Never Coming Home

by Evonne Wareham

  Devlin was ploughing his way through bacon and waffles when his partner flopped into the seat opposite him. Something in Bobby’s face made him bite down on the first wisecrack that entered his head. Bobby nodded at the hovering server, who filled his cup and offered the menu. ‘I’ll have what he’s got,’ Bobby ordered without looking at it.

  ‘In your dreams, my son,’ Devlin said smugly. He didn’t get a rise. Bobby was staring into his coffee.

  ‘The maid at the motel got it right. Luanne doesn’t know exactly when Sally Ann disappeared, except that it wasn’t when she told the cops. She says maybe two or maybe three days more, and before that the kid had been missing for long periods during the day. When she came back the last time, she took her stuff.’

  ‘Sally Ann was already spending time with Elmore and his girlfriend, then she moved out for good.’ Devlin was thinking aloud. ‘Elmore played her, then reeled her in. You think they promised to take her to her grandmother?’

  ‘It would work.’

  Devlin scrubbed his hand over his face. ‘Elmore was one cold-hearted son of a bitch.’

  Bobby’s breakfast arrived. Bobby poked at a piece of bacon. ‘I had to tell her – Luanne – why we wanted to know about Sally Ann. I went with the story about Elmore taking his chance and snatching his daughter, after the wreck. Didn’t tell her about all the other stuff. Told her I couldn’t prove anything, but that was what we were trying to do. She … she won’t talk about it to anyone.’

  Devlin hesitated, looking at Bobby’s down-bent head. ‘No problem.’ He pulled his jacket off the back of his chair. ‘I’ll get the check and see you at the car in about half-an-hour.’

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Whatever gas station in town has a tow truck.’

  ‘What exactly are we looking for?’ Bobby surveyed the junkyard with disfavour. Wrecks of what had once been cars, and pieces of industrial machinery, were stacked all around. At least there was no dog.

  ‘The car Gemma was driving.’ Devlin was looking over the heaps of metal. ‘According to the guy who towed it, after the wreck, this is where it ended up. We’re going to find it, buy it and get it taken apart by the nearest forensics lab.’

  The finding took two hours. Bobby watched as Devlin handed over a roll of notes for a rusty pile of metal.

  ‘You think that heap is going to tell us anything, after all this time? Something that the Sheriff missed?’

  ‘Sheriff didn’t look. Didn’t need to. Car was turned over by a drunk who was also high on drugs. Case opened. Case closed.’

  ‘The car was fixed, or run off the road?’

  Devlin nodded. ‘You know that bad feeling? This is part of it, too.’

  Chapter Twenty

  It was raining in Chicago. Which was just fine, as it matched Devlin’s mood. Everything had a grey edge to it these days, even when the sun shone. Especially when the sun shone.

  He dumped a folder and three envelopes down on his partner’s desk. Bobby grinned as he leafed through the file. Preliminary work for the O’Hara proposal. ‘Looking good, man. I can hear those dollars stacking and see those sexy babes sashaying down that red carpet.’

  ‘Don’t start dusting off your tux. You’re gonna be in a drain in the road, checking for deranged fans and paparazzi.’

  Bobby grinned as he raised a finger, reaching for the envelopes. Devlin tapped the top one. ‘Statements from Gemma Smith’s doctor – don’t ask – and her ex-flatmates. The girl was clean. A college friend overdosed. Died in front of her, after a party. She never took drugs, didn’t even drink.’

  ‘Always a first time.’

  ‘Check out the rest.’

  The report from the forensics lab, and the accident investigator, ran to five pages. Careful, detailed, thorough, and expensive. The pay dirt was on page three, the report on the airbags and the brakes, and page four, the scratches on the rear and side paintwork. Frowning, Bobby opened the last envelope, sliding out an e-mail that had the logo of an insurance company at the top. He read it and whistled.

  ‘A million? What’s that in dollars?’ Bobby frowned, then gave up on the mental arithmetic. ‘Not chump change,’ he decided, stacking the envelopes. ‘None of this is conclusive.’

  ‘Separately no, but together? It doesn’t have to stand up in a court of law.’

  ‘Where the hell is this taking us?’

  ‘An accident that was no accident. But did Jeff Elmore set it up?’ I don’t have Jamie any more. ‘Or was it someone else?’

  Devlin’s feet slapped down on the pavement. One. After. The. Damn. Other. He heaved in air, speeding up. This time in the morning, there were plenty of other runners about. Joggers, too. Some ran in pairs, a lot had earpieces and music players. One ran with a dog with silver fur and sky-blue eyes loping at her heels. A human would need contacts to get eyes that colour. Physical activity. It was healthy, social, productive. For Devlin it was just running. He did it because he had to, because the speed and strength of the muscles in his legs might one day be what would keep him breathing.

  He slogged along another road. He could be anywhere. It wasn’t Japan because the faces were wrong. It wasn’t Amsterdam or Venice, because there weren’t any canals. It wasn’t Alaska – no snow. Other than that, who knew?

  How could he be home sick, when he didn’t have a home? He turned right, looking for a hill to take down.

  The shower was hot and wet and went on a long time. Dressing, Devlin’s eyes kept returning to the chest where the envelopes he’d shown Bobby yesterday were piled. There were two new ones on the stack. Nausea growled in his belly. He and Bobby had put it together and now what was he going to do with it? Take it to her, in London? See her look at him with blank, dead eyes, because whatever he’d pieced together, it still wasn’t going to give her her daughter back?

  Or maybe he’d tell her how he woke at night, reaching for her, hard and aching. That if she’d let him –

  With a sharp curse, he grabbed his jacket off the bed. It could wait a little longer. He still hadn’t heard back from Munroe and Rossi. Opening a drawer and sweeping the envelopes into it, he headed out of the room.

  The phone kept ringing. No answer. At last Devlin threw it back down on the rest. Still nothing from Munroe and Rossi, together or separately. The answer phone at their office had stopped picking up. He had to quell the prickly feeling between his shoulder blades. They were out of town, on a case, on vacation –

  He dragged his attention away from the phone as Bobby ambled into the office.

  ‘Got a suggested venue list from O’Hara. Preliminary, subject to our opinion on suitability.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Devlin held out his hand, glanced down, felt his eyes bulge. ‘Community hall, art and craft centre,’ he read, dangerously. ‘You said O’Hara wanted to give something back to his roots, to the small towns on the West Coast. You didn’t fucking think to tell me that he meant the west coast of fucking Ireland?’

  Bobby’s face was as innocent as an altar boy. ‘I did mention it. I don’t think you were listening.’

  Normal. An ordinary day at work. Regular tasks. Routine. The familiar surroundings of the yard, the greenhouses, the up-market shed that served as an office. The twinge in her back as she leaned over the cold frames. Normal. Kaz heeled in the sweet pea seedling with brisk, firm strokes and moved on to the next. Trowel into the soil, trowel out of the soil, shake the next seedling out of its pot, untangle it from its fellows, pop it in the hole. She could do normal. The early morning sun was shining. A perfect May morning. She could hear the voice of a guide, showing a VIP party around the Chelsea Physic Garden, next door, before it opened to the public. An ordinary day. She could pretend that her uncle hadn’t been murdered and that her ex-husband hadn’t killed himself. She could pretend that her daughter wasn’t missing, probably also dead. She
could certainly pretend that she’d never met a man called Devlin, much less slept with him. She could pretend until her teeth fell out.

  Letting out a deep breath, she leaned back on her heels to survey the hanging basket that she was filling. At least now there weren’t any more tears. She was all cried out, for Phil, for Jeff, and for Jamie. She certainly wasn’t crying for Devlin. He’d thought it was time to go, and that was fine by her. She didn’t need him. Wanting wasn’t the same as needing. That was what those few days had been about. Proving that she didn’t have to have a commitment to have sex. Devlin had given her a gold standard for a lover, and for herself. His job was done.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Uh? Oh, thanks.’ Kaz flopped back onto the path, accepting the mug, scattered with pink frogs, that her assistant Trisha was holding out to her. ‘Thanks, Trish, you’re a star.’

  Trisha tested a convenient wheelbarrow for stability, before draping herself elegantly over it. The frogs on her mug were blue. ‘How are you doing?’ she asked softly.

  ‘You know –’ Kaz made a balancing gesture with her hand. ‘Some days up, some days down. I’ve got an appointment tomorrow with an investigator who specialises in children who go missing abroad. I’m hoping he can suggest something.’

  ‘It didn’t work out then, with the American guy?’

  ‘He was very helpful, but it wasn’t a long-term thing. He had to go back to the States.’ Kaz prodded an errant sweet pea into its proper place.

  Trisha nodded, accepting. ‘Keep hanging in there. We’re all cheering for you. Oh.’ Trisha looked up, pointing. ‘I think you’re wanted.’ She giggled. ‘Either that, or Tom is having a funny turn.’ The site foreman was standing in the office window, making telephone gestures. ‘I’ll finish the baskets and put them on the van.’ Trisha offered. ‘Go and see what he wants.’

  Kaz scrambled to her feet. Tom met her at the office door, his face creased with concern. ‘It’s the police on the phone. From Italy.’

  Kaz stood still, her hand on the door knob. She had to do this, however hard it was. Her suitcase was packed and waiting in the hall downstairs. She’d checked everything in her handbag. Twice. Passport, currency, hastily printed flight schedule. The bag bumped gently against her side as she looked at her watch. Trisha would be here in less than twenty minutes to drive her to the airport. They’d check over the work schedule for the week on the way. This was all that was left to do. The Italian policeman had been very specific about what he needed. She’d switched off when he had talked of packaging and couriers. She couldn’t just sit here, tamely, and wait.

  She swung the door handle with a swift jerk, pushing the door open.

  And rocked back in shock.

  Jamie’s room. She’d forgotten. The baby pastels and dainty patterns of memory were gone. A joyous celebration of light and colour came to meet her, as the door reverberated gently against the wall. A room befitting a young lady who was no longer a baby, but coming up to her fifth birthday. They’d chosen it together, the pale wood furniture, dark blue carpet – and the walls. Kaz took a hesitant step over the threshold. Sunlight glittered on the exotic birds and foliage Jamie had chosen over the competing charms of fairies and ponies and cartoon characters. Parrots and love-birds swooped and dived and peeped quizzically through leafy branches, heads cocked.

  ‘Oh, baby, you never got to see it.’

  A choking ball convulsed Kaz’s throat. She stood for a moment, eyes closed, teeth clenched. She had to get on with it. There was no time.

  The fat bristle hairbrush was on the dressing table. Kaz blinked, looking down at it. They’d bought a plastic travel set, a bright pink brush and comb, especially for the American trip. Jamie had been particularly pleased with it. Brush and comb were probably still in the hastily packed suitcase of her daughter’s things that Suzanne had taken away and hidden, out of sight and tears, in the storeroom at the shop. Kaz snatched up this brush, hauling the plastic bag out of the pocket of her jeans and shaking it open, to drop it in. Her fingers trembled as she pushed the bundle deep into the recesses of her handbag.

  She stood for a breath-shuddering moment, letting her emotions settle. The room enfolded her; safe, quiet, dust free. She’d suspected for a while that Suzanne crept in here regularly, with a duster. She’d not been able to face it. It had been finished just the day before … the day before …

  She looked round now. It was a fresh, grown-up room, waiting for a little girl to come home. A happy surprise, to find it completed, after a holiday with her father.

  Except …

  Abruptly Kaz’s knees gave way. She sat down on the bed. The eyes of the birds looked knowing now, mocking. Eyes. Something else was watching her from the pillow. Someone else.

  ‘Oh! Patchy.’ Kaz scooped the skinny horse against her chest, holding him tight, feeling the familiar lumps and bumps of the long-nosed head and knobbly, floppy legs. Jamie’s long-time companion and comforter.

  Kaz tried to swallow and found she couldn’t. Her daughter’s face, solemn and resolute, swam before her eyes. A small hand, holding out the toy. ‘I’m not taking Patchy to ’merica because he might get losted. He says he’ll stay here, to look after you.’

  ‘Oh, my darling.’ Kaz rocked, gripping the piebald horse even tighter to her chest.

  Sunshine and silence, but for the sound of her own ragged breathing. Then, from downstairs, the chime of the doorbell. With a convulsive indrawn breath, Kaz released her death grip on Patchy. The little head was tilted, looking up at her. The black-button eyes glittered.

  The police wanted something that Jamie had handled. A hairbrush was a hairbrush, but Patchy had been loved. With a low-pitched groan, Kaz dropped the little horse into her capacious handbag, hefted it on her shoulder and headed for the door.

  Trisha was standing on the step. Behind her, Suzanne was coming up the street. She waved as she crossed the road. ‘I’m glad I caught you. The gate to your yard was closed, so I was going to drop these off.’ She held up a file of papers. ‘We need to choose …’ Her voice hitched. ‘For Phil, for the memorial service.’ She stopped as she took in her daughter’s expression. ‘Darling? What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘The police rang, from Italy. They’ve found another property Jeff owned.’ Kaz hesitated, looking at her mother’s strained face, and knew she had to lie. ‘They … they’re searching it.’ She saw Trisha’s eyes widen, then go blank as she understood. ‘They want …’ Kaz’s hand convulsed on the strap of her handbag. ‘I gave them a sample, for DNA, before I left Italy.’ It had been remarkably quick and simple, just a cotton bud, brushed on the inside of her mouth. And not something she’d ever imagined having to do. ‘Now they want something of Jamie’s, for a full match. In case they find … any evidence. They asked me to send it, but I can’t just wait here. I have to go.’ She heard her voice rising, and clamped down on pain and panic. ‘But you … I didn’t think. The arrangements for the memorial service. I should be with you.’

  Suzanne shook her head emphatically. Her face was pale, but composed. ‘There’s no need. I can cope, darling. We know what happened to Phil, and nothing will bring him back. You must go. Are you off now? To the airport? I can drive you. The car’s outside the yard.’

  ‘No!’ The word came out too loud. ‘Trish has offered,’ Kaz continued more quietly. If her mother accompanied her to the airport she couldn’t be sure she’d be able to keep silent. Mercifully Suzanne had turned to Trisha, giving her a quick hug. ‘Get her safely on the plane.’ She turned back to Kaz. ‘Go – but ring me when you land.’

  It was raining in Dublin. Devlin shook water off his hair as he entered the hotel foyer. The rain clouds were following him around. Or his mood was generating them. He’d left Bobby in the dining room, eating his way through the breakfast buffet like food was going out of fashion. He’d been walking, pounding the streets. Th
ere wasn’t anything better to do, until his partner was ready to go to work, checking out venues.

  Bobby was standing next to the reception desk. The girl behind it had just handed him a folded paper.

  ‘O’Hara wants to reschedule?’ Devlin stared at the hotel message sheet in disbelief. ‘What sort of fucking message is that?’

  ‘It’s code,’ Bobby explained. ‘It means O’Hara wants to reschedule.’

  ‘Wiseass! The guy gets us here all the way across the fucking Atlantic –’

  ‘Dev!’ Bobby hustled his partner sideways, towards a corridor. It was empty. With a quick look both ways he opened the first door closest to the foyer and half-shoved Devlin, still protesting, into an empty conference room. He yanked his cell phone out of his pocket and held it out. ‘Call her.’

  ‘Call who?’ Devlin ignored the phone, mooching over to the window to scowl into the rain-washed street.

  ‘You know bloody well who.’ Bobby followed him to the window, still with the phone in his hand. ‘O’Hara has postponed the meeting. We have an extra day. London is what, an hour, two hours away? If you don’t call her, then I will.’

  ‘And tell her what?’

  ‘That I may be forced to shoot you and dump the body in the nearest bog?’ Bobby rolled his eyes. ‘Just do it, will you?’ He brandished the phone, dropping his hand when his partner didn’t take it. ‘Hell, Dev, we’ve put together all that stuff about what happened when her daughter disappeared. Don’t you think she deserves to know about it?’

  Devlin leaned against the wall, hands stuffed into his pockets. ‘None of it will bring the kid back.’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘Of course it matters.’

  ‘Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe she doesn’t expect that from you. Maybe what matters is that you’ve done this for her. Think about it. Then do us both a favour and call her.’ Bobby turned towards the door. ‘If she doesn’t hang up, then you’ll know.’