She couldn’t find an answer. The boy from the ice-cream stall was watching them with interest and curiosity. She gave him an abstracted smile but somehow the pretty lakeside scene, although the late-afternoon sun was still hot, had left them both feeling chilled.
Martin and James had finished their climbs, changed into shorts and sweatshirts in the car and were now heading for Rudyard Lake, singing with their heads out of the window.
‘Parlez-vous.’
‘Mademoiselle from Armentières …’
‘Parlez-vous.’
‘Mademoiselle from Armentieres …’
‘Parlez-vous.’
‘Inky pinky parlez-vous.’
After a long, cold spring and a disappointing June and early July, then a couple of weeks’ hot weather before returning to sunshine mixed with rain and showers and fanned by a cool breeze, the Indian summer was going to everyone’s heads, and they sped along quickly.
They would catch a beer at the Rudyard Hotel, sit around the lake, maybe take a canoe out for an hour or so and enjoy the early evening sunshine. They drove through Leek, congested as always, the heat, unfamiliar to moorlanders, making drivers fractious and impatient. Horns blew in frustration at the slow-moving traffic. The trouble was it wasn’t only the resident population that clogged up the town: day trippers, climbers, cyclists and walkers were all present, not to mention the mass evacuation from the Potteries – the Peak District attracted them all and the small town struggled to carry the traffic. Once through the streets, which smelt strongly of hot diesel and engine oil, they took the Macclesfield road out, passing the football ground on their left and, in a mile or two, turning towards the lake. They drove under the bridge where the little steam train was chuffing along like something out of a 1950s Boy’s Own Annual, turned right at the small roundabout and parked in the hotel car park. Then they headed straight for the bar.
‘We can ask about the French girls,’ Martin suggested. ‘They might have paid the hotel a visit while they were here.’
‘I doubt it,’ James said gloomily, and his brother gave him a soft punch on his arm.
‘Don’t be such a bloody pessimist,’ he said.
Matthew and Joanna had finished their ice creams.
On the upper floor of the visitor centre there was an art exhibition. Anthony Podesta. Joanna had a bit of a conscience about the local artists who trudged around the moorlands, often seeking out the very same views – the Roaches, Hen Cloud and, of course, Rudyard Lake and the picturesque Boathouse, the lovely Victorian stone cottage, available for holiday rent, which projected right out into the lake. It must take them hours of painstaking work, quite apart from the necessary talent. And then they seemed to tote their wares around the county only for people either to misunderstand, insult and only occasionally buy. They must feel disheartened.
‘Let’s take a look, Matt,’ Joanna said impulsively. She wanted to buy a picture to mark this significant day when she had made such a commitment and left, for ever, her single, selfish person behind. She had worries, little demons of her own. She was a committed cop and feared that motherhood would simply bore her. The future looked worrying – the combination of her job with its uncertain hours and sometimes uncertain days and nights, and the unpredictability of parenthood indicated a choppy future. And first she had to conceive. But somehow she did not think that would be a problem.
She and Matthew walked slowly through the gallery, stopping in front of each painting to study it. Mow Cop Folly, Staffordshire Moors, River Dane, Loaf and Cheese (the Roaches), Hen Cloud, Last Snow on the Moor and Early Morning, Dam End, Rudyard. They both stopped at this last one.
Afterwards she would always associate this picture with this decision, the momentous day in her life, this place. Early Morning, Dam End, Rudyard. It was all so right. The quiet, cool water, the slightest tinge of orange that bathed the very top of the trees, the boats lazily pulled up to the water’s edge. They both looked at it, then at each other. The price was £390; the artist watched them curiously, wondering whether they would be tempted. Matthew put his head close to hers, his eyes very soft. ‘We’re going to need a bigger house,’ he said.
She smiled and touched his cheek with her forefinger. Buying the picture put an official stamp on their decision.
At the Rudyard Hotel James and Martin were doing their best to elicit information without appearing too nosey or prurient. Martin was acting as casually as he knew how. And the story they gave was that they already knew the girls and had arranged to meet them again at some point during their stay in England, but had lost their contact details.
In this Martin, though younger, was the leader. He took a wary sip of Rudyard Ruby, one of the local ales, then smiled and took a larger slurp. His brother did likewise. The beer was good.
The barmaid, a petite girl in her early twenties, warmed to the sight of the brothers. Both were great physical specimens, probably in their late twenties or early thirties, with friendly faces and broad grins. She wasn’t quite so friendly when they made it plain they were hoping to meet up with a couple of French girls that they knew. ‘I haven’t met any French girls over here,’ she said coldly.
‘It might have been a month or two ago,’ Martin said, trying his best. ‘A few weeks, anyway.’ They needed to try harder. The brothers exchanged glances.
‘They’re a bit of a pain, really,’ James said confidingly, hoping to get her cooperation. ‘But we promised to look ’em up when we went climbing again.’ He gave the girl his most disarming smile. ‘And, you know?’ He shrugged. ‘A promise is a promise.’
She thawed a little at that.
Martin took up the reins. ‘I bet a gorgeous chick’ – his brother winced at the word chick – ‘like you,’ he continued, ‘has already got a boyfriend.’ It wasn’t even a question, just a statement.
‘I have, actually.’ The girl had fallen for his flattery. The ‘but’ she added almost floated in off the wind.
‘Pity, that.’ Martin wasn’t as good at this so his brother ignored him.
‘What’s your name, love?’ As a chat-up line it was pathetic but as an ice-breaking-information-gatherer it worked.
‘Sarah,’ she said, biting her bottom lip in a self-consciously coy gesture. ‘Sarah Gratton.’
‘And do you live here?’
She nodded happily. ‘Practically opposite,’ she said. ‘Rudyard born and bred.’
‘It’s a nice place,’ Martin put in.
His brother nudged him in the ribs.
‘Anyway, you’ve got a bloke,’ James said reluctantly, ‘so … are you sure you didn’t serve these French girls? A hundred per cent?’
The girl pressed her lips together. The brothers looked at each other. They’d cast their fly. Now it was time to see if they’d caught their fish.
‘There was a couple of girls here,’ Sarah Gratton said, as if the words were being dragged out of her, ‘but it was a couple of months ago, like you said. Back in July. They’ll have moved on by now. Maybe even gone back to Europe.’
‘Were they staying here?’
She shook her head. ‘No, not here.’
‘Camping?’
‘No – staying at Barker’s place.’
‘Barker’s place?’
‘He runs a sort of B&B-cum-hotel on the road that goes up to Biddulph Moor. Mandalay, it’s called.’
‘Sounds a bit exotic, that,’ James said.
‘Yeah. He took it from a poem or something. That’s what people say, anyway. Four or five bedrooms, he’s got. He’s not expensive.’ Her smile widened. ‘People tell me his breakfasts are very good.’ Sarah leaned across the bar. ‘I wouldn’t stay there, though,’ she said confidingly.
‘Why not?’
‘Because he gives me the creeps, that’s why.’ She challenged them with a mocking stare, hands on hips. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you go over there? You’d be all right. You’re blokes. And you might get your girls’ home addresses or find out where th
ey went next.’
Her smile was bland, her expression guileless, but there was no doubt that they’d dropped in her estimation with their keenness to find the girls, and they’d get no more out of her, whatever she knew. They drank up and got halfway through the door before her Parthian shot reached them. ‘If you were supposed to be meeting up with them again, why didn’t they give you their mobile numbers?’
‘We lost them,’ Martin said shortly, making a swift exit.
FIVE
Monday, 9 September, 8.30 a.m.
Madame Bellange looked around her at St Pancras station and took a while to adjust. So, she thought. This is England. She wasn’t over-impressed. The hustle and the bustle around her and the unfamiliar English language confused her. Also the terminal was surprisingly cold and a metallic smell hung in the air. But she was here now, in the same country as her daughter and Dorothée and she had already planned her route. She would take the train from Euston station to Stoke-on-Trent and from there she would hire a car and drive to this lake. She would take a look, then drive to the nearest police station and enlist their help to find her daughter and her friend. She planned to tell Annabelle off for not keeping her up to date on their movements. She had been good up until the middle of July. And then neglectful.
Cécile Bellange smiled to herself as she pictured the scene. Lecture over, she would embrace her daughter and bring her home. Back to France. She had looked at all the maps and at Google Earth to get her bearings. The nearest police station to Rudyard Lake was in a town called Leek. That was where she would head.
Monday, 9 September, 8.45 a.m.
Joanna cycled in to the station that morning, feeling a warm wind of change blow through her hair. Where would she be in one year’s time? Pregnant? Five years’ time? Kissing a little boy off to school? Neither picture seemed realistic.
As her legs worked the hills she chewed on her lip. What on earth was she letting herself in for?
The bike ride helped her mood but it seemed too short. She still felt fidgety and agitated. Before her mind had time to settle she was turning into the police station and locking her bike to the railings. Even the quick shower and change into tight black jeans and a red shirt didn’t help. She still felt out of sorts. Out of control, more likely, she thought.
DS Korpanski breezed in at nine, looking particularly beefy in a pair of beige cargo pants and a blue short-sleeved, open-necked Polo shirt. In his usual good spirits, he grinned at her. ‘Morning, Jo. Nice weekend?’
‘Yeah,’ she answered shortly, turning away and pretending she couldn’t feel the bore of his pinprick pupils drilling into her back.
‘Oh,’ he grunted, and stood still and silent, giving her a chance to enlarge before settling down to his desk and switching on his computer. He waited, frowning to himself, wondering, then was up on his feet. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yeah,’ she said again.
At the door he hesitated, leaning against its edge. ‘Anything you want to talk about?’
‘No.’
‘Right. I’ll get the coffee then.’
When he’d gone she dropped her head into her hands. Last night there had been a choppy sea between herself and Matthew, a treacherous sound.
‘I shan’t want to take more than a couple of months off,’ she’d said, not looking at her husband of less than a year.
‘Oh,’ he’d said, his voice suddenly heavily sarcastic. ‘Don’t worry, Jo, I wouldn’t expect you to become a house-mum and lavish care and attention on our child.’
She’d winced at our child. ‘I’m not even pregnant yet,’ she’d said, not looking at him.
‘No,’ he’d almost shouted.
And she never would be if this hostility and resentment took hold. So much left unsaid. So much bitterness and anger, so many things she dare not say. She’d felt suddenly angry. Had he wanted more from her than simply to produce? For her to give up her career, stop being a cop – being herself? Then he should have said.
The doubts had wormed in and out of her skull. Maybe she was the wrong woman for him after all. And for the first time in her entire life she wondered and doubted his commitment to her. What if, as he had with Jane, his ex-wife, Matthew found someone else? What was it really like to be a single parent in sole charge of a baby?
Bloody awful, she thought. It must be bloody awful. She drew in a long, deep breath.
Mike was back with the coffee quick as a bee and she managed a thank-you smile though she still felt pig-sick. She took a couple of tentative sips then swivelled her chair around. ‘How long was Fran off when Jocelyn and Ricky were born?’
He raised his eyebrows, his eyes fixed on her face. ‘Three years,’ he said. ‘She didn’t go back to being a nurse until Jossie was three years old and at nursery school. And then she worked as a school nurse and didn’t work at all during the school holidays.’
His eyes were so black you couldn’t distinguish between his iris and pupil. But in spite of this they were also very expressive.
Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski looked carefully at his colleague. Her shoulders were bowed. She looked bleak. He’d never seen her like this. Angry? Yes, plenty. Frustrated? Plenty of that too. Impatient? His mouth twitched. All the time. Amused? Oh, yes. Anxious? A time or two. In the years they’d worked together he’d thought he’d seen every single possible emotion in her. But this one? Defeated? No. This person was a stranger. An unwelcome one in this room.
He cleared his throat ready to speak, conscious he was choosing his words with the inevitability of trouble, as if he were trying to tiptoe over hot coals. ‘It isn’t that bad, you know.’
She spun her chair around. ‘What isn’t?’
‘Parenthood.’ He tried again. ‘Being a mother,’ he said. ‘It isn’t that bad.’
She regarded him, tossing her hair over her shoulder, her back ramrod straight now, ready to do battle. ‘Motherhood,’ she said slowly. ‘So you know about that, do you?’
Korpanski gave a lop-sided grin and braced his shoulders. ‘Not exactly,’ he said, carefully stepping around his prickly colleague. ‘But I do know about fatherhood.’
And then the squall was over, the anger dissipated, replaced now by curiosity. ‘Were you there when your two were born?’ she asked.
‘Not for Ricky,’ he said frankly. ‘I couldn’t face it, truth be known, but when Jossie was expected Fran made such a fuss about me being there that …’ He looked into the distance, which was not very far as their only window faced a brick wall no more than three feet away. ‘To be honest, Jo,’ he said, grinning now, ‘I’m glad I did go. It was fantastic. Magical.’ He couldn’t prevent his smile from broadening. ‘I think it’s made me closer to Jossie, actually being there at the very moment of her birth.’
Joanna frowned. ‘Did it matter her being a girl?’
Korpanski gave a slightly embarrassed laugh. ‘No, why should it? They always say fathers are closer to their daughters.’
‘So why do men make such a fuss about having sons?’
‘Do they?’
She nodded and leaned back in her chair, relaxing now in the presence of her sergeant. ‘You’ve only to look at Henry the eighth,’ she teased.
‘Oh, that was different,’ Korpanski said bluntly. ‘He needed someone to look after Merry England after he’d gone.’ He knew she was pulling his leg, and was relieved to see his old DI back to her usual self.
‘So why is it important to …’ She didn’t say Matthew but she knew that Korpanski would know exactly whom she meant.
And Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski knew he had to come up with some sort of an answer. ‘Maybe it’s because they think they can do all the boy things together: footie, cycling, activity stuff. You know. Though when I say “boy things”, they could do all that with a daughter too, of course. Not all girls like dolls.’ He smiled at her, hoping to lighten the tone.
Jo nodded, then: ‘So,’ she followed up briskly, ‘what have we on today’s menu?’
&
nbsp; ‘Rush rang first thing,’ he said. ‘He’s been contacted by the French police.’
‘Oh?’
‘They’re looking into two missing girls from Paris who last contacted their families in July – sent a postcard from Rudyard Lake. They say their bank account and mobile phones haven’t been used since mid-July. And then we got a phone call this morning,’ he said, ‘from a French lady, mother of one of the girls. A Madame Bellange.’
‘Nice accent, Mike.’ She grinned.
‘Piss off, Piercy,’ he said gently, and they were back in the old familiar rut of working life again. ‘She’s come over on the Eurostar,’ he said, ‘to look for her daughter and her friend.’
‘Why here?’
‘Since that last postcard there’s been absolutely no sign of them. They seem to have vanished, Jo.’
She sat up. ‘What was the date of the postcard?’
‘It was posted Friday, nineteenth of July. The girl – Annabelle – was hitchhiking with a friend, Dorothée.’
‘And they came here? It’s quite out of the way. Not the usual haunt for a couple of French girls. I’d have thought they’d have stayed in London.’
Korpanski simply shrugged. ‘She said she’d be calling in and Rush seems to want us to help her as much as we can.’
Joanna’s eyes clouded at the second mention of their new chief superintendent. ‘How old are the girls?’
‘Seventeen. They’re due to go to college in a week or two.’
‘OK,’ Joanna said. ‘Maybe we’ll be able to help this Madame Bellange, but the probability is that the girls left this area after posting the card. Maybe they’ve run out of money or something. Or met some blokes and don’t want their mothers to know. Or simply decided they don’t want to go to college and the holiday’s not over yet. After all, there’s two of them. If they were here in July they’ve almost certainly moved on.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Korpanski said fervently. ‘Don’t want stuff like that on our patch.’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Only the usual. Car thefts, illegal booze, drugs in school, fake fags. And there’s a couple of undercover cops looking at Sergio Patterson.’
Guilty Waters Page 3
