by John Harvey
“Right as rain.”
“Let’s hope it’s something like that in Claire’s case,” Elder said. “At worst.”
“I hope so.” She held out her hand.
“One of your other neighbours,” Elder said, “she mentioned a book group.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Claire didn’t belong?”
“No. I asked her, of course. But the response was just the same. She wasn’t much of a reader, that’s what she said. Why do you ask?”
“No special reason.”
“She’ll turn up, I’m sure.”
“Yes, I expect you’re right.”
Elder walked back across to the bungalow and let himself in. He stood for several moments in the semidarkness of the curtained room, breathing in the same stale, unlived-in smell. In the kitchen he ran the tap, then drank water from a glass. When he turned back the calendar, sure enough the weekend of February the nineteenth and twentieth was marked with a cross. Elder looked again. In each month the word “library” was written clearly several times. Not much of a reader, that’s what Ms. Parker had said.
Chapter 6
1965
SHE HAD BOUGHT FLOWERS TODAY, FREESIAS, AND LEFT them in the outside office; bought them on a whim and carried them inside a cone of patterned paper as she walked to the clinic. The smell of them was still faint on her hand.
The boy was talking very little, if at all; still avoiding her eyes. There had been an incident at school. One of the other boys, older, had called him a name and in response he had attacked him, tried to hit him with a chair. By the time a teacher had arrived to break things up, the older boy, stronger, had been on top, punching him, pinning him down. Alice had the letter in the briefcase that was now down by her side, the report.
There was a piece of gauze on the boy’s right cheek, close to the ear, sticking plaster holding it in place.
“Tell me what happened,” Alice said.
Not as much as a glance, a shrug.
“Your eye, you’ve taken quite a bang.”
Nothing. Still nothing. As long as he was staying in the room, some part of him wanted her to know, wanted her to understand. But what? He was making her feel cut off, numb.
“Something happened at school,” she said. “You got into a fight.”
The boy closed his eyes.
Let it rest, Alice told herself; let it go. Move on.
“Not at school,” he said. So quiet, she could only just make out the words.
“You’re sure?”
“Course I am.” Quicker, louder, almost angry.
“Where then?”
“Home. At home.”
“You bumped into something.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“What then?”
“He hit me.”
A nerve ticked at the corner of Alice’s left eye.
“Who hit you?”
“He did, of course.”
“Who’s he?”
“My dad, who d’you think?”
Alice smoothed her hands along the table’s edge.
“He hit me. Round the face with the back of his hand. And then he held me down and punched me hard.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Course it’s fuckin’ true. He fuckin’ punched me. My dad. Here. See? Fuckin’ here!”
The boy yanked the plaster from his face and the gauze stuck there for a moment before floating down. The smell of urine totally overpowered the last lingering scent of freesias from Alice’s hand. His father, she knew, had been killed in a road accident when the boy was three.
Chapter 7
ELDER WAS BANKING ON THE FACT THAT CLAIRE Meecham had used her local library, rather than make the journey into the city centre and the main library on Angel Row. The woman at the information desk was a well-rounded forty, with glasses and straw-coloured hair that was mostly piled up around her head and held in place with pins. She was trying, ever so politely, to disengage from an elderly man who could have stepped out of a Lowry painting, flat cap on his head and a long raincoat hanging loose around his shins. Steam trains, especially the old London and Northeastern Railway, were evidently his thing.
When finally she’d shuffled him off in the direction of the reference section, she gave Elder an apologetic smile.
“Stand here all day and talk to me if he could. I’ve switched off, of course, long since, dreaming of summer beaches and pina coladas while he’s mithering on about the 7:47 from Grantham to Hartlepool. Or wherever. What can I do you for?”
Elder explained, keeping it as low-key as he could.
“And you think she might have come in here? One of our regulars, like? The name rings a sort of bell, but I can’t be sure.”
He showed her the photographs Jennie had given him, and her face brightened.
“Oh, yes. Mitchum, isn’t it? No, Meecham. That’s it. Meecham, Claire. It’s usually me on duty when she phones.”
“Phones?”
“To reserve one of the computers. It’s either that or take potluck, you see. There’s two we keep for drop-ins, the rest you can book in advance.” She nodded toward the computer room to the right of where they were standing. “You can see how busy it is now.”
“And Claire booked ahead?”
“Most often, I’d say so, yes.”
“Evenings?”
“Yes. She might have come in earlier, of course, I’d not necessarily have known. But as far as I know it was evenings. Not so far off closing.”
“So she wouldn’t stay long?”
“Not really, no.” The librarian shook her head and a few hairs loosened themselves out of place. “Not like some of them. Sit there all day if you’d let them. Two hours, that’s the maximum now. It used to be three, but Health and Safety reckoned as how that was too much without a break. Repetitive strain injury, I suppose. Aside from going boss-eyed.”
She laughed and Elder smiled along.
“You wouldn’t know what Claire Meecham particularly used the computer for?”
“Oh, no. Everyone gets their own PIN, you see, when they first sign on. All they have to do then is sit right down and log on for themselves. Sometimes, if it’s kids in there for their homework and you think they might be up to something, surfing for something saucy, you might take a wander past, lean over their shoulder, and give them a fright, but no, unless people are having difficulties and ask for help, you just let them get on.”
“And that was Claire, in and out, getting on.”
“No more than ten minutes sometimes. If that.”
“She could have been just checking e-mails, then?”
“It’s possible, yes. More than likely, now I think about it.” Taking off her glasses, she polished them against the front of her jumper.
“These drop-in computers you mentioned,” Elder said. “I don’t suppose there’d be one free now?”
The librarian smiled her best smile. “As a matter of fact, there is.”
AS ELDER UNDERSTOOD IT, THE MOST LIKELY E-MAIL account for Claire to have was one of the big five or six: AOL, Hotmail, BTinternet, Virgin or NTLworld. If that was the case and if she had used her own name, or a version of it, he was in with some chance of tracking down the account. After that, and only then, things might begin to open up. They would also—no small thanks to the Freedom of Information Act—become more difficult.
A little more than an hour in, the librarian sneaked him a cup of instant coffee and a jammy dodger. His back was starting to ache and he was beginning to realize repetitive strain injuries were more than a cheap way of getting time off to go and watch the cricket.
After a brief stroll around the stacks and a swift perusal of the DVDs, he settled down again and another hour later he struck gold.
[email protected]
Elder’s elation as he logged on was punctured almost immediately when the server asked him to type in his—her—password.
Eight letters. Eight numbers. Some combina
tion of the two. Most people, he knew, despite warning, used something instantly memorable and close to home, just as they did when choosing a PIN for their credit card or ATM. Own birthday, maiden name.
The only person who could provide that information easily, he thought, was Jennie, and she was off at her sales conference, waxing enthusiastically about conditioner and dermatologically tested shampoo.
Short of any other ideas, he decided to give the librarian one more try. “There’s no way, in the circumstances, you could help me with Claire Meecham’s password?”
He might as well have been asking the name of the driver who took the last express from London via Nottingham to Crewe.
“I haven’t got a clue, my love,” she said, “and even if I did...”
ELDER THANKED HER AND WENT BACK OUT ON TO THE street. The temperature had dropped by some three or four degrees and it was starting to rain. An April shower.
There was a phone box midway along the small parade of shops, and he fumbled in his pockets for coins. Not too surprisingly, Jennie wasn’t answering her cell and when he tried Jane he got her answerphone. Leaving the number of his hotel was not the most useful, he realized; out here in the real world he would have to get himself a cell phone.
He drove into the centre of the city and parked at the parking garage on Fletcher Gate, just finding a space on the tenth floor. There was a Carphone Warehouse close by Waterstone’s.
The last and only other time he’d tried to buy a cell phone, he’d had the same problem: convincing the eager young assistant that all he wanted was the cheapest piece of equipment possible, no extras, no frills. He would have to drop it back at the hotel later and leave it on charge. Which meant locating another pay phone to call Maureen.
Maureen Prior.
Elder’s sergeant when he had first joined the Nottinghamshire Police eight years before, Prior was now a detective inspector in the Force Crime Directorate—as the Major Crime Unit was now known—and looking to go higher, boards and the like already taken, just waiting for her spot.
After an on-again, off-again flirtation with Starbucks and Pret A Manger, Prior had reverted to what she liked best: a little café where coffee was still just coffee, and a bacon roll was still a bacon roll.
Elder was placing his order when she hurried in, oval face breaking into a smile; for a moment, he thought she was going to give him an impulsive hug, but she settled for a handshake instead.
“Good to see you again, Frank. I was wondering when you’d get in touch.”
“You knew I was here then?”
“Neil Grimes said something to Willie Bell; Willie told me. It’s a small city, Frank.” Her expression midway between a grin and a grimace.
She’d had her hair cut shorter, Elder thought; still the same clothes, though, anonymous and dark, the kind that go unnoticed in a crowd. A good copper, Maureen, one of the best.
“Busy?” he asked.
She made a face. “No more than usual. Senseless stuff for the most part. Shootings. Drug related. Rival gangs. Kids with too much time on their hands and something to prove, or so they think. Buy a gun, steal a car. Life’s cheap, Frank. For some. Friday last, for instance, these two youths bumped into each other coming out of the cinema, eleven at night. One of them’s got his girlfriend with him, wants to act big. Walks across to his car, takes a .22 from where it’s hidden in the boot, goes over and shoots the other guy in the neck. Seventeen years old.”
Elder shook his head.
“Or this,” Prior said. “Close to one in the morning a call comes in, someone’s driving a BMW up and down both sides of Mansfield Road, on and off the pavement, bouncing off parked cars. A patrol car goes out to investigate, and sure enough the Beamer takes off. Ten minutes later he’s lost control at the head of Sherwood Rise, swung broadside into a group of people on their way home from a party. Two in hospital with broken limbs, serious loss of blood; one fifteen-year-old girl pronounced dead on arrival at City Hospital. And the driver—the driver, Frank, half out of his head on alcopops and vodka, he was younger still. Thirteen.”
“I don’t envy you,” Elder said.
“You know what it’s like, Frank. You try not to let it get to you. Do what you can.”
“Yes,” Elder said, remembering. He’d managed not to let it all get to him for the longest time, but then, somehow, he’d lost the knack.
“You’re up here playing hunt the thimble,” Prior said.
“Something like that.”
“Any joy?”
“Not much.”
“You’ve seen Joanne?”
“When I arrived.”
“And Katherine?”
“She managed to fit me in between classes.”
Laughing, Prior shook her head.
“What?” Elder said.
“You sound so grudging.”
“Do I? I don’t mean to.”
“As if you expect the poor girl to drop everything and come running, just because you’ve deigned to come out of hiding.”
“Is that what I’m doing? Hiding?”
“You tell me.”
Elder fidgeted on his chair.
“So I should just leave her alone?”
“All I mean, Frank—Katherine, you shouldn’t expect too much. You’re the one went off, after all, left her to get on with her life—maybe that’s fair enough. And now she’s doing the same. Without you.”
Elder shook his head. “Easy enough said, Maureen.”
“Let her make the running, at least. You’ve got to do that. If she doesn’t want to get too close, that’s what you have to accept. You’re here now, but for how long? Once this business is sorted, you’ll be gone.”
“I suppose so. Though if it hadn’t been for her, I doubt I’d ever have agreed to come in the first place.”
“And she knows that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course she doesn’t. Not unless you’ve told her. She thinks you’re just here because of some investigation. Seeing her, it’s incidental. The icing on the cake.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then tell her.”
“I can’t.”
“Why ever not?”
Elder shook his head. “It’d be putting too much pressure on her, that’s why. And like you said, she wants to live her own life, she’s made that clear enough.”
“She’s still your daughter, Frank.”
“She’s almost twenty years old.”
“And damaged.”
“What?” Elder looked as if he’d been slapped.
“She’s damaged, Frank. Those things that happened, all that she went through. That’s not going to go away.”
Elder hung his head.
“She needs you, Frank. You can see that. She needs to know you care.”
“Christ, Maureen...”
“What?”
“Back off, will you. Give us a break.”
“I’m sorry.” Her face relaxed into a smile. “Getting judgmental in my old age.”
“You mean you weren’t always?”
She made a face.
Elder’s coffee was barely lukewarm.
“How long will you be around?” Prior asked.
“It really does depend. Now I’ve started on this thing, I’d like to see it through.”
“And she’s been missing, this woman, how long?”
“Ten, eleven days.”
“Frank...”
“What now?”
“That long, likely something’s happened to her or she doesn’t want to be found.”
Elder exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair. Around them, the cafe was filling up. Even here, music was playing; music from another era but music all the same.
Prior was on her feet. “Frank, I’ve got to be getting back.”
“Sure.”
He walked with her to the door.
“You’ll keep in touch?”
“Of course.”
H
e hesitated while she walked off, low heels clacking against the tiled floor. Another moment and she was out of sight. Despite the fact that they had worked closely together in the past, she had never pushed him about personal stuff in that way, and he couldn’t help but wonder why she was doing it now.
When he got back to his hotel, there were two messages, one from Jennie, one from James Meecham in Australia.
Chapter 8
BY THE TIME ELDER HAD TRACKED DOWN JENNIE IT WAS evening, and wherever she was there seemed to be some kind of a party going on: loud voices, music, and laughter. He guessed the conference bar.
“I have to try and figure out your sister’s password,” Elder said, his voice already raised.
“Her what?”
“Password.”
“What for?”
“Her e-mail account.”
“Her what?”
“E-mail account. It seems she...”
“Look,” Jennie interrupted him as the noise swirled round her. “This is hopeless. I’ll ring you back in five minutes. Okay?”
Without waiting for a reply, she broke the connection.
When she called him back it was from the quiet of her hotel room. “If I heard you right, Claire has an e-mail account?”
“Apparently, yes.”
“She doesn’t even have a computer.”
“It looks as if she used one in the library.”
“What on earth for?”
“That’s what I need to find out.”
“And to do that you need her password.”
“Exactly.”
“I haven’t got a clue.”
“Most people use birthdays. Dates they know they’ll remember. Her own, her children’s, her dead husband’s.”
“I know some of them; the rest I can probably dredge up given the time to make a few calls. Why don’t I get back to you in the morning?”
“Okay, good. Names, too. I assume she changed her name when she got married?”
“From Cowdrey to Meecham, yes.”
“Any middle name?”
“Alexandra.”
One letter too many. “If there’s anything else you can think of that might be useful, let me know when you call.”
