The Retreat

by Mark Edwards

  I spotted the shining dome of Glynn’s head through the crowd. He was talking to another man his age, laughing heartily at something the other guy was saying. Was this another member of the Historical Society? I hung back. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to him. Why was Malcolm scared of you? Why didn’t you want me to talk to Jake?

  A scenario played out in my head. Glynn lurking by the river on that fateful New Year’s Day two years ago. Snatching Lily when her parents were out of sight and throwing her toy cat into the water.

  Taking her somewhere into the woods. Hiding her in that hut. Doing things to her that I didn’t want to picture. Killing her and burying her, his granddaughter’s best friend, in the woods.

  But what evidence did I have for any of this? I quickly ran through it again. Zara had reported that this man made Malcolm seem afraid while she was quizzing him about Lily’s disappearance. The next day, Malcolm died before he could tell Zara any more. It had been a heart attack – but if his heart was weak, perhaps he had been frightened to death, if such a thing was possible.

  And in this scenario, Jake had seen or heard something, which was why Glynn didn’t want anyone talking to him. What could it have been? A conversation he’d eavesdropped on? Had Jake actually seen Glynn with Lily? Perhaps he witnessed something that happened before Lily’s disappearance, during one of the many times Lily had visited the house.

  I could go to the police with my suspicions but it seemed extremely unlikely there would be any evidence. Even if the police talked to Jake and he told them something incriminating, it would be easy for Glynn to deny it. How likely were the police to believe the word of a teenage boy with learning difficulties?

  As I thought it through, I realised I was getting way ahead of myself, my imagination running away with me as usual. To go to the police now, with my half-baked theories, would be liable to cause nothing but upset to Jake and his family. And if Glynn was guilty of something, he would be put on high alert.

  I needed to wait, to find out more.

  I found myself staring at Glynn, and at that moment the crowd between us shifted and he saw me. He stared back, clearly shocked I was here – shocked and angry. He was about to head over, fists clenched, and I braced myself for a confrontation, when a woman in her fifties stepped into his path and started talking to him. The woman had a cleavage that pinned Glynn to the spot. At the same moment, someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Lucas. I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  It was Shirley. She was dressed all in black with a fascinator attached to her head. I couldn’t help but stare at it. She had a sherry glass in her hand.

  ‘I’m happy to see you,’ I said. ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘What about?’ She touched the cross around her neck, just as she had the first time we met. She was nervous, and the way she glanced over her shoulder at Glynn told me all I needed to know. She, like Malcolm, was afraid of him.

  Jostled by mourners moving through the hallway, and aware of Glynn’s proximity, I said, ‘Maybe now’s not the best time or place. Could I pop round to the Apple Tree later, when this is all over?’

  She hesitated, eyes flicking to Glynn once again. He was still talking to the chest of the woman with the cleavage.

  ‘You look so much like your father,’ Shirley said. ‘When he was your age.’

  ‘Is that a good thing?’

  She smiled girlishly. ‘Come round at teatime.’ She took a sip of her sherry. ‘I’d better not have too many of these.’

  Heledd appeared by her side. ‘Yes, go easy, Mum.’ She smiled at me. ‘Nice of you to come. Hope you’re not going to put us all in a book.’

  ‘Ah, you found out what I do for a living?’

  ‘Olly told me about how he’d helped a stranded novelist and I put two and two together. He said you were going to give him a copy of your book.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I think I said I’d give him one if he promised to read it.’

  Heledd laughed. ‘I’ve never known him read anything longer than a text message. But I’d love to read it if you want to drop a copy off at the B & B.’

  I was about to explain that I didn’t have any books with me in Wales, but she was already steering Shirley away. ‘Come on, Mum, the buffet’s open. Let’s get you something to eat.’

  As they stepped out of my path, I saw that Glynn had vanished. And it was time for me to make a move too.

  I bumped into Olly by the front door. ‘Sorry for your loss,’ I said. ‘My parents were friends with your dad, so I’m here on their behalf. Hope that’s okay.’

  ‘Yeah, of course. Thanks for coming.’ He gave me a weak smile. ‘Not got lost again recently, I hope.’

  His eyes were red, and he looked over my shoulder before I could come up with a response. ‘Have you seen Heledd?’

  ‘She was taking her mum to check out the buffet.’

  ‘Sounds right.’ He went to move away then stopped, leaning forward and blasting me with warm, beery breath.

  ‘Your family did the right thing, leaving this town,’ he said.

  He disappeared into the crowd.

  I stood outside in the rain. I was desperate to talk to Zara. I wanted to go over the conversation she’d had with Malcolm again, and run my suspicions – I hesitated to call it a theory – past her. There was no one else I could talk to and I needed to know if the whole thing sounded insane.

  Once again, I tried calling her mobile and her office number. There was no reply. I checked the time – it was three o’clock. Telford, where Zara was based, was only an hour away by car. I could drive there, talk to her and be back in time to see Shirley. The day was already a complete write-off, work-wise. Fired up and eager to keep up momentum, I hurried back to my car.

  The road to Telford was picturesque and traffic was light. The rain had slowed to a light patter. A few months ago I’d watched a documentary about the so-called Shropshire Viper, a serial killer who’d terrorised this part of the world, waking up the county for a while. Now, it had slipped back to sleep.

  I hit the M54 outside Telford and followed my satnav’s instructions to Zara’s office. It was located in an office block which housed half a dozen businesses. Like everything in this new town, it was a modern building with little character, function over form. I parked in the small car park round the back and pressed Zara’s buzzer. There was no reply.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have expected anything else. After all, she wasn’t answering her office phone so why did I think she’d be there? It was so frustrating, though, and as I stood in the rain I thumped my fist against the door, cursing my wasted journey.

  ‘Hey, you’ll break that door!’

  A young woman with curly blonde hair approached the building, a scowl on her face.

  ‘Who are you and what are you doing?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m trying to get hold of Zara Sullivan.’

  The woman was carrying a leather briefcase. I assumed she worked in the building. ‘The private detective? I haven’t seen her for ages.’

  My mouth went dry. ‘Really? How long?’

  ‘A couple of weeks, at least. I rent the office next door to hers.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not a debt collector, are you?’

  ‘I’m a client.’

  She gave me the once-over then said, ‘Come inside a minute, I’m getting soaked out here.’

  In the lobby, she introduced herself as Samantha and said, ‘I’m sure it was two weeks ago. She told me she was off to see someone in Wales about a case. She seemed excited. She’s been struggling to find clients recently.’ She winced, as if she realised how indiscreet she was being.

  ‘I’m the person she was going to see in Wales,’ I said. ‘She told me she was coming back. That was just over a week ago.’

  ‘Well, she definitely hasn’t been back to the office.’ She chewed a fingernail. ‘Oh, blimey, you’ve got me all worried now.’

  I was worried too. ‘Do you know where she lives?’

 
‘Yeah. She lives with a bloke in Oakengates.’

  ‘A boyfriend?’ That was surprising.

  Samantha laughed. ‘No, he’s her GBF.’ I must have looked puzzled because she said, ‘Gay best friend. Hang on, I’ve got the address here.’ She took out her mobile and looked it up. I copied it into my new phone and thanked her, promising to get Zara to contact her as soon as I found her.

  It took only fifteen minutes to get to Oakengates and find the address. Another modern building, this one divided into flats. I pressed the button on the intercom labelled Zara Sullivan and Dan Kaye and a man answered. Zara’s GBF. I explained that I was looking for his flatmate and he buzzed me up.

  He was a short guy, good-looking with a shaved head.

  ‘Zara’s in Tenerife,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you a debt collector?’

  I was offended. Did I really look like a debt collector? But the fact two people had asked me that made me think Zara must be in some financial difficulty.

  I told him the same thing I’d told Samantha.

  ‘She emailed me a week ago to say she’d binned the case she was working on and had decided to get some sun.’

  ‘She didn’t phone you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Didn’t you think that was strange? Does she normally email you to tell you things? Has she suddenly taken off on holiday before?’

  ‘Yeah, she has actually. Although the email thing is a bit weird. She usually calls.’ He smiled. ‘She is quite fond of her own voice.’

  Something was definitely wrong. Would Zara have really gone straight from Beddmawr, having abandoned the investigation without telling me, to Tenerife? Without even calling home to pick up a swimsuit? She’d have had to come close to Telford to get to the nearest airport.

  ‘Has she updated Facebook or anything with holiday snaps?’ I asked.

  ‘She doesn’t use social media,’ Dan replied.

  ‘If she went abroad without coming back here, she must have had her passport with her in Wales. Does she usually carry her passport around with her? Do you know where she keeps it? Can you—’

  He held up his hands as if warding off an attack. ‘Woah woah woah. Give me a chance.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He seemed exasperated. ‘Look, I don’t know anything about her passport. And I have no idea if you’re really who you say you are.’

  ‘I’m not a debt collector . . .’

  ‘Please, shut up. I’m not going to answer any more of your questions. I’m happy to pass a message on but that’s it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  He shut the door in my face.

  On the way back to my car, I called Edward Rooney, who had originally put me in touch with Zara. Once again, I explained what I knew, adding what Dan had just told me.

  ‘Is there any way you can check if her passport has been used?’ I asked.

  He blew air into the phone. ‘Only the police can do that. And they won’t take this seriously. She’s a grown woman who emailed her flatmate to say she’s going on holiday. You’ve got absolutely no evidence of foul play.’

  ‘But don’t you think it seems weird?’

  I could picture him shrugging. ‘I expect she has gone off to the Canaries. Can’t say I blame her. I’d offer to relieve you of some of your money and look into it – fly out to Tenerife to track her down – but I’m in the middle of a bastard of a case right now. My advice: stop worrying, and finish that bloody book. Okay?’

  I hung up. It was just after five. If I didn’t get a move on, I’d be late for my rendezvous with Shirley.

  Chapter 27

  I hit rush hour traffic coming out of Telford. I was hardly in a state to drive, unable to concentrate adequately on the road. I pulled onto a roundabout too early, narrowly avoiding a collision with a BMW, the driver leaning on his horn and gesturing furiously as adrenaline flooded my system.

  I parked outside the bed and breakfast and paused before getting out of the car. Black rainclouds obscured the sun, sucking all the colour from the street, but it was dark inside the house. Had Shirley and Heledd not come home?

  I rang the bell. The dog barked and ran up to the door, scrabbling at the wood as if it was desperate to get out. I searched my memory banks for its name. Oscar, that was it.

  I pushed the letterbox open and said the dog’s name, but that made him bark more. I peered through into the gloom. Oscar dashed up and down the hallway, a frantic ball of fur, yapping and making a strangled growling sound in his throat. It looked like Shirley had left him longer than expected and he was desperate for the toilet or food or both. I murmured soothing words, crouched by the door, but it didn’t do any good. He grew increasingly frantic, then suddenly vanished from sight. I squinted through the letterbox, searching him out, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the poor light, a shape came into focus at the bottom of the staircase.

  It looked like a body.

  ‘Oh . . . fuck.’ I grabbed the phone from my pocket and turned the flashlight on, shining it through the narrow gap. The hallway lit up, light bouncing off the walls.

  There, lying on her side beneath a framed painting of Christ, was Shirley. One arm was stretched out above her head, and there was a pool of something dark spreading out across the floorboards. Blood.

  I called the police.

  Beddmawr was too small – in this era of stringent budgets and cuts to public services – to have its own police station, so they had to come from Wrexham. It took thirty minutes, during which time Oscar grew increasingly desperate to get out. I continued to talk to him through the letterbox. His yapping had drawn a number of neighbours from their houses, including a middle-aged man from next door. He was overweight, with florid cheeks and no neck, and moaned about the dog, saying it was drowning out the TV.

  ‘Passed out drunk, has she?’ he said. ‘I saw her come home earlier. Drunk as a skunk, she was. That thing she had on her head was falling off and she could hardly walk.’

  ‘Was she on her own?’ I asked.

  ‘As far as I could tell.’

  A pair of cops arrived, followed by an ambulance. A police officer with ginger hair looked through into the hallway, then broke a window to gain access, asking me and the neighbours to keep back. As soon as he opened the door, Oscar came pelting out, spinning in circles as he entered the street, barking and growling. I grabbed his collar and scooped him up, cradling him like a baby, feeling his heart thudding against my palm. As the police entered the house, I could see a trail of bloody paw prints between Shirley’s prone figure and the doormat. The paramedics went in and shut the door, as a crowd gathered on the pavement.

  I waited with them, still holding Oscar, who had calmed down now.

  ‘Poor little mite,’ a grey-haired woman said, offering to take him until Heledd got home, explaining that she lived across the street. I handed him over.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the woman. I followed her gaze. There were smears of blood on the front of my coat, transferred from the dog’s paws.

  ‘I wonder where Heledd is,’ I said.

  ‘Probably with that boyfriend of hers.’ There was disapproval in the woman’s voice, as if Olly were a criminal rather than the son of an esteemed librarian.

  ‘Don’t you like Olly?’ I asked.

  She seemed surprised that I’d picked up on her tone. ‘I don’t know much about him, except he was a bit of a tearaway at school. His dad, Malcolm, was very disappointed he didn’t go off to college and ended up driving a taxi. Kids . . .’ She tutted.

  It was funny hearing her refer to a forty-something man as a kid.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better get this dog inside.’ She hurried off across the road.

  The other neighbour was telling the policeman who guarded the door about how Shirley had come home inebriated. I heard someone else mutter that ‘she liked a drink’. I knew exactly what was going to happen. Everyone would assum
e she’d fallen down the stairs, pissed. An unfortunate accident. Because nobody else could see the pattern.

  The door opened and the paramedics carried Shirley out, zipped into a body bag. The ginger police officer followed them, and as they reached the pavement somebody rushed past me, shoes clacking on the asphalt.

  It was Heledd, hurrying across from where she’d parked her car. She stepped in front of the paramedics, eyes darting between her house and the body bag.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, her voice cracking. She took a step towards her house, stopped, and turned back towards the zipped-up body.

  The police officer tried to calm her down, taking her arm and guiding her away while the paramedics carried Shirley into the ambulance. The policeman said something to Heledd that I couldn’t hear and she went stiff. A second later, she crumpled to the ground and the paramedics returned and knelt beside her. She was only out for a moment, then she sat up, looking bewildered. The rubberneckers, who had been on the verge of dispersing, crowded around them. It was probably the most exciting thing that had happened around here for a long time.

  The red-haired police officer was stood a little way from where Heledd lay, scratching his head. I approached him and told him my name.

  ‘Somebody pushed her down those stairs,’ I said.

  He regarded me with weary scepticism. ‘What makes you say that?’

  I opened my mouth. Shut it again. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, it looks like an accident to me. Tell me what you saw.’

  He made notes as I detailed what I’d found. But when it came to explaining why I thought someone had pushed her, I couldn’t do it. I knew how crazy it sounded. I knew how easily my argument could be countered. Malcolm had a heart attack. Zara’s gone off on holiday. Shirley got drunk and had an accident. There was no pattern, just unconnected events. There was nothing sinister here. I would be wasting my breath.