by Ann Cleeves
He took a chair opposite her, still close to the fire. His socks were thick, hand-knitted and they began to steam. There was a hole in one toe.
‘I thought you’d want to see …’ He seemed incapable of finishing a sentence.
She sat back with the sleeping child on her knee, waiting for him to continue. Instead he launched into his magic act and all of a sudden silk scarves were being pulled from his sleeves and sweets from his ears and balloons from his nostrils. Although she sat near to him she could not see how it was done, and despite her irritation at his just turning up on the doorstep, she was swept away by the magic. She gasped at each new trick. He beamed. When he finished she turned and saw Mark clapping behind her. It was an amused, self-conscious clap which made her enthusiasm seem foolish, as if he were an adult and she were a little girl.
‘That’s the sort of thing …’ Bernard Howe muttered. His clumsiness had returned when the act was over. ‘And I end with a cake. All the ingredients put into a bowl. Sugar, flour, eggs. And then there’s a finished cake with icing and the candles all lit. The kiddies love that.’
‘Oh yes,’ Emma said. ‘I can see that they would. You must come if you’re available. Would you like a deposit? What do you charge?’
‘I don’t know about charging. You’ve been so good to Claire.’
‘Of course you must charge. And Claire’s been very good to us.’
So it was arranged that Bernard Howe, otherwise known as Uncle Bernie, would perform at David Coulthard’s birthday party. As he prepared to go out again into the rain he turned back to them.
‘Thank you, Mrs Coulthard. Mr Coulthard.’
‘Oh no,’ Emma said awkwardly. ‘ Oh no. This isn’t my husband.’
The magician gave a strange stare before walking out into the night.
Chapter Four
They woke on the morning of the birthday party to an unexpected snow fall. The boys wanted to be out in it immediately. Usually Emma would have shared their excitement but today she was edgy and irritable. She’d had a bad night. The boys came chasing in from the cold and she moaned at them for the footprints on the kitchen floor, the sodden pile of outdoor clothes. Then, when Brian said he might go to work for a couple of hours, she turned on him.
‘But it’s a Saturday,’ she said.
‘It’s a good time to catch up. When no one’s there.’
‘I could really do with your help here, you know.’
‘Na. I’d just get in the way.’
She thought he was like a big spoilt kid standing there, grinning. His nose was still slightly twisted from a crunch during a school rugby match. He’d been a single child and he’d been able to get away with murder in his parents’ house.
‘Oh, go on then!’ she said and he smiled more widely, thinking she’d fallen for his charm again, not realizing that at that moment she couldn’t bear the sight of him.
She stood in the kitchen with her hands flat on the bench, breathing deeply, until she heard the BMW start and the garage door close automatically behind it. She was still standing there when Claire stamped past the window, flat footed in elephantine wellingtons.
During her wakeful night, while the baby snuffled in her cot, Emma had been thinking about Claire. She had reason to wonder how loyal to the family she really was. Now, seeing her march through the yard those suspicions seemed ridiculous and Emma thought if she needed someone to talk to, Claire might be the person she would choose. She was so solid and practical, more sensible surely than her friends from the Childbirth Trust, or old colleagues from work.
‘It’ll not last long.’ Claire nodded through the window to the churned-up snow, the remains of the boys’ snowman. ‘The wind’s gone westerly. Just as well. You’d not want twenty-five kids walking that much snow through your house.’
‘No,’ Emma said, quite calmly, thinking, If I can just get today over I can work out what we’re going to do.
At one o’clock Brian came back, anxious to make amends by shifting tables and blowing up balloons. The snow had gone but there was freezing fog and occasional squalls of sleety rain.
‘Mark phoned,’ Brian said.
‘Oh?’ She kept her voice flat. She did not ask how Mark had known Brian would be in the office. Or why they seemed to need to communicate with each other every day.
‘I told him to come round this afternoon. It might be a laugh for him.’
Christ, she thought. That’s all I need.
‘You don’t mind?’ His voice was slightly anxious. Surely you can’t mind, he was saying. This man lost his wife less than six months ago. You’re not going to make a fuss about this.
‘Of course not.’
‘I told him to come about two and I’d buy him a sandwich and a couple of pints in the club.’
So that’s the strategy, she thought. Make me feel guilty, then I can’t complain about the two of you sneaking off to the club for the afternoon. She said nothing and he added defensively, ‘Well, the party’s not supposed to start until four, is it?’
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘ Four o’clock.’
‘And there’s nothing more you want me to do?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘We’ll make sure we’re back for four, then. On the dot.’
‘I should bloody well hope so!’
He shot her an amused glance, thinking she was teasing.
‘I mean it!’ she shouted, suddenly furious.
‘OK.’ He held up his hands as if she had threatened to shoot him. ‘ I told Mark to leave his car at the club so there’d be more room up here for parking.’
What do you want, she thought, a medal for consideration?
‘I’ll go, then,’ Brian said. ‘Meet him there.’
‘Fine.’ She made an effort to keep the sarcasm from her voice. She didn’t want to spoil David’s birthday. ‘Fine.’
He stood by the back door, pulling on his Berghaus jacket. It was raining again.
She turned to see Claire standing just inside the kitchen. The nanny gave no indication that she’d been listening but it gave Emma a start.
‘I thought I’d nip home for a bit of lunch,’ Claire said. ‘I’ve put on a video for the boys. They’ll be quiet for a while.’
‘Oh.’ Emma was disappointed. ‘I thought we could have some lunch together.’
‘I’d best go back.’ She gave no reason.
‘Oh,’ Emma said. ‘All right.’
‘I’ll be back in an hour.’
‘Fine,’ Emma said again. Brian was still hovering in the doorway. He opened the door and a blast of cold air came into the kitchen, before he went out and slammed it behind him. Claire put on her wellingtons and followed.
The boys’ playroom was at the top of the house. It was long and narrow and looked down the Headland towards the level crossing. Emma heard the music of the video as she climbed the stairs. It was an old one – Ivor the Engine – and the boys must have been tired because they watched in silence. David was curled up on a bean bag with his thumb in his mouth. They looked up when she walked into the room but turned their attention immediately back to the screen.
She stood by the small window. It was streaked with salt but she could see Claire and her husband walking together to the double gates. Beyond that the rain closed in, and as they moved down the track she lost sight of them. Emma wondered what the girl, usually so unwilling to speak, could have had to say to her husband.
The Headland Club had the faded grandeur of an old theatre, and it had been grand once, on the northern circuit attracting big stars and big audiences. Now it was a miracle it stayed in business.
When Brian closed the heavy door behind him the temperature only rose by a couple of degrees. The drinkers standing by the big bar were still wearing overcoats and scarves.
He had joined the club when they moved to the Coastguard House. Emma thought it was an affectation. Occasionally he liked to make a show of his working-class roots. She never thought he wo
uld actually go. He was more at home in the wine bars, and smart restaurants of Jesmond, the Newcastle suburb where he had his office. But he had taken to going there regularly on Friday nights and staggering home in the early hours of the morning. One of the lads. He was even nominated for the committee and was tempted to accept. Committee meetings were an excuse for drinking late. In the end he decided, reluctantly, to turn it down. There were other demands on his time.
The manager of the club had his pint on the bar before he reached it. Les was a small, weaselly man with a mouth uncomfortably full of crowded teeth.
‘By man!’ Brian said. ‘Can’t you turn the heating up? It’s like a morgue in here.’
‘You’re getting soft in your old age.’ Les turned away, sensing that someone on the other side of the room needed a drink.
‘I’m expecting Mark. You’ve not seen him?’
‘Not yet.’
They all recognized Mark. He’d shocked them when Brian first brought him into the club by asking for a Perrier. He’d never lived that down.
The faded posters on the noticeboard flapped in a sudden draught and Mark came in. Brian looked at him with affection and concern. He’d lost weight in the last year, but Brian had thought he was starting to come to terms with his grief. Today, though, he looked pale and drawn and there were dark rings under his eyes. At university they’d nicknamed him the Monk. It wasn’t only the shaved head, the skeletal features. He was the only one of their group who ever went near a church and he’d never, drunk much, even then. Never swore. You’d have thought he’d be the butt of their jokes but he wasn’t. If anything they’d fought for his friendship. Today he looked more like a monk than ever.
Brian thought he needed a woman. Not an intellectual like Sheena. Someone easy and comfortable who’d feed him up on the wrong sort of food and enjoy plenty of sex.
Mark leant against the bar and Brian saw that he was shaking.
‘When was the last time you had a decent meal?’ he asked, following that recent line of thought. ‘You need something to keep out the cold.’
Mark said nothing. He shook his head as if the question wasn’t worth considering.
‘What’s the matter?’ Brian demanded. ‘Has something happened?’ He had seemed so much happier lately.
Mark paused then shook his head again. Brian didn’t want to push it.
‘Mavis’ll rustle us up something.’ Brian shouted to the manager. ‘Won’t she, Les? Mavis’ll stick something in the microwave?’
‘Whisky,’ Mark said. ‘That’ll warm me up.’
‘Of course.’ Brian kept the surprise out of his voice. ‘A double Teachers when you’re ready, Les. Medicinal.’
He led his friend to the table by a radiator. It gurgled and churned like the inside of someone’s gut, but it gave out a little heat. Another couple of drinks and Mark might talk, Brian thought. Really talk. Like those long nights in the crappy students’ bedsits in Durham. What he really wanted was to put his arm round Mark’s shoulder and hold him tight. Just for comfort. But that wasn’t the sort of thing you did in a working men’s club. Unless your football team had just won the Cup.
He bought another round of drinks but Mark didn’t seem inclined to confide in him. They sat for a while making desultory conversation. About a new contract Brian was bidding for – some insurance company based in Belfast. And about one of the kids in Mark’s school who was making his life hell. Then they left and walked up the hill together to the Coastguard House, well in time for the four o’clock deadline.
The children loved Uncle Bernie from the moment he tripped over his feet on his way to the front of the room. Emma had been afraid that he wouldn’t hold their attention but though he spoke so quietly that they had to strain to hear him, he held his audience spellbound. He performed in the big living room. The chairs were cleared to the walls and the children sat on the floor. The curtains were shut because outside the weather was so chill and grey.
Most of the adults stayed in the kitchen with their glasses of wine and their pints of beer, glad of the peace, but Emma, Mark and some of the other mums stood at the back to watch. The local news had been full of stories of a child who’d been abducted from a birthday party in a burger bar in North Shields. This wasn’t the same but they knew better than to leave a stranger in charge of their little ones.
Uncle Bernie had a costume: wide check trousers and a loose jacket with a silk flower in the button hole. He asked for assistants and seemed to make a serious decision, considering the forest of hands that shot up with a frown. He chose David because it was his birthday, and Owen, because David was really too young and would need some help, and a pretty little girl with braided hair and a flowery frock.
The show was coming to an end.
‘Now,’ Uncle Bernie asked. ‘What is it that makes a birthday special?’
‘Presents,’ they shouted.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘But what else? To make it really special?’
‘Friends,’ pronounced a precocious boy with glasses.
‘That’s a very good answer but it’s not what I was thinking of.’
‘A cake,’ called the pretty little girl.
‘Yes,’ said Uncle Bernie with something approaching relief. ‘A cake. Now, here are all the ingredients I need for my cake. If you shout them out I’ll tip them into the bowl.’
Eggs were cracked. Flour was sieved. Margarine was scraped out of a tub. The children giggled appreciatively. They liked nothing better than a mess. David was allowed to stir and told to make a wish. When he didn’t answer Bernie put it down to shyness and continued, ‘Now, what do you need to cook a cake?’
‘An oven!’
‘That’s right. An oven. But we couldn’t have an oven here. Not close to so many children. That would be dangerous, wouldn’t it? So we’ll need some magic. What’s the magic word?’
‘Abracadabra.’
‘Not loud enough!’
‘ABRACADABRA!’
As he pulled away the white cloth to reveal a cake, with icing and three candles already flickering and running with melted wax, the adults’ attention was distracted. Someone was hammering on the front door and shouting. Emma waited for a moment, thinking that Brian would answer it. But he was in the kitchen swapping blue jokes with some lads from the rugby club and he pretended not to notice.
The audience turned back to Uncle Bernie to give him his due applause and Emma went to the door. She opened it to a teenage girl with wild white hair. Traces of moisture hung to her hair, like frost on a spider’s web, and her breath came in clouds.
‘Please,’ the girl said. ‘I need to talk to my father.’ Then she saw him through two open doors. Owen was holding the cake, and Bernie was already packing away his equipment in a cheap suitcase.
‘It’s Mum,’ she shouted towards him. He looked up and saw her for the first time. ‘She’s gone again. Disappeared.’
As if, Emma thought, the woman had been part of his magic act. As if he had covered her with a cloth and she had vanished, like the mixing bowl full of ingredients.
Chapter Five
Ramsay had the weekend off but on Sunday morning he went into the police station anyway. He would have been more reluctant to volunteer for extra duty if Prue had been around. Prue was his lover. Not live-in, though he spent much of his free time in her house in Otterbridge. According to his mother he might as well be staying there. Mrs Ramsay was a chapel-goer and expected him to make an honest woman of Prue.
‘If you think that wife of yours will come back to you, you’re fooling yourself,’ she’d said. She’d always had the knack of putting him down. And perhaps she was right and he was hoping Diana would turn up one day on his doorstep, laden with expensive shopping, her adventures over.
Now Prue was away. She worked as director of a small arts centre and was touring the Highlands and Islands with her youth theatre group, playing in schools and community centres. It was as much about giving her unemployed Tyneside tee
nagers a good time as developing acting and directing skills, she said. They would end up at the Youth Drama Festival in Kirkwall.
She was obviously enjoying every minute of the trip. When she remembered, she phoned up to rave about the scenery, the history, the whisky. He missed her more than he had expected, became quite sentimental when he thought about her.
‘Why don’t you come?’ she’d suggested during the last phone call. She’d sounded tired, exhilarated and a little bit drunk. ‘Take a couple of days’ leave and fly up for the weekend.’
He’d been grateful for the invitation but he’d turned her down. It would be like taking her out to view the scene of a crime. As one of Prue’s arty friends would have said, they both needed their own space. He knew Prue would prefer to work without distraction.
So on Sunday morning he went into the office. Sally Wedderburn was working too, clicking furiously at the computer keyboard, determined to make her mark on a high-profile case. There had been a number of child abductions in the area and the most recent had hit the headlines. The press hadn’t made a connection with the previous incidents. Perhaps the police themselves had been slow in considering a link, had been reluctant even to take the cases seriously. At the beginning the children had turned up safe and well close to home. They were very young – all under five – and their stories were confused. There was no evidence of assault. Perhaps they had just wandered away. Perhaps the stranger with the sweets had been a friend of the family – someone at least, with no malicious intent – or a figment of the child’s imagination, an excuse to cover naughtiness.
‘How’s it going?’ He sat on the edge of her desk, so close, that he could smell her perfume. Prue teased him sometimes about his ‘worklings’, the eager young women who turned to him for support and advice, but the thought of any social entanglement embarrassed him.
‘Slowly. The place was packed. You’d have thought someone would have seen what happened.’
In the most recent incident a three-year-old boy had been taken from a burger bar in a retail complex on the outskirts of Otterbridge. He was a guest at a birthday party which was being held there. His mother had taken him inside and waited until he’d handed over the present, then she’d gone shopping. She’d bought wallpaper from a DIY store and wandered round a car showroom, eyeing up the family saloons. When she returned to the burger bar an hour later the boy was gone.
