by Jake Barton
Lisa raised her head in surprise. Donna suddenly realised the girl was crying. Dexter reached out to her, patting her pale slender hand, unable to speak as her tears flowed. Donna kept out of it for now. Sometimes it was best to wait. Asking a direct question could rebound on them. She could clam up if put on the spot, best to wait it out. Words came in random clusters, a few at a time. They let her talk. Not pushing, waiting for the trickle of words to become a torrent. It was a start.
"It must be a bit more than you’re letting on if Celine’s mum suggested you talk to me. I don’t think she likes me very much. Different backgrounds. Her mum didn’t like Celine coming here. With me living over a pub, you know? Celine used me as an excuse sometimes," Lisa said, her tone apologetic at the breaking of a confidence. "Told her mum she was staying with me when she wanted a night out, at a party or something. Not for more than one night though, as far as I know anyway. She didn’t tell me everything."
She looked directly at Donna, a shared secret. "All the girls at school do that, you know, cover for each other if their parents are too strict."
Donna nodded.
"Do you do that?" Donna asked. "Mislead your mother to get away with doing things she wouldn’t approve of?"
Lisa shook her head. Her baby-blue eyes brimmed over with tears once again, threatening the artfully applied makeup. Her full lips quivered.
Oh shit, she’s losing it.
"Don’t cry," Donna said, patting her hand.
And don’t make a show of my interrogation technique in front of Dexter.
Lisa sniffed and wiped a solitary tear away from her eye.
Donna glanced at Dexter, but he sat back in his chair, apparently happy to let her run with this.
"But, Celine had done it before?"
"Yes. Three or four times."
"Did you know if she was planning to go anywhere this weekend?"
"No, not really. But…" She hesitated, looking at the door. "Look, Celine is my best friend, has been for years, but we’re very different people. Celine is everything I’d like to be. She’s mature, popular, really pretty, all the usual things, but she’s got a bit of the devil in her. If Celine decides she wants to do something, well, she just goes ahead and does it. Not a timid little mouse like me."
Christ, thought Donna, if she thought herself a mouse, what would that have made me at the same age? An amoeba?
Dexter sat very still, weighing up his next move. "Lisa," he said. "We need your help. More to the point, Celine needs your help. This isn’t a time to be loyal to your friend. The best way to help Celine is to tell me everything you know. Help me to find her."
"I’ll try." She placed her hands on the table, long slender fingers and neatly clipped nails. The instruction may have come from Dexter, but she spoke directly to Donna.
"Celine had a lot of friends, men I mean, over the last year, oh, I don’t know, perhaps a dozen. No long-term relationships, she wasn’t that sort of person. Told me several times she never wanted to get married. She didn’t want to end up like her parents."
She paused for a moment, and took a small sip from her mother’s beaker of coffee. "Celine was very mature as I said. I’d not be telling you this under any other circumstances. I can’t imagine her mother, any parent, would want to know this sort of thing about their children. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is Celine was experienced, sexually I mean."
Dexter coughed, but didn’t speak.
"Don’t misunderstand me, she wasn’t a slag who’d sleep with anyone, but she’d been around."
"She’s only sixteen," Dexter blurted, his face reddening, suddenly looking very old.
"That’s plenty old enough, Mister Dexter. What I said about her not having any long-term relationships? Well, that was a big thing with Celine. She wanted to have a good time, but not to get tied down to a steady relationship. Not until Lancelot came along."
"Lancelot?" Who’s bloody Lancelot?
"You know, the knight on a white charger? That’s what she was looking for. Someone who’d sweep her off her feet and, well, you get the idea. It’s a pretty standard fantasy, I imagine. Not too far away from what I’m looking for, I suppose, although my priorities are probably different. Anyway, she found him, or thought she had. Perhaps he found her." Her voice was low and sorrowful.
Dexter stared at her, a deep frown creasing his brow. "I’m sorry, Lisa, you’ve lost me."
She sighed heavily. "Celine had two lives, you see; the one her mother and the rest of the world was allowed to see, and the other. Some might call it fantasy. I prefer to think of it as an alternative life." Dexter looked at her, baffled.
"Sometimes," Lisa continued. "You don’t want the life you have, so you invent another one. Different, more interesting, better." Donna nodded. She’d been there herself.
"It’s not real, though, is it?" Dexter said, his confusion evident.
"It seems real. It’s real if you want it to be real. People often embellish aspects of their past, perhaps their present life, enlarging on the positive aspects and diminishing the parts that they find disappointing. It’s only sad if they invent a future. That takes an awful lot of living up to, making it happen."
"But, it’s a lie," Dexter said, out of his depth. Lisa shrugged her shoulders, but without any hint of apology. She faced him directly for the first time. Outwardly calm, the only sign of strain was a tiny pulse high on her temple, at the corner of her right eye, which was fluttering like the beats of a hummingbird’s wings.
"Who suffers?" Lisa’s tone expressed defiance.
She absolutely believes in what she is saying, thought Donna.
Lisa continued, "What harm does it do? It‘s a wonderful feeling, denying your past or the way you’re forced to live now, to be able to reinvent life as you’d like it to be. Do you think me and my mum like living in places like this? It’s a dump and the landlord’s a pig, but we’re stuck with it. So, sometimes, I fantasise about a house where we could live without having to put up with all this crap."
She waved her hand towards the peeling wallpaper and shabby kitchen units. "Celine had the same system, probably she taught it to me. It’s a way of dealing with the bad times."
"Did she have bad times?" Donna asked.
Lisa hesitated, seemingly choosing her words carefully. Picking a coffee-stained beer-mat off the table she worked her fingernails under the peeling edge, separating the printed top section from the layers of cardboard beneath, as if picking at a scab. Not looking down, but working by feel. She saw them watching and pushed it aside, tossing her head nervously as if caught in some minor indecency.
"I know she did," she said, beginning to cry again. "I don’t know where she is, really I don’t. Look, she told me not to tell anyone." They sat very still, hardly breathing. "She met a man about a week ago, someone special, but that’s all I know. She just clammed up about him."
Her voice had a hint of desperation, and Dexter nodded his reassurance at her.
"She’d met him when he offered her a lift after hockey practise. It was pouring with rain and when he stopped she didn’t think twice. Celine said he was funny, kept making her laugh." She paused, fiddling with her hair.
"Did she tell you what he looked like, how old he was, anything at all?"
"Not really, not in detail. She said he was lovely, good-looking and really fit. That was important for Celine, him being fit." Lisa returned to talking to Donna, acting as if Dexter wasn’t there. "She told me nothing else, not for any lack of effort on my part. I know she was planning to see him again, maybe even going away with him for a few days, but that’s all I know. I kept asking, but she wouldn’t talk about him. I’ve never known her to be like that before."
"She must have said more than that?"
Lisa shook her head. "Not a lot. I don’t even know his age, she just said she’d met a man and he’d knocked her socks off."
"She said a man, not a boy? So it was someone older than her?"
"Celine didn’t go out with boys." Her scorn was obvious.
"Do you know any names?" asked Donna, trying to get more substantial details.
Lisa looked at Donna and shrugged again. "There’s a bloke named Alex, I don’t know his other name. I’ve never actually met him, but he’s about twenty I think. He was on the scene, but was never going to be anything more than just a friend. He’d like to be more, I think, but he was never going to be. He used to run her around; she called him her taxi driver. That makes her sound awful, but he would have been happy enough to run her around. Celine could have taken her pick from the boys at school; none of them stood a chance. She liked her boyfriends to have a car, a place of their own, that sort of thing."
"Go on," Donna prompted.
"I’d hate for her to turn up safe and sound after I’ve been telling you…." Her voice tailed off and she looked at Dexter in horror. "Oh God, I don’t mean that. You know I want her to turn up safe."
Dexter smiled at her.
"Mister Dexter, this is very hard for me to say, about my best friend, you know?" Lisa looked appealingly towards Dexter.
He nodded his reassurance. "Go on, Lisa. I’m not here to be critical. You’re a good friend to Celine, I know that."
"Celine wasn’t happy," Lisa said. "Not happy at all. Sometimes she’d say she hated the way her life had worked out, really hated it. You wouldn’t know it by looking at her, but it was eating her up inside. Celine wanted everything to be perfect. Waiting for Lancelot."
"I see."
"I doubt it," Lisa replied. "Lancelot is more than a fantasy. He’s her future, in a world where she can be happy." She offered a smile, almost apologetically, her eyes glistening with tears.
Dexter reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. "Can you think of anything else?"
Lisa shook her head. "Sorry. I think she’ll be with him, this new man. Lancelot. I don’t know anything else about him, really I don’t."
"That’s ok," Donna said. "You’ve been very helpful."
Lisa looked doubtful. "Her mum must be worried. I really hope you find her soon," Lisa muttered, her words barely audible.
Dexter squeezed her hand. "We’ll find her," he said. "Don’t worry." He rose to his feet, arching his back.
Donna thanked Lisa again and left her at the table, head bowed, weeping softly.
*****
They walked down the narrow stairs and through the thin curtain leading to the bar. Brass kick plates on the bottom of the double doors glistened in the bright sunlight. Dexter waved a hand towards Maggie, pulling a pint at the end of the bar, mouthed his thanks and walked out. Donna understood his rudeness.
By all accounts, he’d been a hell of a drinker in his day. Never did him any harm. Not if you don’t count his wife walking out, taking his daughter with her, and his career stalling at DI level while lesser officers were promoted over him. Losing his daughter had been a blow. He still had his bad days, her birthday, Christmas, that sort of thing. He never touched a drink now. He’d just stopped.
Donna could imagine how much he’d have liked to stand at this bar and order a drink. Can’t have been easy for him and sometimes the strain showed. Like now. At least, Donna thought, she was only a total arsehole once a month. Not every month, but often enough for anyone who knew her and recognised the signs to keep their heads down. She’d never admit to being such a shit at the time, but afterwards would cringe at the way she’d treated people.
Donna went over to Maggie and thanked her in person, adding that Lisa was a bit upset. "Thanks love," she said. "I’ll go up to her in a minute."
Donna followed Dexter outside. He was sitting behind the wheel of the car. Her car. Donna got into the passenger seat, saying nothing. He looked at her.
"Sorry," he said. "Force of habit. We’ll swap over if you like." Donna shook her head, too startled by his apology to do anything else. He sat very still, staring out through the windscreen, his battered old notebooks in an untidy bundle on his lap. He’d thumbed through them on the way, mumbling out loud occasionally, but obviously found nothing significant.
"Well," Donna said at last. "Not much, but it’s a start." Dexter remained lost in thought, his expression troubled. Something was bothering him.
The urgent tone of a mobile ‘phone disturbed Dexter’s reverie. Snatching it from the central locker he listened intently then grunted a curt dismissal.
"Well?" Donna demanded as Dexter replaced the ‘phone. He looked at her in apparent surprise.
"Was that about the case?"
"No joy with that Alex lad," Dexter said. "Andy finally got an address for him, out Neston way, but he hasn’t been able to get out there yet."
He turned to Donna, his expression grave. "I don’t like this. Got a feeling it may be more serious than a girl drifting off for a few days to meet some bloke or other without telling her parents. We need to find this new man in her life. He’s the key to all this, I bloody know it and he worries me. I knew that ransom was too low. It’s not about money. This case is personal. That makes it about as bad as it gets. I don’t like it at all – all those loose ends: the family history, the fire and all that – too much tragedy already in that family. Looks to me like more than just a run of bad luck."
"What can I do?"
"Drop me back at Meols Drive, then why don’t you take a run over to Neston and give Alex Melia a try. Andy will give you the details, address and that. Then, later, if you’re interested, I’ll set up a meet with an old mate. There’s a piss up at the Phil this evening. One of the lads made Inspector. The man I want to talk to will be there, he might help me tie up some loose ends. Want to come along?"
Donna nodded, and then felt foolish as Dexter was staring out of the window at the distant Mersey and couldn’t see the gesture. "Yes," she said. "Thanks for keeping me involved."
"You felt it too, didn’t you?" Dexter turned to look at her. "A feeling that there may be more to this than the ransom demand?"
Donna nodded.
"That’s what Roper will never understand. You can’t teach people to have instincts. Either they’ve got it or they haven’t and never mind their weird hair styles and abysmal punctuality."
Donna blinked, unsure whether he was paying her a compliment or not.
"Pick me up eight o’clock," Dexter barked, buckling his seat belt. "Don’t dress up. It won’t be fancy. Not with a mob of off-duty coppers."
~ Chapter 6 ~
Donna stopped the car, checking the number against Andy’s piece of paper. Deep in the old village, at the bottom of the hill, mingling with a shy breathy wind, the low rumble of traffic was like the contented hum of a hive of worker bees. A sparse line of straggly trees wept burnished leaves onto the bonnets of parked cars. Behind the patterned curtains, harsh artificial lighting leaked out into the street. Apart from the muffled sound of traffic, the eerie sight of sodium lights reflected in the cloudy underbelly was the only indication of the main road nearby.
Donna left the car outside the church in a space marked Deliveries Only.
What sort of deliveries would justify a reserved space at a church? Holy water?
She locked up and walked past the overgrown cemetery. Old gravestones, covered in moss and yellow lichens, rose from the long grass like rows of statues on Easter Island. The majority sagged to one side, one was still legible. ‘Gone but not forgotten.’ Donna looked at the abandoned stones. Oh yeah?
It was cool and dark under the overhanging branches of a large tree. A yew perhaps? As she knew next to nothing about trees, Donna wondered why she was even bothering to speculate. Did she care one way or the other what sort of tree it was? The answer had to be ‘no’.
She reached the house and walked up the path towards the battered front door. Looking up, she glimpsed the stark white oval of a face at a first floor window peering down, but when she looked up again, it was gone. There was no answer at the door.
Odd.
Donna wait
ed a minute and heard a faint footfall behind the door. She didn't bother with the bell this time, but knocked loudly, Dexter style, using the heel of her hand. The door shuddered and the noise echoed up the street. As she raised her hand to knock again, the door swung slowly open.
The woman in the hall seemed frightened – one hand on the latch, the other raised as if to ward off a blow. About fifty-two or three, wearing baggy grey tracksuit bottoms and a faded man's blue shirt. Her small bare feet emphasised the air of anxiety coming off her in waves. With no makeup, she was deathly pale with worry lines etched deeply around her eyes. As Morticia Adam's understudy, a makeup artist would have been summoned and asked to tone down the effect. Her hair was all over the place, all tangles and stray locks. That apart, she looked gorgeous.
"Hello," Donna said, deciding not to bother with an introduction. "Is Alex in?"
"No." Short and sweet.
"Any idea where he is?"
She leaned back laughing, showing the red roof of her mouth and small discoloured teeth. Two small spots of colour rose in her cheeks. The effect was startling on such a pale background. She looked like a freshly made-up circus performer.
"How the fuck should I know where he is? I’m only his poxy mother. Thought you were someone else or I wouldn’t have opened the fucking door at all. I was half expecting some bloke they were trying to fix me up with last night down the Social Club to come round. Always trying to fix me up with some feller or other. I told them, ‘I’m 52 years of age. I’ve sucked ‘em, fucked ‘em, done the bleeding lot. I don’t need a man in my life.’ Anyway I’m a feminist."
Donna blinked, feeling the conversation getting away from her.
"When did you last see him?"
"Last night. I’ve just told you."
"No, I mean Alex."
"Oh, him."
The woman’s brow crinkled with the effort of concentration. Thinking was obviously an action she found challenging, but after a few moments she’d obviously located the elusive brain cell and felt able to reply.
