Far Cry

by John Harvey

  51

  A young gardener, plugged into his iPod, and wearing a Chemical Brothers T-shirt and grey-green combat trousers, was trimming the Hendersons' hedge. Possibly the last cut of the autumn. Leaves were collecting in twos and threes across the lawn, waiting to be raked. Lyle Henderson himself, not content to leave all the work to the hired help, was repotting a plant with a bright orange flower, with a view, Will thought, to moving it under glass against an early frost. What the plant was he had no idea.

  The house was flat-fronted and square, ivy and wisteria growing up and across the weathered brick. A good hundred and fifty years old if not more, Will reckoned, built close to the cathedral and the motte and bailey of the old castle, a stream that doubtless trickled into the Ouse running past the bottom of the garden.

  When Catriona Henderson came to the front door in response to the bell, she was wearing a black and white striped cook's apron, hair tied back with a wisp of brightly coloured scarf, flour on her hands and sprinkled along her arms.

  Nice, Will thought, this glimpse into how some people lived.

  After enquiring about Ruth and asking for any news of Beatrice, she showed Will into a long, glass-fronted room overlooking the garden, which had been added before planning regulations and conservation orders began to bite.

  'Lyle,' Catriona called, pushing open one of the windows, 'the Detective Inspector is here.'

  'You'll excuse me,' she said to Will. 'But if I don't go now there'll be a small disaster in the kitchen.'

  Lyle Henderson kicked off his boots at the door and padded in thick socks across to the drinks cabinet by the side wall.

  'Not over the yardarm yet, but all that work gives me a thirst.' He held up a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin. 'There's beer in the fridge, if you'd prefer.'

  'Neither, thanks.'

  'Catriona offered you coffee, tea?'

  'She did and I'm fine.'

  Henderson poured a generous helping of gin into a tall glass, added a quick splash of tonic water and a slice of lime and then two cubes of ice from a vacuum container that had recently been refilled.

  'So,' he said, lowering himself into one of a pair of matching, cushion-covered, wicker armchairs, 'this is about poor Beatrice, of course. How can I be of help?'

  'Just background, really. Filling in a few dots.'

  'Fire away.'

  'The Lawsons, obviously you know them well.'

  'Pretty well. Ruth more than Andrew, truth to tell. She and Catriona palled up when she came here from London. That dreadful business before. She'd recently got divorced, making a new start. Catriona helped to take her out of herself, get over what had happened. Try anyway.'

  The ice cubes clinked as he raised his glass. Through the window, Will could see the gardener pausing to fidget with his iPod, only one short stretch of hedge left to do.

  'Andrew, you didn't get on with him so well?'

  'Not that. No, good chap, Andrew. We introduced them, after all. No, it's more a matter of however well you think you know them, how much time you spend together, there's always something—I don't want to say deep down, bit of a cliché, but you know what I mean—something, I don't know, that stays hidden.' He sipped his gin and tonic. 'Makes him sound sinister, doesn't it? And that's not what I meant at all. Keeps his feelings pretty much to himself, maybe I don't mean any more than that.' He laughed. 'Not like me. I'm pissed off or elated, everyone bloody knows it within half a mile.'

  He grinned across the top of his glass.

  'You enjoyed being with them, though, as a family?' Will asked. 'Spent time together, that sort of thing?'

  'Oh, yes.'

  'Beatrice, too?'

  'Of course.'

  'And you got on with her okay?'

  'Beatrice? Yes, real sweetheart. Mind of her own of course. Drove her mother mad. Anything she really didn't want to do, you could see her digging her heels in and then the sparks'd fly.'

  'They'd argue?'

  'Cat and dog, sometimes. Never last, mind you. Half hour later, she'd be sweet as can be.'

  'How did Andrew deal with it? When his daughter was in one of those moods?'

  'Left it to Ruth, mostly. Stood back, you know? Had too much of that at school, I should think, every day. When he did step in it was a bit heavy-handed. You know, laying down the law. Headmaster in him, I suppose. Easier for me, got like that I'd just try and jolly her out of it, pull silly faces, make her laugh. If we were out on the boat, offer to dump her in the water, that kind of thing.'

  'Pick her up and swing her around.'

  'That kind of thing, yes.'

  'Horseplay.'

  'If you like. Just a bit of fun.' He stopped, as if wondering if he'd said too much.

  'She likes you, then?' Will said. 'Beatrice?'

  'Far as it goes, yes. I'd say so.'

  'Trusted you?'

  'I suppose so. Yes. In a way.'

  'She didn't ever say anything that might have suggested she was especially unhappy? Thinking about running away?'

  'No. And if she had, by now I'd've said.'

  'Nothing about boyfriends, things she might want to have kept from her parents, but might have felt safe telling you?'

  Lyle shook his head. 'That's all still to come. Some poor lad's heart to be broke there and no mistake.'

  'Where were you, I wonder, around the time she disappeared?'

  'Where was I?'

  'Yes.'

  'Look...'

  'It's just routine. Like I say, filling in the dots.'

  'What are we talking, then? Six, six-thirty. I'd still be out at the golf club. Over towards Shelford Bottom.'

  'Need floodlights, I'd've thought, that time of night.'

  'There are floodlights in the driving range, of course, but no, by then I was in the club bar. Bit of a card school, I'm afraid. Time I got back here, eight-thirty, nine, Catriona was already at the Lawsons, sitting with Ruth.'

  'Was there anybody else here, then, when you returned?'

  'No, of course not.' He set down his glass. 'It's no crime you know, enjoying the company of your friends' kids. Larking around. Having a laugh. Not a crime.'

  Will looked back at him evenly, waiting.

  'Your lot, that's what you'd make of it.'

  'My lot?'

  'You know what I mean. As much as look at someone the wrong way, never mind actually touch them, bit of play fighting, anything like that, ordinary decent fun, and you'd lock 'em up and throw away the key. Paedophilia, all the rage nowadays. Look twice at a kid under sixteen and you're a bloody paedo.'

  'Beatrice Lawson,' Will said, 'is a lot less than sixteen.'

  'Okay,' Lyle said, pushing himself hurriedly to his feet. 'That's it. Talk's over. On your way.'

  'Please sit down, Mr Henderson. There are still some things I want to ask.'

  'Anything else you've got to say, you can do it with my solicitor present ...'

  'There were some photographs Andrew Lawson thought you might have taken ...'

  'Bollocks! There were no bloody photographs. Not of mine. I've told him that and if he told you any different he's got his head up his bloody arse further than I'd thought. Now get out of my house and don't come back and if a word of what you've been suggesting gets out I'll sue you and the whole bloody Cambridgeshire force so fast you won't know if you're on your heads or your bloody tails. Now, go on. F-off, go!'

  'Lyle,' Catriona said, opening the door, 'what is all the shouting? I could hear it right in the kitchen.'

  'The Detective bloody Inspector is just bloody leaving.'

  'Oh, I see. There's some apple and blackberry pie just due out of the oven. I was going to ask if ...'

  Her husband's glare stopped her in her tracks.

  'Thanks for your time, Mr Henderson,' Will said. 'Mrs Henderson. I'll be back.'

  ***

  'You really like him for this? Helen asked.

  They were in the back room of a small pub not too far from Parker's Piece, Will having ca
lled her on his way back down to Cambridge and arranged to meet.

  'I don't know. There's something there, I'm sure of that. Just talking about himself and Beatrice and it was as though I'd pushed a button. Suddenly went apeshit. Total overreaction.'

  'Unless ...'

  'Exactly. Something pressed a nerve, no doubt about that.'

  'Guilt, probably. From what you've said.'

  'You think he could have taken her?'

  Helen raised an eyebrow. 'Not necessarily. But there could have been a bit of fooling around. You know, pinching and tickling that went too far. Might have scared the life out of him if it did.'

  'Might have got off on it, too.'

  'All the more reason to be frightened.'

  Will supped from his pint. There was a steady hum of voices from the main bar, intermittently interrupted by sudden laughter or a bellicose shout.

  'This boat of his,' Helen said. 'Moored on the marina? Big enough to keep someone hidden?'

  'Apparently. I've had a couple of lads down there, nosing around. Everything short of going on board. Pretty certain she's empty. From what people say, Henderson's not been down there in a while.'

  'And the car?'

  'He drives an old Volvo, built like a small tank. No way that could be mistaken for a Vauxhall Corsa. But the Mrs, Catriona, she's got a Polo.'

  'Still not the same.'

  'Close enough if you're not big into cars and, anyway, it's only seen out of the corner of an eye.'

  'Colour?'

  Will held it for a beat. 'Green.'

  Helen could feel the muscles of her stomach tighten. 'Surely she'd have used it to go to the Lawsons?'

  'I checked with Anita. She came by taxi.'

  'So Henderson could have driven home, swapped cars, and got to the end of the street in time to pick up Beatrice?'

  'Yes, in theory. But why, unless there'd been a previous arrangement?'

  'Or unless he knew her father was going to be late.'

  'The phone call. You think Lyle could have made the phone call that kept Lawson talking?'

  'Or got somebody else to, why not?'

  Will half-laughed and shook his head. 'Too many crime novels, that's your trouble.'

  'Nothing wrong with that. Besides, do their research nowadays, some of them.'

  'I dare say. But this is real life, not fiction.'

  Helen grinned. 'So you say.' She pointed at Will's almost empty glass. 'Want another?'

  'Best not. And anyway, shouldn't you be getting home to pack?'

  'You sure you still want me to go? Mitchell Roberts, now Henderson. You'll want to talk to the wife, too. Might be useful, having me around for that. Under-represented as we are.'

  'We?'

  'Women, Will. Not too many of us around the squad room, in case you hadn't noticed.'

  'There's Ellie Chapin.'

  'She's just a baby.'

  'Not exactly.'

  'Now, Will, you've been peeking ...'

  'Time she stepped up. Got out from under your shadow.'

  'Is that where's she's been?'

  'I think so. This'll do her some good. Give her something to get her teeth into.'

  Helen sniggered.

  'You've got a filthy mind,'Will said, not quite able to suppress a grin.

  'Guilty.'

  'And besides, you're always telling me how difficult I'll find it when you've spread your wings and left the nest. Time maybe for me to put it to the test.'

  'Maybe it is at that.' Helen got to her feet. 'Come on,' she said, taking hold of his glass. 'A quick half in here?'

  'All right. Why not?'

  52

  Fourteen minutes past two: Ruth was suddenly awake without knowing why. Asleep beside her, Andrew lay turned in on himself, the faint whistle of his breathing the only sound.

  When she slipped out of the bed, the air in the room struck cold and she took down her dressing gown from the hook behind the door and slipped it on.

  The door to Beatrice's room was closed.

  For a moment, she stood wrapped in the silence of the house, no thought of Andrew, herself alone: the handle of the door smooth and cold against her hand. When she eased it open, was it her imagination or did the small figure standing in front of the mirror flinch?

  Ruth allowed her eyes to close and slowly open.

  Seeing what she saw, she thought her heart had stopped.

  The cord jeans they'd bought from H&M that day in Cambridge, the ones Ruth had tried so hard to talk her out of, the ones with the butterflies and flowers patched on to the legs; the tie-front top she'd ordered for her from the Mini Boden catalogue, expensive but at least she knew it wouldn't fall apart.

  Her daughter at the mirror, brushing her hair.

  'Beatrice.'

  The word seemed to break upon the air.

  'Mummy!' As she turned, Heather smiled and put her arms out for a hug. 'I thought I'd try on some of Beatrice's clothes. They're a little small for me, of course, but never mind. And look, I've been practising doing my hair just like hers, you see?'

  Ruth could see nothing, blinded by tears.

  'Don't cry.' Heather slid a hand into hers, the fingers warm, warmer than her own. 'You know I hate it when you cry.'

  Ruth dabbed a tissue at her eyes.

  'That's better. See.' Again, she held out her arms. 'You can give me a hug, you know. I won't break.'

  Feeling the bones beneath the flesh, Ruth held her daughter fast, afraid still to tighten her arms too much or press too hard. Heather's breath was warm on her neck, her lips warm and slightly damp on her cheek, one quick kiss as she pulled away.

  'Beatrice,' Ruth said. 'Have you seen her? You have, haven't you? Can't you tell me where she is?'

  Heather's smile was momentary and sad.

  'Don't ask,' she said. 'You must never ask. You know that, don't you?'

  'But Heather...'

  There was no one there. The clothes, newly folded, at the foot of the bed, the brush on the small dressing table, the echo of her daughter's breath still alive on Ruth's skin.

  Don't cry. You know I hate it when you cry.

  53

  They went in just before dawn. Will Grayson, Ellie Chapin and a complement of a dozen officers at the Henderson home; DS Jim Straley and six more at the marina. Lyle Henderson, irate in blue and gold striped pyjamas, shouting and shaking his fist; his wife, Catriona, running first down then upstairs with her voluminous nightgown billowing around her, exposing stringy calves and plumpening thighs.

  'You've got no right,' Henderson blustered. 'No right at all.'

  Will waved the warrant in his direction and pressed on. In every room of the house, doors were being thrown open, cupboards explored, drawers emptied out on to beds, on to the floor.

  'Room upstairs, sir,' said one of the officers. 'Rear of the house. It's locked.'

  Henderson was in the kitchen with his wife; Catriona now wrapped in a towelling dressing gown, the pair of them stranded mid-tile, neither willing to look the other quite in the eye.

  'Key,' Will said, holding out his hand.

  'What? What key?'

  'Upstairs back. We need access.'

  'No need. Hardly ever gets used. That's why it's kept locked.'

  'Key,' Will said again.

  'I've told you, there's nothing there. A few bits and pieces, that's all. Old business stuff. Files.'

  Will was still holding out his hand.

  Henderson sighed and stepped back. 'The key's in the front room, the bureau.'

  'Please go with the officer, show him exactly where.'

  Over by the kitchen window, hands in her dressing-gown pockets, Catriona stared out at the first signs of daylight, yellow and silver-grey, beginning to show low in the sky.

  'I'm sorry,' Will said.

  She gave a quick, dismissive nod of the head and nothing more.

  The room upstairs held two bookshelves, a desk and office chair, a double-height filing cabinet, several suitca
ses in varying sizes resting one on top of another, and a narrow cupboard that proved empty save for one fishing rod, a tennis racquet, and several old pairs of golf shoes; leaning haphazardly against the far wall was a stack of magazines, mostly Maritime Journal and Power and Motoryacht by the look of it, along with a few copies of Country Life.

  On the desk was an iMac 7.1 OS X computer and a laser jet printer; there was a portable hard drive in one of the desk drawers.

  'Is this the only computer in the house?' Will asked.

  Henderson shook his head. 'Catriona has a laptop.'

  'Make sure the officers take it with them when they leave.'

  'You can't ...' Henderson began, then stopped.

  The bookshelves held a set of Wisden going back to 1958, a history of Rolls-Royce Aerospace, assorted books on fishing and golf, several racing mysteries by Dick Francis and, on an upper shelf, two large-format books, Lolita's Sisters and The Dreams of Young Girls—airbrushed, soft-focus photographs of barely pubescent girls, alone amidst picturesque woodlands or curled lazily in pairs across wide, ornately furnished beds, their near-naked bodies lyrically draped with wisps of filmy cloth.

  'That's art,' Henderson said, when Will held the books out towards him.

  'Yes,' Will said, slapping one of the books shut. 'I can tell.'

  He was back outside when Straley called from the marina. 'Boat's clear, sir. Not a sign.'

  'Make sure it's checked out, inch by bloody inch.' Will snapped his phone shut. 'Ellie,' he said, addressing Chapin, 'why don't you suggest the Hendersons get properly dressed and then see they're ferried down the station. Separate cars.'

  Having established that he was not under arrest, merely assisting the police with their inquiries and that he could leave at any time, Lyle Henderson insisted on having his solicitor present before agreeing to answer any questions.

  In the circumstances, Will was not unhappy about this: it would allow time for a first cursory examination of whatever files were held on their computers, whatever might be nestling on the portable hard drive.

  It was the best part of an hour before the solicitor arrived, sporting a well-cut grey suit with a mustard yellow check waistcoat and bright blue tie, silver hair expensively cut and neatly brushed, black shoes polished to within an inch of their life.