telephone seemed to confirm his words and Maggs reached to answer it with a cheeky smirk.

  Sheena had felt a powerful need to escape after that morning’s visit from the police. She’d found it so unendurable at the farm that she’d gone into town, to her office, smiling bravely at her colleagues and then plunging into sales figures, finding to her relief that it was perfectly possible to forget what had happened so long as there was something else to focus on. She knew that most people would find this inhuman, even insane – that they could never understand how rows of dry figures could in any way oust the horrors of her own child being lost, but so it was. Somebody, she told herself, would be looking after Georgia. Somebody always did, after all. If not Justine, then somebody else.

  She worked until mid-afternoon and then went out into the street looking for something to eat. There was a teashop on the corner, but at the door she stopped, seeing clusters of people at the tables who might have read the reports of the missing child in the morning paper, or seen it on television. They might recognise her and whisper, which would be intolerable. So she crossed the street and went into a small newsagent’s, where she bought a packet of crisps.

  She did not go back to work, but instead climbed into her car, her mobile firmly switched off, and just drove aimlessly for over an hour. Finally, aware that she could no longer avoid the many grim realities at Gladcombe, she turned for home. If she drove slowly, it would be nearly six when she got there. The sun would be sinking on the second day since everything began to unravel. All she had to do was to take it one minute at a time and eventually there’d be answers, things would come right, Georgia would be found safe and well and Philip would beg her forgiveness.

  Driving through the sunlit countryside, she tentatively permitted her thoughts to return to recent bewildering events. It had, of course, absolutely served her right. She’d been a lousy mother. She didn’t deserve little Georgia who’d been so good and quiet and neglected and unprotected. She’d seen the looks the child had occasionally given her: wary and bewildered as if she couldn’t understand why there was always such a distance between them. Why her mother never seemed to keep still long enough for a long lazy cuddle. Why she never had a story read to her or a game played with her. Sheena couldn’t pretend to herself that she’d been anything like an adequate parent. She hadn’t liked the role, had chafed under the responsibility and the constant nagging knowledge that Georgia needed and expected much more from her than she was ever going to get.

  Justine had been a godsend. Although refusing to act as full-time childminder, she’d been taking on more and more evening and weekend babysitting. She and the little girl had obviously established a rapport, laughing together, wandering off hand in hand to pick flowers or watch birds. Sheena had felt nothing but relief as she heard the laughter. Georgia came in tired and went to bed unprotesting on the light summer evenings of the past few months. Several times Justine had put the child to bed, even if Sheena had been at home and perfectly capable of doing it herself. Justine had read a bedtime story, tucked her in and kissed her.

  The idea that somehow this same Justine had kidnapped the child was very hard to swallow. Now it seemed there was some other explanation – some other person had gone off with her child. This was unaccountable, but nonetheless true. She wasn’t even particularly angry about it. It seemed too strange for that. She was numb, shocked. She’d become a victim and she did not like that at all. Inside her was a dark mass, composed of tangled feelings that were better unacknowledged. It wasn’t so difficult to act the part of the panic-stricken mother, tinged with rage at the person responsible, plus a dash of the guilt that all mothers are supposed to feel. Even Philip seemed to be convinced. But Sheena couldn’t pretend to herself that this was anything close to the reality.

  Penn woke late and for a moment had no idea where she was. The room was featureless: pale cream walls, sunlight flickering through light blue curtains; a television attached to the wall in a strange unfamiliar way. Hotel she remembered. I’m in a hotel.

  She hadn’t brought a watch or clock with her, and had no idea of the time. It had to be nine or later, judging by the strength of the sunlight. The only way to find out was to switch on the TV and she fumbled with the remote control that was lying on the bedside cabinet.

  Her guess had been spot on. The channel she selected at random informed her that it was nine o’clock and therefore time for a news summary. Before she could properly concentrate the smiling announcer had begun to read the headlines. ‘Police are increasingly concerned for the wellbeing of three-year-old Georgia Renton, apparently missing since last Thursday from her home near Exeter. There is growing evidence that Georgia has been abducted. Her parents are unable to account for her movements since Thursday, due to a misunderstanding as to who was taking care of her. The police are urgently requesting any information concerning the child.’ A photo showing Georgia in blue dungarees was briefly flashed up, as the woman finished the item.

  Penn snorted to herself. The report was nonsensical as it stood. The parents didn’t know where she was; the police didn’t know where she was – so why hadn’t the blindingly obvious explanation occurred to them?

  * * *

  Having comprehensively failed in all enquiries and searches via the telephone and computer, DI Hemsley ratcheted up the investigation considerably that morning. ‘Cooper – back to the farm. Take a search team with you and concentrate on buildings, the Pereira girl’s cottage, woodlands. Make the parents think we’re pulling out all the stops. They know we’ve located Justine Pereira, minus the child. They’re going to be a lot more worried on hearing that, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Have you tapped their phone?’ Den asked.

  Hemsley nodded uncomfortably. ‘Don’t like doing it without telling them, but given all the doubts about them, it seemed sensible. No results, though. Nothing in or out. Except maybe that in itself is a result. Wouldn’t you think they’d want to tell people the news? And wouldn’t friends and relations have seen the media by now and be clamouring for details?’

  ‘They’re very odd people,’ said Den.

  ‘So off you go. I want to feel we’ve got somewhere by lunchtime.’

  Den left the search team working through the numerous farm buildings, and set off down the track to Justine’s cottage. The Rentons had evidently spent a restless night, receiving him with pale tense faces, but still apparently in firm control.

  ‘Decided to take this seriously at last?’ Philip said with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘We’ve never doubted that this is serious,’ Den told him. ‘We’ve been putting in a great deal of effort following up on everything you’ve told us. This morning we’re giving the whole farm an inch-by-inch search, starting with the outbuildings. I would like to see Miss Pereira’s pottery workshop, if you’d just come and open it for me.’

  ‘It isn’t locked,’ Sheena said. Den gave her his full attention. She was restless, twitchy, almost dancing on the spot.

  ‘Mrs Renton,’ he started to say. ‘Are you …?’ He wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask her. Are you all right? sounded crass, in the circumstances.

  ‘I need to know how much longer this is all going to take,’ she burst out. ‘It’s a week now. Where is she?’ She looked at her husband, not the detective, as she said this. ‘Do you think somebody’s hurt her? Surely nobody would do that? Not Georgia.’

  ‘Nobody’s hurt her,’ said her husband wearily. ‘I keep telling you, there’ll be a rational explanation.’

  ‘But what?’

  He’d merely shaken his head at that.

  Justine’s pottery workshop was a surprise. It was bigger inside than he’d expected from the overgrown shed it had appeared from the lane; a good eighteen feet long by nine or ten wide, with a sturdy bench runn
ing down one side. A fair-sized kiln stood on a low brick platform at the end, a potter’s wheel sat proudly in the middle of the floor space, and free-standing shelving holding scores of pieces of pottery ran down the side opposite the bench. The majority of items were made of terracotta, and a red dust filmed the floor, walls and surfaces. Plastic buckets with lids were ranged beneath the bench, and jars with paintbrushes standing in them were clustered in one area. Coloured pictures were tacked up on the walls, presumably for their design potential. Some were abstract, some close-ups of flowers or stone walls, some were of natural scenes, mainly favouring trees or mountains. In short, Den concluded, this was the workplace of a very committed and active potter.

  Unlike the cottage, here everything seemed to have been tidied up, washed, lidded, stacked, as if the owner had intended to be absent for a time. But perhaps that was a necessary discipline of the work? If you left the lid off a bucket of clay, it would dry out. Dimly recalling pottery classes at school, with the teacher boning on endlessly about putting everything away, and making sure the air could get to some things and not others, Den nodded to himself.

  Even if Justine had fully intended to come back next morning, she’d probably have left it all just the way he saw it now.

  Before leaving, he gave the finished pots a closer inspection. On the red terracotta were slashed thick black designs. A lot of the pieces seemed to be plant holders, but in strange shapes, defying gravity, pots leaning out from other pots, so a single piece had space for five or six plants, all facing different ways, large and small, high and low. Although no expert, he could see that considerable talent had gone into the making of these objects.

  But there was nothing to suggest that a small girl had ever been in here. Justine might be an affectionate babysitter, but she hadn’t let Georgia play with clay, as far as he could see. No small misshapen efforts, no low-level corner where a child could have her own worktable. Pottery for Justine Pereira had clearly been a serious adult matter.

  Leaving the shed, closing it carefully behind him, he stepped out into the lane again. Something prompted him to turn right, continuing down towards a clump of trees rather than returning to the farmyard. There were signs of vehicular use, with marks of large tractor tyres just visible on either side of the grass that grew down the centre of the track. A well-built dry-stone wall ran along one side, unusual in a Devon setting. The trees were good-sized, mainly oak and ash, as remnant of a much larger stretch of woodland, he surmised. The track ran directly into it, and presumably through it to whatever fields lay beyond. He was just about to turn back when a glint of metal caught his eye, a short way into the wood.

  He knew right away that it must be a car, and remembered Justine’s assumption that her Metro must be hidden amongst the trees. Striding quickly down the last few yards of the track, he found a beige Metro tucked between two large trees, its nose tilted downwards. Another two feet and it would have been in a rough brambled area from which it would never have driven out again unaided.

  Intrigued, Den tried the driver’s door, which opened at his touch. Inside, the floor was muddy, the seats scattered with an assortment of objects – newspapers, sweet wrappers, tapes and their empty plastic cases, a jacket and a paperback book. There was also a black handbag, which he examined carefully. It contained a jumble of paper: receipts from petrol stations mostly, plus a purse, diary, cheque book, a bubble pack of pills and a pair of dark brown tights. Before removing the bag for safe keeping, he automatically noted that there were no seat belts on the back seat and that the one on the front passenger side appeared to be jammed at full stretch and therefore useless.

  This, assuredly, was Justine Pereira’s car. If it had been used to drive a small girl away on a camping trip, then the child could not have been securely strapped in. There were no toys, nothing obvious to suggest that Georgia had ever been inside this car. ‘Forensics’ll have to see this,’ Den muttered, carefully closing the car door again.

  Initially he intended to go straight back to Philip Renton and confront him with his discovery. It made nonsense of the man’s story and Den wanted to see his face when he realised he’d been caught out. But caution prevailed. There was a chance that things could get out of hand and he ought to be prepared. He went to find two of the officers searching the buildings and told them of his find.

  ‘Pete, you call a forensics team,’ he ordered. ‘Ben, you’d better come with me.’

  When Philip Renton opened the door, Den spoke curtly. ‘Excuse the intrusion, sir, but I seem to have found Miss Pereira’s car in the woods down there—’ he waved in the appropriate direction. ‘There’s a forensics team on its way, who’ll be examining it for the traces of your daughter. Meanwhile, perhaps we could have another word with you?’

  Without waiting for invitation, he stepped into the house, followed by Constable Ben Wilson. Renton was pale but composed. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ he said calmly.

  Den led the way into the living room, with a window overlooking the yard. ‘Mr Renton, you’ll be aware that this development throws considerable doubt on the story you’ve told us. If it’s true that you watched the car leave, containing Justine and your little girl, how would you explain the fact that the same car is now in the wood on your property?’

  ‘She must have come back,’ Renton said with a shrug, that was aborted just too late. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, but I was telling you the truth. I waved them off last Thursday morning. Are you sure it’s the same car?’

  ‘I am. Miss Strabinski gave me the registration number, and this one is the same.’

  ‘Penn knew the car number?’ Renton blew out his cheeks. ‘Amazing.’

  Den ignored this. ‘How was your daughter secured in the car?’

  ‘What?’ Renton met his gaze his eyes steady. ‘Well, I suppose she wasn’t. She was kneeling on the back seat, waving at me through the rear window. I don’t think Justine’s seatbelts work very well.’

  Den was struck by the impression that this latest news had done nothing to increase the father’s anxiety. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘how does this affect your thoughts on where your daughter might be?’

  Renton shook his head. ‘I have no idea,’ he confessed. ‘Perhaps the car wasn’t performing properly and she came back, dumped it, then set off again. There’s a bus that passes the end of the lane every afternoon. She might have taken that instead.’

  ‘Why would she dump it down in the woods, where nobody could see it?’

  ‘So we wouldn’t worry,’ returned the man glibly.

  ‘Why not leave a note or try to get your help with the car? Why would she be so desperate to get away?’

  Renton sighed. ‘Who can say? Justine was never easy to predict. She might have got some idea in her head. Georgia might have thrown a tantrum at the thought of the holiday not happening after all. I don’t know,’ he finished, uselessly.

  Den concluded that he was getting nowhere. ‘We’ll have to wait for the forensic findings,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile I’d be grateful if you could stay here. I must say I’m very surprised to find Mrs Renton away from home at such a time.’

  ‘She needs to be doing something. It was driving her crazy cooped up here. I think she’s best out of it, quite frankly. She’ll come back when she’s ready. She’s only gone to the office.’

  ‘I take it we can contact her by phone if necessary?’

  ‘Of course.’ Renton leant confidentially towards Den. ‘She’s worried about her latest sales drive, you see. She doesn’t think they can manage without her. Either that, or she’s scared they’ll manage so well they’ll decide she’s not such a big cheese after all. The job always did come first.’

  Den’s growing suspicion that there was something close to insane about the whole Renton family was strengthened by this bizarre little speech. He indicated with a jerk of his head to Ben that they should leave. ‘If there’s no more you can tell us about the car, we’ll return to our search,’ he said.


  ‘There’s no more I can tell you,’ Renton insisted. ‘I’m as mystified as you are, Sergeant. All we want is for you to find our little girl safe and sound.’

  Roma felt drained. Laurie’s abrupt departure immediately after breakfast had been a bad shock to her system, hinting as he had of illness as one reason for his escape. Roma did not cope well with illness of any description. Those who knew her best would go further and claim that she was completely terrified of it.

  ‘What’s the matter with Laurie?’ Justine had demanded. ‘He looked awful.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all got a bit much for him,’ Roma tried for an airy tone. ‘He says he’s going off for a few days’ peace and quiet.’

  ‘He doesn’t look very well to me,’ Justine persisted. ‘Is he going to see a doctor?’

  ‘Certainly not. He’s perfectly all right. He just doesn’t like this sort of disturbance.’

  Both women knew they were on the thinnest of ice, through which they could not afford to fall at this particular moment. Reluctantly, Justine backed away. ‘Okay,’ she muttered.

  Now she was back in her room, confronting Roma yet again with curt questions. ‘So what about the Rentons? And Penn?’

  Roma took a moment to savour the mixture of irritation and relief she felt. Anything was better than discussing Laurie. ‘I think the police came close to believing you,’ she said. ‘That woman especially. She was watching you the whole time.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘And me what?’

  ‘Do you believe me?’

  Roma heaved a sigh. ‘It isn’t quite that simple. But I don’t see why you’d stick to such a daft story if it wasn’t true. And I think you are genuinely bothered about the little girl. And I tend to think you haven’t been carrying on with the Renton man. Not having met any of these people, it’s difficult to form a proper judgment.’