Head Count

by Judith Cutler

  ‘I’m afraid we’re not very multicultural down here, are we?’ he added. ‘In a city probably no one would turn a hair if a bunch of people of Mediterranean appearance turned up. But a derogatory term for travellers was the best description I could get.’

  ‘Taking their tone from English First, I suppose.’

  ‘Precisely. I’d love to put into practice what I talked about yesterday – leaving food out for the kids. But that’s not the solution long term, is it?’

  ‘No. We were due a visit from the education department today, but no one came. So the only brains we can pick are each other’s, Tom. My advice, for what it’s worth, is to involve the police. If there are children hiding in the woods, someone needs to find them and feed them and give them shelter and clothes. And discuss the socio-political implications afterwards.’

  Tom was silent. Then he said flatly, ‘You’re the boss. So it’s your bloody call.’ His phone went silent.

  Ouch. It had taken me long enough to build bridges with him and I seemed to have destroyed them with one decision. Which I’d better implement before I changed my mind.

  Lloyd’s phone was switched to voicemail. No, I didn’t want to leave a garbled message, did I?

  Next option, then.

  Will sounded surprised to hear my voice, and was inclined to resume his Saturday night informality. But he was dead serious when I told him what I feared – and, to do him credit, agreed with me that kindness was the best approach at this stage from everyone involved.

  ‘So no blues and twos?’ I prompted.

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ he promised. ‘Not if there really are only kids. I suppose the kids didn’t see any adults lurking nearby?’

  ‘If they did they didn’t tell Tom – and I think they probably would have done, since we din into them every day the importance of reporting suspicious strangers. So I’m afraid – Will, I’m very much afraid that they’re on their own, poor little mites.’

  ‘You know this is beyond my responsibility, Jane.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I added something true if unwise in the circumstances. ‘But I reckon good people usually know other good people.’

  He snorted. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere. Actually, my DI’s just come into the office: Elaine Carberry. I’ll pass you over to her.’

  I explained as succinctly but as urgently as I could,

  ‘If it’s migrants, it’s definitely my bag, Ms Cowan,’ she said. ‘I’ll get on to it now.’ She must have put her hand over the phone. I could hear her muffled voice giving brisk orders. ‘Camping in the open’s OK when it’s fine, but the forecast’s not great, Jane. I’ll meet you there in an hour. OK? Here’s Will again.’

  ‘You know they’re talking about the first Atlantic storm heading our way,’ he said.

  ‘A storm? They could have forecast a plague of frogs for all I know: it’s been all systems go and a bit more here,’ I explained.

  ‘Sounds as if you could do with getting it off your chest. Go and do your stuff with Elaine. Then, tell you what, let’s make it a nice informal debriefing and eat at the same time. I’ll collect you from yours about eight.’

  He’d ended the call before I could refuse. Not, perhaps, that I would have done.

  Meanwhile, I’d better go and meet this DI Carberry and pray she was as compassionate as she was efficient.

  When I turned up churning with anxiety and guilt at the lay-by Tom had indicated, he wasn’t there. Was I surprised? A little disappointed. But he had a lot of family calls on his time, so perhaps that was the reason, not a professional strop. But I wasn’t there alone. A whole gang of people hung around, all trying to look casual, as if gathering round a layby on a secondary road was part of their usual day. I was greeted – by name – by a middle-aged woman who introduced herself as DI Elaine Carberry, Will’s boss.

  ‘I’m in charge of your Afghan body, as you may know,’ she said, ‘but I’m betting there’s not too much to suggest you’re responsible, unsafe building apart – and God knows enough buildings were proved unsafe that night. So let’s get started with this, shall we?’

  She might have to work hard to meet the police standards for physical fitness, but there was a kind honesty about her homely face that made me warm to her. To my amazement I seemed to be part of the senior team, which included a couple of the elusive social workers the education officials had promised to bring to Wray Episcopi and several police officers. There was also a hijab-wearing woman of most extraordinary beauty who was introduced as Yasin, our interpreter. Headscarf apart, she was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved loose top not unlike my own workwear after my hedgerow incident.

  Soon she was equipped with a hand-held loudhailer, the sort I associated with idealistic demos in my youth. ‘So I go round the woods telling the kids I’ve got food? So where is it?’ Her accent was pure Bradford. ‘No food, no deal. I won’t lie to them.’

  A woman after my own heart.

  It seemed someone was collecting a load of sandwiches from the nearest supermarket. ‘Vegetarian, before you ask,’ Elaine said, earning instant brownie points. ‘We wouldn’t risk any meat in case it wasn’t halal. Milk. Biscuits. Water. I wouldn’t ask you to lie. When they’ve eaten we’ll invite them into the minivans. Over there, Jane, where no one can see them. I don’t want the kids to take one look and bolt. OK, Yasin – off you go.’

  ‘I’ve seen kids like that a thousand times on TV,’ I said, my hands still shaking, though I tried to keep my voice under control. I tugged my bathrobe more closely about me. ‘Thin – emaciated really. Heads crawling with lice. Dirty. Not just grubby because they’d been playing outdoors. Filthy. Some of them ill. Some dressed in the remains of some parent’s idea of best clothes. Some with little bundles. Some with nothing. Some even with something tattooed on their wrists. Turns out it was their parents’ phone number or whatever. But here? In the Garden of England? No, I don’t think I want to eat, thanks, Will.’

  ‘Tough. I’ve got a table booked at my local. And so we can both drink I’ll organise a cab back for you when we’ve fed. OK?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Time to go. Or do you want to dry your hair first?’

  Subtext: dry your hair and get some clothes on. I’d been having a prolonged attack on my nits and had been almost hypnotised by the force of the shower into losing track of time. Obediently, I got to my feet, keeping my bathrobe decently together.

  ‘Does it make it better or worse that that kid who’s joined your school – Zunaid? – wasn’t in the woods?’

  ‘I don’t know. I want him safe and sound, with a roof and clothes and food. But I want to keep him in our manageable little school, where he’s already made a friend. And where he tried to befriend a child called Bilal I never even got to see. I’m sorry! I’ll go and dry my hair.’ And my tears. ‘I’m sorry!’

  And there I was, being wrapped up in his arms and comforted. That was all. But with a great punch in the stomach I realised how much I was missing physical affection. OK. Put it another way, how much I wanted sex and, even more, post-coital intimacy. With Will? He’d have to rebuff me, whatever his instinct, because in theory I might be a suspect in a case he was investigating. If he didn’t, it would destroy him in my estimation. Heads I lose, tails I certainly don’t win. Breathing out firmly, I disengaged myself and retreated to the bathroom.

  Will lived in a village to the south, much nearer the coast than Wrayford, but not close enough to the sea to have the fabulous views offered by St Luke’s Bay or Churcham. The pub he called his local was quiet, but heaved, he said, at weekends. The food would never win awards, but he’d never had a bad meal, whatever time he turned up.

  So far, so good.

  Until I excused myself to go to the loo. Two of us found ourselves using the same outer door, me pushing, the other woman pulling. Usually there’d be one of those silly after-you-no-after-you moments. But this time, after a second’s delay, the other woman thrust past me, giving me a look of such in
tense loathing that I almost staggered. Who? Why? What had I ever done to her to be treated like that? So instead of going into a cubicle, I turned and followed her. Not to confront her. Just to see if I could place her, because by now I realised I knew her from somewhere. I was too late to see her face again, but did see something else from the front door: a huge SUV, blue, with tinted rear windows, driving stupidly fast out of the car park.

  ‘Problem?’ Will asked, as I stared after her. He got up and closed the door for me as I returned to our table.

  I managed a bleak laugh. ‘Not now. But I have this crazy notion that it was the woman I just met who—’

  ‘The one who stormed out then?’

  ‘That one. I’ve an idea she might have been the person with the SUV that ran me off the road at the start of the holidays.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Goodness knows why I said such a stupid thing. Regretting it, I sat down and took a long sip of my drink – the local beer that Will had recommended, as opposed to the wine which he couldn’t. ‘Forget it. My mind’s off kilter.’ I gave a rueful smile. ‘And now I really have to go and use that loo. Sorry.’

  I stared at my hands as I washed them as thoroughly as Zunaid had washed his. Not that I was seeing them. I was seeing the woman’s face. I examined it feature by feature, trying to imagine it without the undiluted loathing. Yes, I’d certainly seen it before. I prided myself on never forgetting a face, even when a child I once taught reappeared before me years later wearing adult plumage. But the answer wouldn’t come, and Will was waiting.

  Not just waiting, but with information that suggested that he’d taken what I’d just said at face value – even if the information was negative.

  ‘Tess – that’s the landlady – doesn’t have CCTV, I’m afraid. But she says she’s seen the woman here a couple of times before and if she remembers anything about her she’ll tell me.’

  ‘Let’s forget it,’ I said. ‘Sorry: thank you for asking her but let’s forget it.’

  ‘I wish I could. But if she drives an SUV, then there’s a possible connection with an SUV that makes regular visits to your house with its lights off.’

  My eyebrows shot up. ‘Or not. Tenuous to the point of non-existent. Sorry. That was uncalled for. There is one odd thing, though. Now, remember my past. You know I have every reason to have a sort of selective amnesia.’

  ‘It’s best to forget some of the stuff Simon did: that’s the theory?’

  I couldn’t blank out, of course, the way he knew about that: through conversations with Pat. ‘Yes,’ I said, perhaps inadequately. ‘Any road up, for all the hoo-ha just now, there was a serious bit of remembering going on.’ I explained. I managed a grin as I added, ‘Surely I’d remember anyone I’d annoyed as seriously as that?’

  ‘Any road up,’ he repeated. ‘Pure Black Country.’

  ‘Oh, ah,’ I agreed.

  ‘Absolutely. You’ve got the idioms: can you do the accent too?’

  ‘’Course I can, me luvva.’ We exchanged a grin. But soon I was serious. ‘Just for the record, Will, I’d much rather not talk about Pat. He’s back where he’s supposed to be because I’m fine these days,’ I said firmly, overriding something he tried to say with a question: ‘Tell me, how are my fingerprints shaping up?’

  ‘No match except where there’s supposed to be a match. DNA? – unless you go round spitting on bolts, that seems a waste of money.’

  ‘I can promise you I only ever spit on bolts if I’ve already dabbed my fingers all over them first.’

  ‘You did dab your fingers on something, though, earlier. It really intrigued me. When we were leaving your place, you seemed to pat your door frame.’

  My laugh was genuine. ‘Just touching wood, Will. OK, touching a strip of Sellotape on top of the wood – from the door to the door frame. If it’s torn when I get back I can see that someone’s got inside. I thought I’d grown out of the habit, but I just did tonight – something subliminal.’

  ‘Jesus. That’s what living with an abusive partner does to you, is it? Will you ever feel safe?’ Both the shock and the concern sounded genuine.

  ‘My new place is having a safe room, just to make sure,’ I admitted.

  He shook his head gravely.

  Just as the food arrived, my phone whistled to announce a load of texts. If it was a choice between what Will assured me would be a perfect steak and the texts, I’d put manners first and the phone second. I’m not a big meat-eater, but I have to admit that he was right.

  By the time I’d finished, the whistling could have been coming from an aviary. With an apologetic glance at Will, I checked quickly. Tom apologising; Elaine thanking me for my part in the rounding-up exercise; one of the social workers involved, assuring me that the kids were having medical checks and would be settled as quickly as possible: I shared that one with Will. Three – no, a fourth was arriving – from Ed van Boolen? Because of the language involved, I didn’t share them. He wanted to start work on my new garden but couldn’t get adjective clearance from the adjective police. And he needed an umpire for Saturday. Was I still OK for the ODI at the end of the month because he might be able to free himself up after all? Lastly, it was ages since we’d met for a drink. No need to share that, either.

  Pam: could she offer Zunaid a home?

  The dentist reminding me of an appointment at five tomorrow night.

  Justin, inviting me for a drink at his place. That surprised me, though not very much: he’d seemed to be heading that way on Saturday. But just now I didn’t do drinks at anyone’s place, not on my own.

  Paula: when could she have further access to the house?

  My library books were due back.

  Was I happy with my phone network?

  And, finally, to my genuine amazement, one from Brian Dawes, who didn’t usually favour such terse means of communication as texts: he was suggesting dinner, to catch up after his prolonged absence.

  Why, when I had no time to spend on anything, was I suddenly flavour of the month?

  And why did I want to dump it all on Will, who despite what he’d said earlier had confined himself to half a pint and was now on mineral water? If you want to tell someone stuff you shouldn’t, it’s best to ask them about stuff they don’t want you to know. And though Will had come, one way or another, to know a lot about me, I knew virtually nothing about him.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said belatedly, conscientiously switching off the phone without attempting any replies. ‘A couple more of them actually involve you, as it happens: my landscape gardener wants to start preliminary work and Paula needs access to the house again.’ I spread my hands. ‘I’ve waited long enough for something to happen, so don’t think I’m going to nag you to do what they want.’ I took a deep breath and a risk. ‘But I will tell you one thing. Someone I was talking to in the bar on Saturday reckons that pressure has been exerted on all the builders I approached not to work for me. He didn’t know who and he didn’t know why. I’d rather not tell you who gave me the information. Thank God for PACT. And now, Will, let’s have a normal conversation? As if we’d just met?’

  He looked totally bemused. ‘Don’t you want me to tell you when we’re likely to have finished at the crime scene? Because I’d have thought your gardener and builder could start this time next week. The builder could certainly have another nose round the house any time she wants, subject to obvious precautions.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s great news.’

  The landlady arrived with the dessert menu. ‘Not even coffee?’ she asked as we shook our heads and declared we couldn’t manage another morsel.

  I flicked a glance at my watch. ‘I daren’t, thanks, not at this time of night. But if you want to, Will …?’

  He shook his head, asking for the bill. ‘I’ll settle up – you can pay next time. When we have that normal conversation.’

  Which seemed quite a big assumption, but for some reason I didn’t argue.

  The forecasters were right:
it was blowing up a gale, the rain coming in squalls, and small branches bowling across the car park.

  ‘In this weather,’ I said, ‘I always think of that hymn asking for help for all those in peril on the sea.’

  ‘Right. The Royal Navy hymn. My father was a captain,’ he said. ‘My mother was an old-fashioned services wife, oozing loyalty and devotion.’

  It sounded from his voice as if he was doubtful that his father deserved either, but I could scarcely ask directly about that.

  ‘How did he cope with your ambitions to study Edward Said? Whom, incidentally, I’ve never read,’ I added, as his face showed quite clearly that that was too personal a question.

  He managed a grin. ‘Shame on you. I can offer you two whole box-files of the preliminary notes for my PhD. Do you have a finished thesis I can read?’

  ‘Heavens, no! I enjoyed uni, but I’m not an academic. The language they have to use. All the passive voices. And the footnotes, of course. Give me cats on mats any day … So what takes a genuine footnoting scholar into the police?’

  ‘Apart from failing to be a genuine footnoting scholar? Probably the same motivations that took you into teaching. A desire to make other people’s lives better and the temptation of a halfway decent salary with a modicum of job security. And Kent Police called. Except we’re so closely linked to Essex, in the interests of efficiency, of course—’

  ‘Otherwise known as saving money—’

  He gave an appreciative snort of laughter before continuing, ‘that we’re pretty well merged. Essex and Kent Police. Essex only being separated from Kent by a great dollop of water known as the Thames estuary. Much of what I feel now is something else you’ll share, I’m sure: a huge frustration with the country’s leaders who seem hell-bent on destroying vital services. Still, it could have been worse, Jane: we could both have been prison officers …’ He put the car into gear and pulled out of the car park.