by Camilla Way
She creeps quietly to the toilet cubicle next. It’s tiny with a shower above the toilet and a drain in the floor. Here, too, like everywhere else in the caravan, the Perspex window is boarded up on the outside. But this time, when she pushes at one corner, she feels it give a little; even better, the hardboard on the other side moves a fraction too, to reveal a sliver of light. Standing back from the window she considers its size. Small, but she thinks she might be able to squeeze through. Above the sink a mirror is screwed to the wall and for the first time she notices that it has a crack of about two inches in the bottom left-hand corner. She inspects it closely and works out that if she were to crack it more, there’s a chance that she could slide a shard of it out.
And just as the spark of an idea ignites inside her, she hears the sound of the padlock rattling on the other side of the locked door, and she freezes in fear.
Marshall and Spilleti sit at Vivienne’s kitchen table gazing at her, perplexed. ‘Can I ask you where you were today?’ Marshall says. Viv considers lying but, realizing it’s pointless, says, ‘I went to the village where I used to live. Where my sister was murdered.’
‘I see. And why was that?’
She hesitates, thinking how to answer, but knowing she can’t tell him the real reason, she shrugs. ‘Because I wanted to visit her grave. I wanted to feel close to her.’
He holds her gaze. ‘You said when I phoned that you were looking for answers. Can you tell me what you meant by that?’
‘I meant that I wanted to talk to my sister – it’s something I do when I want help with something. I believe she’s up there, listening.’
He stares at her for a beat or two, saying nothing, and she gets the impression he sees through her lies. ‘It goes without saying of course,’ he says, ‘that if you hear from anyone claiming to have any information about Cleo’s whereabouts you should tell us immediately. Any contact – phone call, text, letter – from her abductor, it’s important that you let us know and that you never engage with him yourself.’
‘Of course,’ she says, holding his gaze. ‘Have you managed to find anything out about Jack Delaney?’ she asks.
It’s DC Spilleti who replies. ‘We have no reason to think that Jack Delaney has anything to do with your daughter’s disappearance. As far as we’re aware, he is still abroad as there’s no record of him re-entering the country. His surviving family – two brothers – have had no contact with him since he left.’
‘But they would say that, wouldn’t they? And if he’s in Canada, he would be there illegally. He can’t stay there indefinitely, can he?’ she says.
Spilleti nods. ‘He didn’t apply for a work visa, he went there as a tourist and then disappeared.’
‘So how would he have afforded to live there?’ Viv asks.
The detective constable shrugs. ‘Casual, cash-in-hand labouring work is easy enough to get there, same as it is here,’ she says. ‘The point is, he could be anywhere.’
‘Exactly. He could have come back on a fake passport.’
‘Possibly.’
Vivienne sighs with frustration. ‘And what about Aleksander Petri?’
Marshall and Spilleti glance at each other, and something in the atmosphere between them changes. Viv’s heart leaps. ‘What?’ she says. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Vivienne,’ Marshall says, ‘Aleksander Petri died in Kosovo in 1998. Whoever the man purporting to be him for the past eighteen years is, it’s not Petri. He must have used Petri’s papers when he came here seeking asylum.’
She stares at him. ‘But … I don’t understand … who is he then? Who is the person I’ve been …?’
‘As of yet, we don’t know,’ Marshall replies. ‘Whoever he is, he was granted refugee status and eventually allowed to register as a practitioner here in Britain under Petri’s name via the British Medical Association’s Refugee Doctor Initiative. He has been working here ever since. We have circulated his photograph and have officers nationwide looking for him.’
She shakes her head, trying to take it in. ‘But … Who was the real Aleksander Petri? Do you know?’
‘He was a junior doctor at a hospital in Pristina. He died when he was twenty-eight.’
‘How?’
‘His family say he was murdered in 1998.’
‘Murdered? By who?’
‘According to them, by the Albanian mafia. The case remains open. The war was coming to an end, it was a time of great unrest … We may never know what happened to the real Aleksander.’
She shakes her head, trying to take it in. ‘So who is the person I knew? And what does this have to do with Cleo?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Marshall says.
17
When Marshall and Spilleti leave, Viv continues to sit in her kitchen thinking about the man who’d come to her café week after week. She recalls how he’d said, ‘War changes you, it makes you do things you’d never thought you were capable of.’ What had that meant? Had he killed the real Aleksander? Was murder what he’d been referring to? But he’d also said his daughter believed something about him that wasn’t true … she shakes her head in frustration; it’s impossible to know what he’d meant.
Listlessly she picks up her phone and clicks on the texts she and Alek had exchanged over the past weeks, searching for clues. They make for meagre pickings: only ten messages in all, mainly brief and to the point arrangements to meet up. He had not once expressed his feelings for her in words, either spoken or written. Instead she had conjured evidence of how he felt about her by the way he touched and looked at her, the chemistry that seemed to her to crackle between them. She had imagined it all, of course, inventing affection that had never existed. She has, in fact, no tangible evidence of him feeling anything for her whatsoever. She had been entirely duped.
Suddenly her fingers halt and she stares down at one particular message. It simply says, ‘Miranda Auerbach’, followed by a phone number. It is, she recalls, the psychotherapist Alek had recommended when she’d told him of her nightmares about Ruby. He had described Miranda as an ex-colleague – more than that, he’d said she was a friend. If that were true, might she know who he is, and where he is now? Hurriedly she googles ‘Miranda Auerbach, therapist’ and is directed to a website for a private practice in Kensal Rise, North London. She looks closely at the accompanying picture of a dark-haired woman in her mid-forties, then checks the time. She has mere hours left to save Cleo and absolutely nothing to lose. She clicks on the number and presses Call.
The phone rings once, twice, three times, and then a pleasantly professional voice answers. ‘Miranda Auerbach speaking.’
Viv’s own voice seems to leap from her throat, unnaturally high and loud. ‘Hello, I … was given your number by a … friend …’ she falters. ‘I wondered if I could come and see you. It’s rather urgent.’ She clutches the handset tightly.
‘Of course, let me look at my diary. One moment, please.’
‘I really need to see you today,’ Viv says quickly.
She can hear the desperation in her own voice and there’s a brief surprised pause, before Miranda replies: ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I could fit you in tomorrow for an initial assessment. I’ve just had a cancellation. Let me tell you a bit about …’
‘No, that’s too late.’ Viv’s voice breaks and she wrestles to get it under control. ‘I need help today.’
‘I’m very sorry, but I have other patients scheduled for the rest of the day, I couldn’t cancel them at such short notice …’ There’s a note of concern in her tone now. ‘I can hear that you’re upset. Perhaps I could give you some other numbers to try … there’s also the Samaritans. If you are worried that you might harm yourself, I would strongly encourage you to seek help from your emergency—’
‘No,’ Vivienne cuts in, ‘I don’t need any of those things! What I need is to see you today. Please.’ Viv wonders whether to mention Alek, to say that he recommended her �
�� perhaps that might convince her. But his name has been in the news regarding Cleo over the past two days and it might put Miranda off, make her even less inclined to get involved. She’s still trying to decide when Miranda speaks.
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeats, ‘but it would be impossible without letting one of my present patients down and I’m sure you can appreciate …’
Viv hears the sound of a doorbell ringing somewhere in the background.
‘I must go,’ Miranda continues. ‘A patient has just arrived. But why don’t you give me your contact details so I can call you back?’
Vivienne closes her eyes in despair, and without answering, hangs up the phone. She puts her head in her hands. She’s running out of time and she has absolutely no idea what to do. When the phone rings and she sees her mother’s name flash across the screen, her voice is barely audible when she picks it up and says, ‘Hello, Mum.’
‘Oh, thank heavens. Where on earth have you been, Vivienne? I’ve been going out of my mind.’
‘Mum. Oh Mum …’ the words emerge as a half-wail.
‘What’s happened? Is there news? Tell me!’
‘The police were here. They haven’t found her, or Jack, but they have found something out about Alek.’
‘Alek?’
Quickly she tells her mother what Marshall had told her. ‘I don’t know who he is,’ Viv says, her voice rising in distress. ‘He might be a criminal, a murderer even, and I let him into my home. I introduced him to Cleo.’
‘Oh Vivienne.’
And in those two words Viv hears the weight of reproach and despair she has levelled at herself ever since Marshall told her, and she closes her eyes in shame.
‘What are the police going to do?’ Stella asks.
Viv hesitates. She wants to admit everything – about the texts from Jack, his threats and demands, the terrifying photo he’d sent – but what if Stella insists on going to the police? What if she does that and Jack kills Cleo anyway? After all, they hadn’t found him so far. Playing by his rules might be the only way of getting her daughter back alive. So instead she says, ‘I don’t know. They said they’d call me if there was any news.’ She pauses. ‘Mum, I need to ask you something. What do you remember about Declan Fairbanks, our old neighbour in Essex?’
‘What? God, I don’t know, barely anything. What on earth are you asking me about him for?’
‘I just … something made me think of him, that’s all. What was he like? Do you remember?’
‘No. No, I don’t, darling. I don’t remember anything about him at all. Goodness me, don’t we have enough to worry about without dredging stuff up about old acquaintances?’
When Viv finally puts the phone down she paces her kitchen restlessly, trying to decide her next move. Her exhaustion is laced with adrenaline that makes her feel sick and unsteady on her feet. Her thoughts return to Miranda and she comes to a halt. If there was even the smallest chance that this woman might know Alek’s whereabouts, then she needs to talk to her. She could be her only hope.
She gathers up her coat and bag, intending to drive over there, but as she’s heading to the door she catches sight of herself in the hall mirror. She’s still wearing the clothes she had on on the night of the dinner party, with the addition of a hoodie and some trainers she’d flung on a while ago. Gingerly she smells herself and grimaces. Her hair is greasy, her face blotchy with grime and old make-up. She can’t turn up to Miranda’s looking like this, not if she’s going to convince her to help. Quickly she runs upstairs and into the shower then throws on some clean jeans and a jumper, stopping for a few minutes to put on some make-up. Finally, snatching up her coat and bag, she runs from the house.
She barely notices her surroundings as she drives across the city. Peckham, Walworth and Bermondsey flash past her window before she crosses the Thames into central London. As she drives she thinks about Miranda, about whether she might know where Alek has run to, and puts her foot on the accelerator. Gradually, as she nears Kensal Rise, something else begins to occur to her. Could Miranda help her remember what happened the day Ruby died? Might she, if she underwent this EDMR therapy or whatever it was called, unearth something – some small detail – that could shine a light on it all? She thinks about the article she’d read about patients recovering long-buried memories from their past. Could that work for her? She’d resisted therapy all her life, but if there was even the slightest chance it could help her remember, shouldn’t she give it a try?
Viv pulls up outside a large Edwardian house on a long leafy road in Kensal Rise. As she stares up at the front door with its row of doorbells, a twenty-something woman emerges from the basement steps before disappearing off, head down, along the street. A neighbour, Viv wonders, or one of Miranda’s patients? Sure enough, when she descends the steps herself she finds a smartly painted door with a brass plaque bearing the words, ‘Dr Miranda Auerbach’ followed by an impressive collection of initials.
Steeling herself, she presses the buzzer and waits. The woman who answers the door is a few years older than she’d looked in her photograph, short but attractive with closely cropped greying hair. Her make-up-free face glows with good health and she has intelligent, inquisitive hazel eyes with which she is regarding Viv. ‘Hello, can I help you?’
‘Hi, yes … I phoned earlier. It’s very important that I talk to you.’
The woman’s look of confusion passes swiftly to one of realization then alarm. ‘As I told you on the phone,’ she begins, ‘it isn’t possible for me to …’ Suddenly she looks past Viv, a flicker of relief on her face, and Viv turns to see a bearded man in his thirties coming down the stairs behind her. ‘Hi, Rob, please, go on in, I’ll be with you in a minute.’ Miranda stands aside to let him through then turns back to Vivienne. Her voice firmer now, she goes on, ‘As you can see, I’m rather busy. If you leave me your details, I’ll be in touch directly to arrange a proper appointment.’
But Viv doesn’t move. ‘Five minutes,’ she begs, then in desperation blurts, ‘It’s regarding Aleksander Petri. I believe you know him.’
Miranda’s expression alters. ‘Alek? Do you know where he is?’ After a moment’s hesitation she stands aside. ‘You’d better come in.’
Viv is led through to a small waiting area where the bearded guy is sitting reading a book. The room is cosy with brightly coloured throws and cushions on the sofa, the walls covered in abstract art prints. She can smell the scent of fresh coffee, feel the warmth pumping from the radiator. ‘Rob,’ Miranda says to him, ‘I’m so sorry, but would you mind very much waiting for ten minutes?’
‘Sure.’ He shrugs, eyeing Viv with curiosity as Miranda leads her through another door.
In contrast to the room they’ve just left, Miranda’s practice room is sparsely furnished with two low comfortable armchairs, a desk and office chair. Next to one of the armchairs is a small table with a box of tissues and a pot plant on it. The walls are painted a pale soothing green and hung with unobtrusive paintings of coastal scenes. A pretty yellow lamp throws out a soft golden glow.
‘Now, what is all this about?’ Miranda asks, indicating for Viv to take a seat and sitting down herself.
Viv talks quickly. ‘My name is Vivienne Swift, and my daughter Cleo is missing. Alek was—’
Miranda’s eyes widen. ‘Yes, my goodness, you’re …? I’ve been reading about it. The Guardian mentioned Alek was wanted in connection with her disappearance …’ Her brow furrows in concern. ‘I know Alek, it seems absolutely extraordinary to me that he could be connected to—’
Vivienne nods impatiently. ‘Look, Miranda, Alek mentioned you to me. He said that you were friends. I wanted to ask if you have any idea where he might be. If you can think of anywhere he might have gone to hide.’
‘No … I’m afraid I don’t. I haven’t seen Alek for quite some time.’ She pauses then and adds with certainty, ‘But I do know that he would never harm a child.’
‘Then why has he disappeared? He was t
here the night she went missing, and he hasn’t been seen since.’
‘I have no idea,’ Miranda says. ‘I’m sorry Vivienne, I truly am. And I’m very sorry for what you’re going through, it must be terribly distressing, but I don’t think I can help you.’
Vivienne sees that she’s telling the truth and the small spark of hope she’d been holding on to – that Miranda might lead her to Alek, who in turn might lead her to Jack – sputters out. She sinks back into the chair, burying her face in her hands.
‘Are you all right?’ Miranda asks gently. ‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water?’
Viv looks back at Miranda’s frank, patient gaze and shakes her head, overcome by hopelessness. It’s only when Miranda passes her the box of tissues that she realizes she’s crying.
Once she’s composed herself, she says, ‘Listen, the reason Alek gave me your name was because he thought you might be able to help me. I desperately need to remember something.’
‘Go on.’
‘A long time ago when I was a child, my older sister was murdered, I was in the house at the time …’
‘Oh,’ Miranda says, clearly taken aback. ‘I see …’
‘I gave evidence against her boyfriend, evidence which put him in prison. But all I can remember is what I told the police. I can recall the words I said to describe what happened, but I can’t conjure any images to back them up. I was there that day, in the house at the time she was murdered, but whenever I try to recall what actually happened I have a full-blown panic attack and draw a blank. It’s sheer terror, which is why I’ve spent the last thirty-two years trying very hard not to think about it.’
