by Carol Wyer
‘But that’s not all.’ She lowers a voice in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Her mum was discovered asleep in the playground by the swings. She was dead drunk with her knickers around her ankles.’
There are gasps and looks of horror. This information is going to be spread around the school like wildfire and I shall be the butt of jokes again. I’m angry at whoever it was that spotted my mum and spread the news so quickly. I’m angry at Beaky for telling everyone but mostly I am angry with my mum. A rush of sadness overcomes me and I hear my father’s voice telling me to ignore them. I lower my head. I won’t let them see me defeated.
The class falls silent as Mrs France appears near our tables. As juicy as this latest titbit of knowledge is, they know better than to annoy the teacher by talking when they should be working.
I fume quietly, letting Beaky cover the entire poster with bright-coloured writing. I am reluctant to admit it is very eye-catching. Finally the lesson draws to an end. Our poster is chosen as the winner.
‘Well done, Becky and Jody,’ says Mrs France holding up the poster. The class politely applauds and Beaky looks smugger than I’ve ever seen her. The bell rings to signal the end of the lesson and she files out with her stupid friends who congratulate her on a fabulous poster and go with her to watch it being pinned up for all to see. Thanks to all the attention she has forgotten to pick up her precious pencil case. No one spots me as I slide it into my bag and head off. English is the last lesson of the day and we are free to go home. I don’t want to go back to the bungalow. I’m not sure whether my mother will be entertaining men or not. I head to the river where I sit on the bank and watch a pair of ducks bob for food.
After a while, I pull out the pencil case and snap each pencil in half before weighing the entire case down with small stones and throwing it as far as I can into the water. I wish I could weigh Beaky Stone down with something and throw her into the river. My father, who I hear all the time now, whispers, ‘Along with your mother.’
16
‘Abby, Abby?’ Claire spoke softly.
Abigail looked up from the chair. There was a taste of stale vomit in her mouth and her eyes felt like they had sand in them.
‘Abby, are you okay?’ Claire’s face was white with anxiety. ‘Come on, let me help you up. You need to get cleaned up.’
Abby blinked several times and then looked down at her expensive T-shirt now splattered with yellow and brown stains. It stank. ‘Claire, I don’t feel too good.’
‘Come on, hun. Let’s get you cleaned up and into bed. You’ll be fine. You’ve got one of those twenty-four-hour bugs. Zoe had it a while ago. It’s been doing the rounds. Up you get.’ She held out a strong arm and helped Abigail up from the chair.
‘Izzy,’ she said, her mind racing with possibilities.
‘Is fast asleep. Poor little mite. I don’t think she got it as bad as you. She’s out for the count though. Don’t worry. She’ll be fine. I’ll make sure she gets plenty of fluids when she wakes up. Now, get undressed and get into the bath. I’ve put some of the bath oil I came across in the cupboard. Hope that was okay.’
Abigail acquiesced mutely.
* * *
It was several hours later when Abigail awoke once more. Her stomach felt calmer although she still felt disorientated and weak. She eased herself to the edge of the bed and gingerly stood, swaying slightly. The digital clock revealed it was 3.25 in the morning. She had been ill for over twelve hours. She needed to see how Izzy was.
The door to the nursery was ajar and glancing in she spotted Claire, fully dressed, slumped in the chair, with Izzy asleep in her arms. Claire’s glasses were propped on the table next to her. Somehow she looked younger, more vulnerable without them. Abigail felt a surge of affection for her friend who had looked after them in their hour of need. Abigail moved away, and headed downstairs for a drink.
Claire had cleaned the sink and it smelt of lemons. As Abigail stood against it, sipping a glass of water, her mobile rang and she answered quickly, not wanting it to wake anyone. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she hissed into the phone.
‘Feeling better?’ answered the mechanical voice.
‘Leave me alone or I’ll get the police onto you.’
The voice gave a snort of laughter. ‘I hardly think so.’
‘I have evidence,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I have the note you sent me. The one you constructed from newspaper cuttings.’
‘You could have set that up yourself. You don’t have a postmarked envelope,’ said the voice. ‘You have a nice house, Abigail. I like the furnishings. They’re very luxurious. No cheap furniture there. What a shame you’ll lose it all. I’ll contact you again soon. I’ll leave you with the thought that while you’ve been sick, Jackson’s been having a whale of a time.’
The phone went dead.
Abigail shivered. The person had been in her house. She climbed the stairs quietly. There was no sound from the nursery. She tiptoed into her own room and opened the bedside drawer. She knew it was gone before she looked inside. Her knickers that were normally laid neatly in lines now lay haphazardly in the drawer. She would throw them away and replace them. She ought to change the locks but how would she explain that to Jackson without telling him everything? And she couldn’t do that. She would change the burglar alarm code and hope that would keep any further intruders at bay. She could always tell Jackson she felt it was prudent to change the code from time to time. Her heart sank as she acknowledged that someone had removed the note. It was no longer at the bottom of the drawer. Bile filled her mouth and she ran to the toilet.
Claire called through the door. ‘You okay?’
Abigail emerged from the bathroom, wiping her face with a damp flannel.
‘Better now.’
Claire yawned and stretched. ‘I’ll make you some tea.’
‘No, you’ve done enough. Why not nip to the spare room and get some sleep?’
Claire peered at her myopically. ‘If you’re feeling better, I’d rather head off home. I have an early start tomorrow.’
‘You sure? It’s awfully late.’
‘Yes. I’ll need to get my camera and equipment ready. Izzy’s fine. I gave her some water earlier. She’s fast asleep. I put her in her cot.’ Claire stared at a large photograph of Jackson and Abigail. They were wearing beanie hats and gloves and both laughing. ‘I rang Jackson to let him know you were both sick,’ said Claire in a low voice, ‘but his phone went to the messaging service.’
‘He turns his mobile off when he’s flying,’ explained Abigail.
‘Surely he’s reached his destination by now? Doesn’t he stay in contact when he’s away?’
‘Depends what time of the night it is,’ Abigail replied, feeling less confident than she sounded. Ordinarily, if Jackson were out overnight, he would telephone to chat to her if it wasn’t too late when he landed, or at least send a text to tell her he loved her. It niggled her that he hadn’t contacted her this time.
She forced a smile. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow morning and me and Izzy will both feel much better. Thanks to you,’ she added.
‘It’s a good thing I decided to phone you about the teddy bear. Blast! I left it in my flat.’
‘Don’t worry. Izzy has loads of toys. She isn’t going to miss the teddy. I’ll pick it up from you when we next meet up.’
‘Or before. Why not come around this week for coffee at my place? I haven’t got a lot of work on until I do the shoot in Scotland and it would be great to have you over.’
‘Okay. That would be lovely. It seems ages since you and I had time together.’
Abigail watched her friend leave then returned to the kitchen. She was no longer tired but still felt muzzy and confused.
Toffee uncurled from one of the kitchen chairs and gave a plaintive meow. She bent to pick him up, feeling his glossy fur across her face. He purred in contentment as she stroked his soft head, butting her when she stopped and gazing at her with trusting, amber eyes. Ab
igail was not at such ease. The nausea had departed, only to be replaced with a sense of impending doom.
17
It was a warm, muggy night and Robyn was struggling to sleep. Her semi-conscious slumber was filled with troubled dreams that made her fling out arms and legs and groan quietly.
In the latest nightmare, she was wandering around the centre of Marrakesh, the Jemaa el-Fnaa. During the day it was the place of thousands of people, motorbikes, yellow taxis and horses crossing the medina from west to east and south to north. At night, it transformed into a melting pot of noises, smells and activity, as Gnaoua musicians, actors, snake charmers, storytellers, dancers, fortune readers and henna tattoo artists all jostled for space, and aromas of exotic spices and cooked food from the food and drink stands assaulted the senses.
In her dream, it appeared to be evening and she was headed to one of the streets behind the square that led into the medina, a labyrinth of market stalls, scents and colours. She knew she should not go into the area alone but an invisible thread had pulled her in that direction and ignoring the advice that rang in her ears, she strode purposefully towards the tiny streets. Davies had told her to wait for him at the hotel. It was not safe for her to navigate the souk alone, especially at night. He had warned her of danger there. Military intelligence sources had discovered a sect hidden within the city that was planning to plant bombs in the area. He was working with the authorities to apprehend the group who also intended targeting the UK. In spite of that knowledge she walked onwards. She put a hand on her stomach and felt a burst of pride and love for the child that was inside her. She couldn’t wait to share the news with Davies. He was in the souk. She would find him and tell him, and together they would celebrate.
It was chilly in the streets behind the lively square and just as if someone had turned off a switch, she could suddenly no longer hear the musicians parping their trumpets or sense the lively buzz. The silence was eerie and within seconds the street fell into complete darkness. Shadows emerged from buildings and figures filled the narrow street. She cried out for Davies but there was no one other than the stony-faced Arabs who wagged their fingers at her for stupidly entering the medina. One man, much taller than the others and dressed in a long grey djellaba, a rifle slung across his chest, approached her. He towered above her, feet planted to block her route. She suddenly felt fear not just for herself but also for her child as she searched his face. The man resembled Peter Cross, Davies’s superior. But the man in her dream was hostile, so unlike the Peter Cross they had met and dined with, and as he spoke, the face that looked so like Peter’s melted away to reveal another under it, one whose mouth was a cruel slit and who bared his teeth, brown and cracked.
‘You should not have entered the souk,’ he snarled in Arabic. ‘You were told not to. Now you must pay the price.’ In one fluid movement his gun slid into his hands, he gripped it, turned and fired into the distance further up the street. The noise of the explosion rang in her ears for a few moments. The men melted into the street. Her eyes searched in the darkness for the target although she already knew who it was. A sob rose in her throat as flickering orange light from a lamp above a wooden doorway revealed a man prostrate on the ground. He wore the trousers and shirt of a westerner and she identified the shining, brown shoes he had put on that morning. Davies had been cleaning them when she left for her secret appointment with the doctor. She ran towards the man. It was definitely Davies and it was her fault he was dead.
The ground beneath her transformed from a path to a muddy swamp, and each step dragged her down, sucking her into its depth. The souk evaporated. The buildings vanished but she could still see Davies lying prone on the ground, a neat round, red hole in his forehead. Her legs became leaden and she couldn’t reach him. She was now sinking in the mud that was up to her waist and still she sank. She screamed his name but she knew it was too late. He had gone.
Robyn woke with a start, face and head covered in sweat. It was stuffy in the bedroom. The damn dream had rattled her. She had not been to blame for Davies’s death. Then why did she feel so guilty? She opened the window and stared outside. A large white moon cast light over the neighbourhood, illuminating it as if it were daytime. Stars filled the sky. Robyn watched as a fox made its way stealthily under a fence and into the garden bordering hers. It leapt gracefully onto a bin and pulled out the remains of a discarded chicken carcass, and then, dragging its find, headed back the way it had come. Robyn followed its progress as it stole past swings, trampolines and scattered garden furniture, navigating fences and leaping high to reach a garden only a few houses away from her own where it headed to a tumbledown shed in a neglected garden. A small snout appeared from under the building to greet her followed by another and with excited yelps they snuffled around their mother and her find. This maternal act filled Robyn’s heart with an inexplicable sadness. Unable to deal with it she made her way into the spare room and putting on her jogging outfit and trainers she headed outside to run away the pain and anguish.
* * *
The next morning she dropped in at Ross’s office. She only planned on staying for an hour or so. She was moving to police headquarters to continue the investigation. They possessed far more sophisticated software than Ross. She’d only been on the case two days but already it felt like it was moving too slowly. Ross was engrossed in writing a report, two fingers tapping at the keyboard, eyes glued to the screen as he concentrated on his typing.
Robyn slid into her usual seat and typed ‘Farnborough’ into the search engine.
Ross looked over. ‘What are you up to?’
‘You finished that report?’
He beamed at her, the corners of his smile lifting his cheeks. ‘You shouldn’t answer a question with a question but yes, I’ve finished the report and I am now off the case. Robert Brannigan is having a relationship with his friend Anthony Potter. His wife was not as surprised as I expected her to be. Anyway, that’s sorted and if you need a hand, I’m all yours.’ He picked up his e-cigarette and dragged on it. ‘Although I’m sure you’ve got a crack team behind you.’
‘Mulholland’s got most of them tied up on a drugs operation so I’m flying solo at the moment. Your help would be welcome.’
‘Any clues yet?’
‘Not many. I’m looking at Farnborough in Hampshire.’
‘Isn’t that where the airshow is every two years?’
‘You got it. I don’t think aviation was Lucas’s thing. All I have so far is that after many years of not speaking to each other, Paul and Lucas met up at Paul’s house – once, that I can be sure of, but possibly more than that. Soon after that first meeting, Paul Matthews, who rarely left his house, decided he was going to visit a friend in Farnborough but before that happened, he fell over in the woods and died. I need more, Ross. I must find Paul’s laptop to give me an idea of what they were up to.’
‘So what are you going to do next?’
Robyn shut her eyes for a moment. Ross waited while she thought through the possibilities. She drew a deep breath and opened her eyes.
‘We haven’t got much to go on but if I could find that laptop, it might help. Geraldine is a good housekeeper but I bet she hasn’t actually searched for it. As far as she’s concerned it was always on the island in the kitchen so if it isn’t there, it’s gone. I think otherwise. I believe he was working on it before he went for the fateful run and left it somewhere else. I couldn’t nose around while she was there but I happen to know the house is up for sale. I don’t think I’d get a warrant to search the premises either. Mulholland is pretty snowed under and as far as she is concerned this isn’t top priority. And I can’t go back there posing as a buyer in case the cleaner is about and sees me. I don’t suppose you could arrange an appointment for you and Jeanette to go and view it, could you? While you’re there sneak around and see if you can find the laptop. You’re very good at tracking stuff. A human bloodhound when it comes to lost items.’
Ross laughed. ‘J
ust because I uncovered your car keys last week when you’d left them on my desk instead of yours.’
Robyn smiled at him. ‘Well, that and the fact you are thorough. If anyone can find it, you can. That okay with you?’
‘As long as Jeanette doesn’t get any fancy ideas and think we’re moving to a big house in the country, I’ll do it,’ he replied, the lazy grin still stretched across his face. ‘I’ll come up with some subterfuge, get her to distract the estate agent and sneak off.’
‘Great. I’m going to find out more about Paul Matthews and Farnborough and then I’m going to the gym.’
Ross threw her a look.
‘Don’t you dare say anything. I have a marathon to run in a few weeks and I need to train.’
Ross made a sign of zipping his mouth. She sat back with a small sigh. It was true, she had signed up for a ten-kilometre charity run, but the real reason she was going to the gym was different. She wondered how long she was going to be able to keep running from the truth. She shook herself from such gloomy considerations and concentrated on her job.
Ross left her behind the computer where she read through newspaper articles about Paul’s death. Geraldine had said Paul ran most days. He was a healthy man who looked after himself. It was most unfortunate he suffered a heart attack while running, but possible. Robyn mused further then dialled the number for Uttoxeter police station and, identifying herself, asked to speak to the officer who had been called to the scene when Paul’s body had been discovered.
Sergeant Drayton came to the phone, a rustling of papers indicated he was checking his records from that night. He introduced himself then spoke slowly and clearly.
‘Mr Matthews was discovered at nineteen hundred hours on July twenty-fifth by a member of the public,’ he said. ‘A Julian Crow from Abbots Bromley was walking his dog in the woods by Blithfield Reservoir and came across the body of a man. He immediately rang for assistance and although paramedics arrived quickly, Mr Matthews was declared dead at the scene.’
