by John Harvey
42
They met Roy Cole at the police station on Bethel Street, a large squared-off brick building with flat windows that resembled a warehouse. Cole a detective sergeant with fifteen years' service and one of those young-old faces that never really seemed to change, the same at seventeen as it would be at seventy-two, just the body around it showing signs of age. He greeted both Will and Helen with a firm enough handshake, the smell of tobacco redolent on his clothes.
'So,' Cole said, 'Heywood, he's been a bad boy?'
'Not necessarily,' Will said. 'His name came up as part of an investigation, could be nothing more to it than that.'
'Like I said on the phone,' Helen offered, 'it's just a matter of asking a few questions.'
'Only we've been keeping half an eye, try and make sure he doesn't get up to any of his old tricks. Not that that's so easy, mind. His kind, devious don't come into it. They want to get their kicks jerking off to kiddie porn, not a lot we can do about it.' Glancing at Helen, he added a quick, 'Sorry,' misreading her expression.
'It's okay, Sergeant,' Helen said, 'I'm familiar with the concept of jerking off.'
Flushing, Cole led the way out on to the street. 'Just as easy to walk from here. Place where he works, stacking shelves, unloading deliveries. Parking's a bastard at the best of times.'
Will fell into step, Helen a pace or so behind.
'This inquiry,' Cole said, 'same kind of malarkey as before?'
Will outlined the basic details, no more than was strictly necessary.
When they arrived, Paul Heywood and three others—two spotty youths and an older man with a club foot, all wearing brown overalls—were out in the loading area at the rear, taking a cigarette break.
'Paul,' Roy Cole said, beckoning him over. 'Someone wants a word.'
Hesitant, Heywood moved away from the wall where he'd been leaning, taking one last drag at his cigarette before dropping it to the floor.
He was just above medium height, lean-faced, a tattoo fading on his neck just below the chin, hair long enough to be pulled back into a ponytail, the residue of a cold sore on his upper lip. Pale grey eyes.
'I haven't got long,' he said. 'My break ...'
'Don't worry 'bout that,' Cole said. 'And you lot, bugger off back to work.'
Heywood blinked in Will's direction; glanced once at Helen then looked quickly away.
'We won't keep you long,' Will said. 'No more than we need.'
Heywood blinked again, said nothing.
'Mitchell Roberts,' Will said, 'I understand you and he are pretty good friends?'
'Who's that?'
'Roberts, Mitchell Roberts.'
'No, I don't think ...'
'You don't remember?'
'No, I don't think so. Sorry, no.'
'You're sure?'
'Yes, I...'
'That's just bollocks,' Helen said, with a sudden step towards him. 'Sheer unadulterated bollocks and you know it.' She moved closer, her face level with his. 'You think we came all the way out here to be fed crap like that? You think this is some kind of joke, so you can stand around, take the piss?'
Shuffling his feet, Heywood looked hastily this way and that, anything rather than look her in the eye.
'You and Roberts were banged up together, Lincoln. Same wing. For all I know you even shared the same cell. You probably did. All those cosy little chats. Magazines someone had smuggled in and you'd paid dear for stuffed under the mattress. That what it was like? I'll show you mine, you show me yours? Yes, Paul? Was that it?'
'No, no...' The sweat was starting to pour off him now.
'What?' Helen thrust her face even closer. 'You didn't know him? That what you saying? What you're telling me?'
'No, I did, I did, it's just ... what you said ... it wasn't ...'
'You did know him?'
'Yes.'
'Inside?'
'Yes.'
'And later, after you both got out, you kept in touch?'
A hesitation, then, 'Yes, yes.'
'And what? You exchanged letters? Phone calls? Emails? What?'
'Sometimes I ... I phoned him. At the garage, where he worked.'
'Often? How often?'
'Not much. Not a lot. Three or four times, that's all.'
'Three or four times?'
'Yes.'
'We can check, you know that.'
'No, that's all it was, I swear.'
'And that was when you arranged to meet?'
Heywood blinked away sweat from his eyes.
'That was when you arranged to meet him?' Helen asked again.
'No, I didn't ... I haven't seen him. Haven't seen him, not since Lincoln. I wouldn't ...' His throat was dry, the words sticking to the roof of his mouth. 'I mustn't, you know ...' A quick glance towards Cole. 'I mustn't have contact with ...'
'With perverts like Mitchell.'
'Yes.'
'Birds of a feather,' Helen said.
'Huh?'
'You and Mitchell, your kind, flocking together.'
Heywood rubbed the palms of his hands down the sides of his overall.
'Where is he?' Helen said. 'Mitchell? Even if you're not meeting him, you must know where he is.'
'No. He never told me. Cambridge, that's all I know. Hostel somewhere.'
'Not any more.'
'I don't know, I...'
'Done a bunk, hasn't he? Gone.'
'I didn't know.' With an effort, he looked into Helen's face for the first time. 'On my life, I don't know where he is. Till you said, I didn't even know he'd gone. And that's the God's honest truth.'
'If I find out you've been lying ...'
'I'm not, honest.'
'If I do ...'
Heywood shook his head.
Helen took a card from her bag and pushed it down into the top pocket of his overalls. 'If he does get in touch with you,' she said quietly, 'you'll let me know?'
Heywood nodded.
'Paul?'
'Yes. Yes, I will.'
'I've got your word?'
He nodded again.
Cole looked over at Will as Helen stepped away. 'Okay,' he said, 'Paul, you better be getting back to work.'
Without another word, Heywood turned and slowly walked towards the door of the loading bay.
Cole waited until they were outside on the street before reaching for his cigarettes, lighting one for Helen first and then himself.
'I don't know about Heywood,' he said, 'but you scared the shit out of me.'
'That mean you believe him?' she asked.
Cole allowed himself a smile. 'Trouble with people like Heywood, they spend so much of their life mired in lies, telling the truth, it's the most difficult thing in the world. But we'll keep a tighter watch where we can. Roberts, we've got his details. Shows his face and there's a good chance we'll know.'
Back at the police station, they shook hands.
'Sure you don't want to stay for a jar?' Cole asked.
'No, thanks,' Will said, 'better be getting back.'
'No peace for the fucking wicked.'
'Say that again.'
'I suppose you'd like me to drive?' Helen asked, when they were back at the car.
'You mind?'
'Long as I can have another cigarette first.'
Will fished out a packet of mints from the glove compartment and they stood either side of the car, Helen thoughtful, smoking.
'How long is it now since Rack Fen?' she asked. 'Martina Jones?'
'Three years, close on four.'
'And those other incidents, the biggest gap between them is what? Five years.' Will nodded.
Helen let fall her cigarette and ground it beneath her heel. 'Time then, not exactly on our side.'
43
Ruth had been looking forward to this for some time now, a day school at Tate Britain on the paintings of Bonnard and Vuillard. Ruth loved them both: the richness of Vuillard's interiors, the sense of people being caught, unawares, in the middle of so
me small domestic task; Bonnard's use of colour, the intimate portraits of his wife, Marthe, whom he had met when she was just sixteen and painted obsessively up to the time of her death almost fifty years later. There would be lectures by experts, slides, analysis, an opportunity to look round the galleries, hopefully ample time for discussion.
She kissed the still-drowsy Beatrice goodbye and reminded her about her flute lesson that evening.
'Mum, I know.'
'And Daddy's picking you up afterwards, okay?'
'Mum!'
Ruth planted another kiss on her forehead and hurried away.
'You'll miss your train,' Andrew shouted from below.
'No, I won't.' Bag on her shoulder, pausing for just a moment in case she'd forgotten something, Ruth scurried downstairs.
'Enjoy it,' Andrew said, aiming a kiss at her cheek. 'What time will you be back?'
'Not late. Not as long as the train's on time. Probably not so long after you.'
'Okay. Good. I'll start dinner.'
'You won't forget to pick up Beatrice?'
'No. Now for heaven's sake, go.'
A smile, a quick wave and she was out of the door.
'Bea,' Andrew shouted up the stairs, 'soon be time you were getting up.'
The day came close to living up to Ruth's expectations. Both speakers were good, pitching their talks at round about the right level and avoiding the worst excesses of critical theory. The way in which the relationship between the two artists' work was explored was, Ruth thought, exemplary. And what fascinated her perhaps most were the series of self-portraits Bonnard had made in the years between his wife's death and his own; Bonnard shaven-headed, close to emaciated, dark holes where once had been his eyes: a ghost of himself while he was still alive.
Only the final discussion had disappointed, and then only marginally—too many of her fellow students intent upon showing the extent of their own knowledge rather than contributing to something new.
As a whole, she felt, as she relaxed in her seat on the train, it had been worthwhile. Eminently worthwhile. So much so, that when she went to the buffet car for a cup of coffee, she treated herself to a glass of wine instead.
When she arrived home, still in high spirits, she was surprised to find Andrew's car not there. Perhaps the flute lesson had overrun. Sometimes it happened.
Letting herself in, she dumped her bag and went upstairs to change, wanting to get out of the clothes she'd been wearing all day.
She was just pulling on a fresh jumper when she heard the car pull into the drive, then Andrew's key in the lock.
'Hi!' she called down. 'I'm home.'
And heard the door close.
'I'll be right there.'
Andrew was standing, whey-faced, at the bottom of the stairs. 'Beatrice, is she here?'
'No, of course not. She's supposed to be with you.'
'I went to collect her and they said she'd gone. I thought she might have come back on her own.' His voice was harsh, breathless. 'I've been home once already. I just drove around again.'
'Fiona's,' Ruth said. 'She'll have gone to Fiona's.'
'I've checked already. Phoned. She's not there.'
He looked up at her helplessly: a look Ruth recognised. She caught hold of the banister rail to stop herself from falling. It couldn't ... it couldn't be happening again.
IV
44
Will still had not been able to speak to the mother. Ruth Lawson was upstairs, asleep, sedated; a friend—Catriona—sitting with her lest she wake. Not a good time to wake alone.
When he had first arrived, Ruth had been frantic, distraught, unable to sit for more than a few moments at a time; angry, tearful, lashing out, her face devoid of colour: several times she had been physically sick. At one point earlier, her husband, Andrew, had had to struggle to keep her from pulling out clumps of hair, punching her own face with her fists. All she had done when Will tried to talk to her was scream in his face; scream and cry.
Now it was close to eleven: four hours since the alarm had been raised, five since Beatrice Lawson had last been seen.
Her flute lesson had finished, as was usual, just before six o'clock, after which she had returned her flute to its case, put on her coat, collected her blue book bag, and gone outside to wait for her father to arrive.
That much was known.
Officers were out in force in the area close to where the music teacher lived, knocking on doors, asking neighbours what they might have seen. Plenty of people returning from work at round about that time, plentiful passing traffic, plenty of cars. Preliminary inquiries had been made of the music teacher, as well as Beatrice's friend, Fiona, and her mother.
There were two possibilities, Will thought: either the girl had got fed up with waiting for her father, who had, by his own admission, been close to fifteen minutes late, and started to make her own way home, or she had accepted a lift from somebody else. The one didn't preclude the other.
Special attention was being given to the route she would most likely have taken had she decided to start walking home alone, a journey that would have taken her, if she didn't dawdle, somewhere between twenty minutes and half an hour. All well-used roads, especially at that time of the evening; no ginnels or cut-throughs, only one small patch of open ground. Alternatively, she could have caught a bus from the far end of the street into the centre, and then another bus from there to within a few hundred metres of her house.
Check, check and check again.
Andrew Lawson sat with his face in his hands, trying not to look at his watch, glance up at the clock. The police family liaison officer, Anita Chandra, made him cups of tea which he set aside without drinking.
One of the first things Will had done, after speaking to the father, had been to join in the careful search being made of the house: room after room, the cupboards, the garage, the garden shed.
No stone...
Beatrice's own room was on the second floor and Will had stood there for some minutes, alone, slowly taking it in: the photographs pinned up haphazardly—Beatrice in a riding helmet, in her costume on the beach, at what looked like a party with her friends—posters on the wall; tights and leggings hanging, entangled, from the back of the bed, bits and pieces of clothing scattered across the floor. Books and comics, magazines. Several pairs of trainers, two pairs of Crocs, yellow and green, pink wellingtons. Bits and pieces of jewellery, bright and cheap, dangling from three lengths of coloured thread. The top of her desk was crowded with notebooks and folders, pens and pencils crammed into a jar; two dictionaries, one English, one French; a pale blue diary with a padded cover and a clasp and catch that clicked open at a touch. The last few days were blank. The rest would be read through carefully, each name, each possibility checked.
There was a small clock radio beside the bed; no computer, no TV.
She could have arranged to meet someone, Will thought, that was the other possibility.
So much yet they didn't know.
Helen had driven out to the music teacher's house earlier that evening, a thirties two-storey semi with a broad bay window on the ground floor and wisteria growing up at either side of the front door and branching off towards the furthest corner of the roof. There was parquet flooring in the hallway, knickknacks artfully displayed, a three-piece suite in the living room that had served them well, manufactured in the days when things were made to last.
Leslie Huckerby, nervous-eyed, bald, bespectacled, grey cardigan unfastened, shook Helen's hand and gestured towards one of the armchairs. 'Please. Please sit down.'
His wife, Marion, soft and round, asked Helen if she would like some tea. 'Or coffee, if you'd prefer. We only drink it in the morning ourselves, but if that's what you'd like it's no trouble. Or there's Ovaltine. Leslie and I...' She stopped. I'm sorry, I...'
'Tea,' Helen said briskly. 'A cup of tea would be fine. Just milk. Thanks.'
'It's upset her terribly,' Huckerby said when his wife was out of the room. 'Of c
ourse it has both of us. To think that she could walk out of here and...' He lowered his gaze. 'You hear of so many awful things happening. Every time you open the newspaper or switch on the television. The news, nowadays, I don't mind telling you, some evenings it's more than Marion and I can bear to watch.' He smiled diffidently. 'I'm sorry, I'm babbling and you're not here for that.'
'It's all right,' Helen said. 'I understand.'
'You must ask me what it is you need to know.'
Notebook open, Helen checked the times the lesson had begun and ended, the normal arrangements by which she arrived and departed.
'Beatrice, did you notice anything different about her today?'
'You mean the way she was dressed or ...'
'No, no. The way she was, her manner. Did she seem upset at all?'
'I don't think so, no.'
'Distracted?'
'No more than usual. She has some natural talent, Beatrice. A good ear. But her concentration, I'd have to say, is not of the best. And if something doesn't come quickly, well, she can become discouraged quite easily.'
'But she keeps coming.'
'Her parents are keen, the mother especially. I expect Beatrice herself has little choice.' He shifted his position slightly on the settee. 'I doubt if she'll carry on much beyond eleven or twelve.'
'There's wasn't anything especially difficult in today's lesson that might have got to her in some way? Made her angry or annoyed?'
'No, not at all.'
'She didn't go storming off?'
'No. Quite the opposite, if anything. There was a little piece towards the end that she played quite well and I was able to tell her so. It pleased her, I think. She even suffered my usual lecture about practising little but often without rolling her eyes the way she often does. "Goodbye, Mr Huckerby. See you next week." And then she was gone.'
Behind his glasses he was suddenly blinking back tears.
Marion Huckerby came in with a tray. 'We haven't much in the way of biscuits, I'm afraid. Just a few shortbreads.'
Helen had forgotten the smell of Ovaltine—malty, is that what it was?—evenings at home after she had got ready for bed and come back down in her pyjamas, back when she herself was twelve or thirteen.
