by Jake Barton
"Celine has done this before," Paula said. "Stayed out all night without telling us. Just the once and she promised never to do it again, but it did happen. She said she’d fallen asleep at a party and when she woke up it was morning. We were frantic, ringing around all her friends when she walked in safe and sound. I only found out her bed hadn’t been slept in when I went to call her in the morning. You can imagine how I felt. She told me later she’d been drinking at the party and it had wiped her out, as she wasn’t used to it. I agreed not to tell her father about the drinking if she promised me never to worry me like that again."
"I believed her falling asleep story by the way. She’s a clever girl, and had enough time to think up a better excuse than that if she’d wanted to deceive me. A story that lame, I thought it must be the truth." Paula lapsed into silence, as if the effort of talking so much had drained her. She sipped her coffee, brows knitted in concentration. Donna reached out to take her hand, feeling its chill, and after a moment received a faint answering pressure.
Dexter’s questions continued while the woman veered between icy clarity and an almost trance-like state. The effects of shock were evident and she needed rest, but she also wanted their help and Dexter had to get information from her as quickly as he could. He’d advised her that the police should be involved and she’d snapped at him. Not an option as far as she was concerned. His questions had probed gently, drawing her out. He’d been careful to call her by her first name, wanting to be seen as a friend.
Donna kept in the background as much as possible. This was Dexter’s turf. He knew exactly when to press, when to cajole, all with the intention of drawing out the threads of the story. Dexter’s interviews were reminiscent of an angler playing a prize catch, letting his subject flow for a while then reasserting control and reeling her back to the point at issue. Her own feeling was that they should be out doing something, anything, rather than sitting around drinking coffee, but Dexter was an old hand at this and had obviously decided on the best way of getting their investigation up and running.
Donna left him to it and walked up the wide staircase, her mind elsewhere. She glanced inside the first room. Empty. A single step inside revealed, by its feminine nature, all the signs of this being Paula Dobson’s bedroom. Donna discounted Celine at once. Too tidy to be the bedroom of any teenage girl of her experience. A huge double bed, but only one pillow. Separate bedrooms then?
Interesting.
A large mirror, almost but not quite square, in a carved frame of limed oak. Expensive and classy. Two pen and ink drawings of Spanish hill villages. Bedside cabinets, one slightly ajar revealing a box of man-size tissues and a box of Rennies. A sticky ring on the left-hand cabinet suggested the recent presence of a bottle of cough linctus or something similar. Built-in wardrobes in the same limed oak as the mirror frame, black metal hinges, three to each door. Smaller cupboards above the wardrobes, too high for regular use, which Donna thought would be totally wasted on a short-arse like herself. Plain walls, coated in silk finish magnolia, or possibly buttermilk. Turning, she saw no bolt on the inside of the door and a plain knob without provision for a lock. Heavy lined curtains in a striking geometric pattern, big swirls of colour interspersed with what looked from a distance like oriental script.
A pair of partly open double-glazed doors on the far wall revealed a glimpse of a small balcony, just wide enough for a lounger and a small table containing an ashtray and a spent match. As an avowed anti-smoker, Donna took note of this. Maybe Paula Dobson was a closet ciggie puffer. If so, what other secrets might she be concealing? Donna went back to the landing and closed the door behind her.
The next door along was already ajar. Dobson was on the bed, fully clothed. Flat on his back, snoring softly. Dimmer switches just inside the door controlled the single central light fitting and a pair of modern brass wall lights either side of the padded headboard. No clothes in view, the plain white wardrobe doors resolutely closed. No dressing table, no ornaments, no pictures to break the monotony of the painted white walls. Donna thought it unlikely that Paula Dobson had ever spent a single night in this room. Either her previous assumption of separate bedrooms was correct, or Mister Dobson had chosen one of the guest bedrooms in which to crash out.
Donna padded closer and examined a brown prescription bottle on the bedside table. Sleeping tablets, real knockout drops, plenty left in the bottle, so no reason to suspect Dobson had done anything silly. She replaced the bottle, and returned to the ground floor.
Dexter was rattling dishes in the kitchen, but there was no sign of Paula Dobson. Donna walked through the lounge and into a huge conservatory where Paula was sitting very still, staring into space, perched on the arm of a chair, one leg resting on the floor, the other swinging freely over the front of the chair. Somehow, she still managed to look poised and elegant, comfortable even. Donna just knew that if she’d adopted a similar posture she'd look like a sack of spuds.
The conservatory was magnificent, furnished with white cane chairs and huge cushions, Italian tiles underfoot and wonderful views of the garden. It looked good enough to be an original feature, although Donna knew that wouldn't be the case. In her experience, most porches and conservatories look exactly what they are; an afterthought tacked onto the main building, but this was a remarkable exception. As well as being a delightful room in its own right, it brought the garden into the house. The exotic blooms that flourished under the protection of the glass walls and roof were stunning. Florid magenta Bougainvillea and startling scarlet Hibiscus flared defiance at a dull world.
Paula fiddled with an A4 size desk diary on a low table beside her chair – a real heavyweight tome in black leather, one day to a page. A pulse flickering at her throat was the sole indication of her concern. She appeared at ease, almost serene, sitting straight-backed, tapping one foot lightly against the bottom rail of her chair.
"You’re persistent, you lot, aren’t you," she said at length. It was a statement, not a question. She sighed in resignation. "I’ve told him all I know, for what it’s worth."
Donna said nothing, waiting her out.
She sighed again, batting with her hand at a few stray motes of dust revealed in a shaft of sunlight, watching them dance and swirl before settling once again. Paula gave an involuntary shiver as Dexter entered the room, drying his hands on his trousers.
"Found you," he announced, and then saw the expression on Paula's face. "Somebody walked over your grave?"
Donna suddenly had the feeling that her hair was standing on end at the realisation that what she’d taken for Paula’s icy calm was actually naked terror.
"Not mine," Paula replied, shaking her head deliberately from side to side. "Someone else’s maybe."
A tremulous smile battled for survival on her thin lips. Her features were strained; worry lines etched in the taut skin covering her cheekbones and sunken eye sockets. She was ageing before their eyes, the gaunt elegance of her model features diminishing as they watched. She’d moved to the very front edge of the chair, perched, as if about to take flight.
Donna reached forward and touched her wrist. She started, as if she’d forgotten they were there.
"I’m so sorry," Paula said, her voice very faint and far away. "You must think I’m stupid. It was all so long ago."
It was almost as if she was alone, her voice low and faint, eyes fixed on the space over Dexter’s shoulder, without seeing. The hint of a tear hovered on her eyelashes, putting the carefully applied mascara at risk. She put a finger in her mouth, small even teeth gnawing at a stray patch of dry skin. Her delicate hands, too small for perfection of proportion, fluttered in the air, the nails neatly trimmed and coated in a high-gloss clear varnish.
Dexter’s eyes narrowed. "If you’ve something to say, get on with it," he grunted, an edge in his voice that could chop down trees.
She flinched as if he’d slapped her. The expression on Dexter’s face gave nothing away, but his eyes were distant pools. Self-pity ros
e like a flame, threatening to consume her as hot salty tears sprang from her burning eyes. Immediately contrite, Dexter reined back on his anger. He patted her hand, trying to regain his usual avuncular manner.
"Those earrings were Celine’s favourite." Her voice was weak, short staccato sentences as if speech of any greater length were beyond her. "A present from her aunt. My sister had bought the earrings for herself and Celine loved them at first sight. She would only have been about five at that time and didn’t have pierced ears, not at that age, but she still wanted the earrings. My sister gave them to her." She broke off with a sob, screwing her handkerchief into a tight ball. "Seeing them now, it brings it all back." She paused, fighting hard to control her breathing. "My sister and her two little girls died in a fire. The house burnt down; they didn’t manage to get them out. It was deliberate. She was a teacher. A boy in her class did it. Marcus Green."
Dexter nodded. "I think I remember. About ten years ago, wasn’t it?"
"Nearly thirteen," she said. "But it still seems so real. I went to see him, that boy Marcus, did you know?" Donna and Dexter both glanced at her sharply, aware from her strained voice that the subject was painful to her.
"He was in some sort of secure unit, like a hospital, but with guards. I hoped, well to tell the truth I don’t know what I hoped for, but it was worse than ever after I’d seen him. He said he’d come for me when he got out of there. I was terrified. I keep feeling I shouldn’t be thinking about it, should be thinking about Celine, and I am, I really am, but seeing that earring brought it all back." She sighed heavily and her eyes became moist.
"Will you excuse me for a moment?" she asked and darted away, dabbing at her eyes with a tiny strip of lace. Dexter was poised halfway out of his chair, appearing nonplussed at her abrupt departure.
Donna looked around the room – high ceilings with elaborate cornicing, all moulded fruit and flowers. She particularly noticed the incredibly high skirting boards; rising at least eighteen inches from the floor, thinking she wouldn't like to be the one who had to match those boards if they ever developed dry rot. A regular harvest festival in the cornicing, bloody great fireplace, high skirting boards, ten-foot windows – must have been a hell of a place in its day. It was still a hell of a place right now, and Donna said as much to Dexter.
"Not doing as well as they make out," he murmured.
"How’s that, then?"
Dexter flicked a finger at a small painting on the opposite wall, a hunting print and passable enough, but marred by the rectangular border of faded paper which the picture did not quite cover. "There’s another like that in the hall; saw it on the way in."
"So?"
"Look at the other stuff. I know bugger all about art, but even I can see the rest of it is a cut above that John Bull monstrosity there. I reckon they’ve been selling off the good stuff here and there to help out. The rich may be different, but not that different. Take yon toffee-nose in there."
"What’s the matter with her?"
"She’s too perfect," Dexter grunted, indicating the door through which Paula Dobson had disappeared. "Not natural to look as good as that. Then there’s that voice. Oh, it’s pure Meols Drive most of the time, but there’s a hint in there that tells me she’s one of us. The common herd. Or, used to be. I just don’t trust perfection. Gets me looking for flaws."
Donna thought of the famous remark that a woman could never be too rich or too thin. Was it Coco Chanel? She wasn’t sure, but understood well enough what Dexter was saying about Paula Dobson. A slim figure, ash-blonde hair without a trace of darker roots, and a face straight off the cover of Vogue; it looked perfect. But Dexter was right, something didn’t add up. Donna shook her head.
The woman’s daughter had been abducted and she was living on the edge. Understandably so.
Paula Dobson’s reappearance confirmed Donna’s earlier thoughts. She’d combed her hair and added a trace, no more, of fresh lipstick. She looked better than any magazine cover. The delicacy of her features, the slender column of neck, the hint of cleavage below the open button of her blouse, all added up to a rare and exquisite beauty. Donna prided herself that she could make herself look presentable, given enough time and effort, but knew Paula Dobson was way out of her league, and all without any signs of effort or a trace of artifice.
The sound of a car engine broke the spell. Dexter inclined his head towards the door and Donna jumped up from her chair, ran to the front door. As she stepped outside, she saw Andy climbing out of a gleaming red Ford Fiesta.
"What’s that?"
"Your carriage awaits," Andy replied, grinning. "Roper told me to go and hire a car for you. Can’t wait any longer for your heap of crap to be repaired. How’s it going in there?"
Donna pulled a face. "Hard to say. There’s a ransom demand and an earring belonging to the girl and that’s about it. Dexter’s really put her through it. Not seen the husband yet, he’s out of it. She’s not what I expected, Mrs Dobson, I mean."
Andy nodded. "I rang that Forbes bloke, apologised for not turning up. Don’t reckon he’d have been much use to us anyway. Said Celine had a boyfriend, Alex Melia, who sometimes stayed with her at their place. Turns out she rang Forbes and told him she wasn’t able to come this weekend. Sounds like she was planning a dirty weekend with this Alex character."
"We’ve got the name of Celine’s best friend. She might know something. Dexter reckons he knows the girl’s mother."
"Figures. He knows every bugger."
"Yeah. Dexter’s had that look on his face since this ransom demand thing kicked off, you know? Something bothering him. He really tried to make her bring the police in, but she wouldn’t have it."
Donna looked round as another car entered the drive – Andy’s Saab, with Roper behind the wheel.
*****
When Donna left the room Dexter turned to Paula and briefed her on what they would need to do next. The woman seemed resigned to follow his direction and just nodded. Dexter had the feeling she was past the ability to cope with any of this. The sound of another car interrupted him.
"I imagine that’ll be the equipment I told you about, Paula, You all right while, I check this out?"
"Go Mister Dexter." Paula waved him out the door. "I’m not going anywhere."
Dexter shook his head as he made his way through the house to the front door. He exited and stood behind Donna watching the cars line up on the drive.
"I don’t like this," he muttered. "Like Lime Street on a Saturday night. Talk about obvious."
"This kidnap?" Donna asked. "Could it be personal, do you think? Not really about the money?" Dexter looked at her sharply. He managed to frown and look pleased all at the same time. "What makes you think that?"
"Call it a hunch."
"A hunch? Wash your mouth out. Professional investigators don’t rely on hunches. Do you do the football pools?" Donna shook her head. "No, of course you don’t. The lottery then?"
"Yeah, Sometimes."
"How often have you won?"
"Not even a tenner," Donna admitted ruefully.
"There you are then. You’re not favoured and only those truly favoured can rely on hunches."
"You must have acted on a good few hunches in your time."
"This is ‘do what I say time’, not ‘do what I do’."
Roper marched towards the door, polished shoes crunching across the gravel. He carried a suitcase in one hand and a thermos flask in the other. "Bloody hell," Donna muttered, "he’s moving in."
"Recording equipment," Roper said, nodding towards his suitcase. "What about calling in the police?"
"Won’t even consider it."
Roper nodded. He looked pleased at the news.
Dexter nodded at the gleaming Ford. "That for Donna?"
Andy nodded, and then told Dexter what he’d gained from the telephone call to Mister Forbes. Dexter frowned. "Her mother told me Celine didn’t have a boyfriend; so much for the girl telling her everything."
Roper coughed, looking a bit put out. "Nothing else from the clients?"
Dexter shook his head. "The father’s no use. Taken to his bed. There’s a note, but nothing much to go on. It’s not enough, the money I mean. First thing I thought. Ten thousand quid is nowhere near enough and that worries me. There’s money here, so why such a small amount? It’s bloody amateur hour. Perhaps the kid and her boyfriend are trying a scam to get a few bob off her old man, or it’s something else entirely and the ransom is a smokescreen. That’s the bit I don’t like. Neither does Donna. Great minds think alike."
He turned back to Andy again and scuffed the soggy earth with the toe of his shoe. "Still here? Go and find out what you can on the boyfriend." Andy looked across at Donna, rolling his eyes, and returned to his car.
"Mobile?" Dexter shouted at his retreating back. Andy nodded. "Keep it switched on. That means everyone. Keep yourselves available."
Andy climbed into his car and reversed carefully past Dexter’s Rover and out of the gates.
"You’ll be here?" Dexter asked Roper. He nodded.
"Good. Any contact, ring me straight away." Dexter made it clear that Roper was just one of the troops in this situation and everyone knew it. Roper said nothing and entered the house readily deferring to his partner’s expertise.
Dexter leaned up against the doorjamb and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Donna was the only one left waiting, and there really wasn’t any more she could do here.
"That fire she was going on about," he said to her. "I remember that. Not the sort of thing you forget. Years later, one of my squad told me how he’d been on the SOCO team that went out that morning. He’d been physically sick, the only occasion that had happened to him in ten years on the job. Bad business. Always is when the victims are kids." He sighed heavily.
