“They took my phone, and my bag,” I say.
“Oh, no,” she replies. “That seems unnecessary.”
“They don’t think I’ve got…”
“I don’t know what they think.”
She picks at the skin next to her thumbnail, pulling off a tiny shred.
“Mum,” I say, pointing. “Don’t.”
She smiles at me and sits on her hands. “Thing is,” she says in the end. And then she stops again, swallowing and nodding her head as she speaks, as if she’s explaining it to herself as much as me. “The police.” She pauses. “The police seem to think I might have somehow done something with him.” She looks up, her lip wobbling. She gulps air, and stifles a sob, but the words that follow are barely even a whisper. “It’s the blood in the car. I told them that it happened this morning…” She stops and wipes the heels of her palms over her eyes. “But I’m not sure they believe me. That’s why they’ve taken your bag – it’s the blood, Viv. The stupid blood.”
“Oh, Mum,” I say, squeezing on to the sofa alongside her and linking my arm through hers. “But there wasn’t very much of it. And it was on my bag too – and I told them I’d had a bit of a – you know, scrap, with him. They surely don’t think you’ve got anything to do with this. It’s Noah being an idiot. It must be. He’s trying to teach his parents a lesson, surely.”
“Hmmm.” Mum blows her nose and fiddles with the skin on the edge of her nail again. Her fingers are raw. She looks to one side. “Do you remember Sanjeev?”
“Yes,” I say. “He was lovely. You went out bowling with him, didn’t you?”
Mum nods. “It got complicated. He had a child, and there was you, and babysitting, and I – probably wasn’t really ready.” A shadow of sadness settles over her blotchy face.
“What about him?” I ask.
“Well, he’s disappeared too. He didn’t turn up to collect his daughter from school.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s Noah’s rugby teacher – the coach of the team. He didn’t finish the day at St David’s, and now he’s missing too.”
“And you think they think you’re working together? That you’ve both kidnapped Noah?” I look at Mum. She nods.
“But they can’t think that, surely. You haven’t seen him for years, have you? And he’s a nice guy – he’d never do anything stupid like that. He doesn’t need the money, does he?”
Mum sighs. “Probably he doesn’t. And you’re right, Sanjeev is a lovely man. I do hope you’re right, that Noah’s run off and hidden somewhere. But his mum, poor Julia, she’s completely devastated by it. She’s in bits.”
Between the slats of the blind I peer out into the courtyard. The police cars are still there, but their lights have stopped flashing. The front door opens and I see Chris Mumford come down the steps and clamber into his Land Rover. His walk is heavy, his face exhausted. The door to the house closes and I can only imagine what is going on inside.
* * *
Later, I lie in the dark listening to leaves falling from the beech trees outside, and wondering.
If this is Noah’s idea of a joke, then he’s stringing it out. I really thought he might have gone to hide in the car. And then got scared when darkness crept into the quarry. And got stuck. And I kind of imagined myself rescuing him and telling him not to be so stupid and bringing him home to his parents and being hailed a bit of a hero.
That’s sort of how I imagined it. But he wasn’t there.
My dream-me runs around the entire estate, the village and even Alchester itself trying to find his hiding place.
Eventually, I fall asleep.
* * *
Banging wakes me. It’s our front door but Mum’s there before me. Tai is dancing around her feet, yapping.
It’s completely dark outside and a strange policewoman steps into our hallway. She doesn’t seem to notice me and fixes on Mum. I glance at the oven clock: it’s six fifteen. Middle of the night.
“Mrs Lin, would you come in to answer a few questions, please? And make a statement.”
“Now?” says Mum, pulling her dressing gown cord tight around her middle.
“If you wouldn’t mind. There’s been a development,” says the policewoman.
“What?” says Mum. “Have you found him?”
The policewoman says nothing but stands in the open doorway letting the wind and leaves in and the warmth out.
“What about Viv? How will she get to school?” says Mum.
“She’ll be fine. Lady Belcombe says she can stay in the house.”
* * *
I watch Mum leave. She waves from the back of the police car and shortly afterwards I perch on one of the dead cow sofas in Blackwater House, wearing my school uniform at six thirty in the morning. Lady Belcombe stands next to me, tears streaming down her face, and I feel awkward. Almost more awkward than I’ve ever felt. If she was Mum, I’d give her a hug, but she isn’t. She’s just a woman we’ve lived next door to for practically my entire life.
And she may be missing her son, but I’m missing my mum.
She nibbles at a nail and checks and rechecks her phone. Her anxiety is almost another person in the room. This must be driving her mad, not knowing. Lady B always knows everything.
As if she’s suddenly noticed me, she blows her nose and disappears upstairs, which leaves me, the slumbering fire and a slumbering policewoman.
I wish I knew what had happened. I wish I had my phone.
I wish I had Tai, but the police have handed him over to Tony the gardener.
Poor Tai.
Poor Tony.
I try to hide inside one of the enormous leather armchairs, pulling my legs up and curling them between the arms.
Unaware of me, Lord Belcombe stomps through the hall dressed in a mix of pyjamas and tweeds, talking to someone on his phone.
“Peregrine, I’m terrified. I’m absolutely terrified. What if something has happened…” He stops, apparently addressing the corner of the room.
“Yes, yes – no – nothing like that.” There’s a pause.
“We’ve had no kind of demand, you understand. But if we did – you would help – wouldn’t you? We’ve asked Julia’s cousin, but I think he’s a bit strapped for cash and we’re completely skint.”
His voice is so clipped that even when he whispers I can understand every syllable.
“No, as I say, no one’s actually asked … and it might not be that. It could be some awful—” His voice breaks. “Some ghastly accident. He could be lying somewhere…”
He turns, his face wet with tears, sees me, and thunders off up the stairs.
Listening to his retreating footsteps, I curl tighter on the armchair, pulling a cushion under my ear and grabbing another to hug. I close my eyes but I become aware of a shuffling presence. Opening one eye very slightly I see Maria, the Filipino woman who cooks for the Belcombes. She’s wearing a pink padded dressing gown and silver fluffy slippers and she’s holding out a little tray with two mugs overflowing with cream and marshmallows.
“Here, Vivienne.” She places the tray on a small table and sits down next to me. “I thought you might like this, and I can keep you company before you go to school.”
“Oh, Maria.” I wriggle myself around in the chair. “Thank you.” I take a mug from her and hold it up to my mouth. It’s scalding.
We sit with Tigger, the cat, listening to the wind, the crackle of the fire and the house creaking above our heads. She blows on her hot drink. I blow on mine.
I’ve spent lots of time drinking Maria’s hot chocolate, but always in the kitchen, never out here in the hall, and I can’t work out how to behave. Am I here as a neighbour in distress? Or the nanny’s daughter? Or the daughter of the prime suspect?
Glancing over to the policewoman, I see that she’s barely awake. I nudge Maria and whisper, “When they took Mum they said there had been a development.”
Maria nods and stares into the fire.
She puts her finger to her lips but murmurs, “They’ve found his phone.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
Maria nods. “Yes,” she hisses. “Nowhere near his school or here, apparently.”
“He wouldn’t hide without it, would he?”
“Not on purpose, I wouldn’t think. So they’re going to move the search elsewhere.”
“I suppose he might have dropped it in the dark,” I say.
Maria tilts her head from side to side. “He might,” she says.
Wow.
Once again I reach for my phone, which isn’t there. I really want to talk to Mum about this.
“But they don’t really think Mum’s got anything to do with it, do they?”
Maria shrugs. “Are you going to be all right without her?” she says, her eyes wide over her mug.
For a second I wonder what she means. All right for today? All right forever? “What? She won’t be gone for long – will she?” I say, struggling to speak.
“I hope not,” says Maria. She puts down her mug and leans forward to put another log on the fire. “I very much hope not.” And we sit there in silence listening to the storm beginning outside.
Sharon, Chris’s girlfriend, drives me to school.
I get to sit in the front but I have to move a huge pile of holiday brochures on to the back seat in order to get in. “Sorry, Viv, just dreaming!” she says, flinging the last ones over her shoulder. Earlier, I told them I could take the bus, but Sharon rang the house and insisted. “Honestly – it’s so easy, I’m just next door and Chris has already started work out on the river.” I don’t really know her, I’ve just seen her out with Chris and I know they live together on the other side of the stable block. She’s friendly and is obviously trying to be really normal, which means that she talks too much.
“So, Viv, where would you normally be dropped – right outside the school gates? I know I couldn’t stand that, soooo embarrassing. I used to make my mum drop me streets away so that no one could see – and what about dinner – do you need dinner money cos I’m sure I’ve got a few pound coins in my purse—”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I say.
She babbles and I drift. I’m thinking about Mum in the police station. Making a statement…
“Does ‘making a statement’ to the police mean the same as being arrested?”
“Thinking about your mum?” Sharon clunks the gears. She’s a terrible driver although to be fair it’s a terrible old car. “No, I think it’s like – helping with their enquiries? You know – you hear that a lot on the news. No, they can’t think she’s got anything to do with his disappearance. Don’t worry about it. She’ll be back soon.” She swings round a corner, narrowly missing a cyclist. “They’ve taken Dave too, you know – not that he knows anything, bless him, wouldn’t hurt a fly, but I think they’re really concentrating on this Sanjeev guy. He’s gotta be the one – if it’s a kidnapping, that is.”
She shudders to a halt at the bus stop opposite the school. I’m really early, but I don’t want to make her wait so I start to open the door. She puts her hand on my sleeve. “Really – don’t worry about your mum, love. She’ll be back later on… If she’s not, I’ll make sure someone comes to pick you up – so you don’t have to make your way back on the bus, just in case – you know.”
I run into school. It’s still raining. It hasn’t stopped since six o’clock this morning and there’s a huge puddle forming outside the library block. I forgot my coat. Idiot.
The only person there is Ciara. She gets dropped off early. I honestly don’t know her, but it feels rude to sit on the other side of the room so I sit down nearby and reach for the newspaper that’s folded on the coffee table.
“Read the one about the plane,” she says. “It’s, like, sooooo unlikely.” She pulls her phone out of her bag and begins to text.
“I will,” I say, flicking through the first few pages and noting that there is absolutely nothing about Noah.
Perhaps it’s a secret. Perhaps they don’t want anyone to know.
I read the article about a woman who had to land a plane because the pilot passed out.
Like that ever happened. I’m just getting to the possible bit, where they got married afterwards, when a girl and a boy I don’t know swoop up behind Ciara and push her and her wheelchair off down the corridor.
“Bye,” shouts Ciara over her shoulder.
“Bye,” I call back down the corridor.
“There you are!” yells Sabriya across the lobby. “We’ve been waiting for you at the bus stop. Why didn’t you answer our texts?”
“Sorry,” I say.
“You a prospective parent or what?” says Joe behind her. “Reading the paper and that. Ooooh, look at her – posh house, posh paper.”
“Shut up, Joe. Guess what?” I say.
“What?” they ask.
“I—” And suddenly I’m filled with doubt. I don’t know if I’m allowed to know – to say – if it’s not in the paper. “Noah’s disappeared,” I hiss.
“The toad baby?” asks Joe.
“Yeah.”
“Why would you run away from all that?” asks Sabriya. “I reckon he’s been kidnapped.”
And the bell rings.
* * *
“And so the infinitive, dormir – what does that mean, Harry Pole?” Mr Roberts shouts across the classroom where Harry Pole is slumped over his desk with his head on his arms.
“It means sleep, sir,” shouts Melody Pippin, possibly the most annoying person in the school.
“To sleep, Melody, to sleep. Now…”
I drift off, staring out of the window at the sports fields of Herschel High and, in the distance, the tower of the chapel at St David’s. Moving my chair about a millimetre forward, I can see past our sports hall right over to the St David’s main building. It’s like they built Herschel High in the aura of St David’s – as if it would rub off and improve the place.
“And how about être? Vivienne?”
I flush hot and cold and blurt, “To see?”
Some of the class laugh – they’re the people who’ve done French before – but I know that most of us are clueless. “To be,” mutters Nadine, next to me.
“To be?” I repeat.
“Yes, Vivienne. Very good, Nadine.”
Kanye McAllister pokes me in the back. I ignore him.
I fall back to staring out of the window, but this time my view’s blocked by a police car parked right in front of the main building at St David’s. So they’re searching the last place he was seen. Which makes sense.
Twirling my pen between my fingers I try to work out what could possibly have happened to him.
Kidnap? But there must be nicer people to kidnap and I know that the Belcombes own half of the county but they don’t actually have any money. Everyone knows that. Or everyone should since that article that Lady B wrote about “make do and mend” and the trials of landowning without any cash. They keep stuff shiny on the surface for the summer visitors, the fishermen and the people who come to shoot, but underneath it’s pretty crumbly.
Perhaps he owes someone money.
Perhaps he’s been messing about on the dark web and brought a gang of criminals down on his head, not so much a kidnap as someone seizing him to punish him.
Perhaps his dad’s been messing about on the dark web and brought a gang of criminals down on his head – and they’ve seized Noah to punish Lord B.
The idea immediately sounds ridiculous.
Which means he must have run away. Without his phone – so no one could trace him. Just so that he didn’t have to be a lawyer.
“Wow,” I say out loud and everyone stares. “Sorry,” I say, and Nadine crumbles into a heap of giggles.
* * *
The rain has become a fixture. It won’t stop, and no one comes to pick me up. I get soaked on my way back, struggling up the driveway against the swirling leave
s, walking through the afternoon gloom into the courtyard. I’ve got my key ready but at the top of the steps I find a policeman in white overalls examining the wellies I wore last night.
“Hey—” I say.
“Sarge,” he shouts into the room, and another policeman in white appears in the hall.
“What’s happening?” I say.
“We’ve got a warrant to search this flat. Do you live here?”
“I do,” I say, hearing the wobble in my voice.
“Vivienne Lin,” he says.
I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.
“I think you’d better go over to the house. I’m fairly sure they’ve made arrangements for you to sleep there.”
“Sleep? What about Mum?”
“She … probably won’t be back tonight. I think you’ll be fine in the house. Food and that,” he says vaguely. “Stella – how are you getting on with the bathroom?” He turns away from me as if I don’t matter.
I stand and stare for a moment, and then, realising that it’s making me feel worse, turn back across the courtyard. The main door is closed so I go up the steps and ring the bell.
Lady B opens it. “Oh,” she says, disappointed. “It’s you.”
“They’re searching our flat,” I say, clamping my nail to my palm, so that I don’t cry. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”
She waves me past, back to the leather sofas, the fire, the crackling silence.
On the edge of tears, I clutch Tigger and watch the darkness fall. The torches of searching police people come on across the garden and the sergeant lets me into the flat to get pyjamas, clothes and a toothbrush. The men in white overalls squeeze back as I come into the flat and I imagine them going through everything, including my room. All my clothes. All my underclothes – clean and dirty.
Oh, no.
I’m still cringing when Lady B’s phone rings. Her fingers dance across the screen and she walks to the window. “Yes – Julia Belcombe here.”
She listens.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t bother me with this now. Can’t you just put it somewhere cold? It’s nearly winter – everywhere’s cold.”
Murder at Twilight Page 4
