by K. L. Slater
I glance around. It’s surprisingly tidy for a man who doesn’t even think about picking up his dirty socks until he starts to trip over them.
I sit down on the plush padded swivel chair and lay my flat palms on the cool blonde wood. I saw the price of the new furniture on the delivery note and it was enough to make my eyes water. We could furnish two rooms with what Nadine paid for it.
There’s nothing on the desktop apart from a wire rack with a few loose papers on each shelf and a green plastic desk tidy with various tubes for storing pens, pencils and paper clips.
I look up at the wall in front of me and my heart squeezes in on itself. Blake has fixed one of Grace’s pictures up there. The kitchen walls are covered in her artwork, but I remember him claiming this picture. He particularly loved it because Grace had drawn all three of us standing in front of the house and had put newborn baby Oscar in a wheelbarrow, which Blake thought was hilarious.
This is a pedestal desk, so it has drawers built in either side. I open the top one on my right. At least I try to open it, but it’s locked, and the other drawers are the same.
I stand up and pull at the free-standing filing cabinet behind me, only to find that that’s locked too.
It’s a bit over the top, I think. Neither Grace nor I are likely to come in here messing anything up, but maybe he’s worried about intruders. I know some of the stuff he deals with is confidential.
I shrug to myself and turn to go. Blake’s left his casual sports jacket on the back of the chair. He usually lives in it at weekends, but this is no ordinary weekend. All our routines have disappeared. Nothing is important any more apart from finding our daughter. Nothing.
There’s a mark on the back of the jacket near the hem. Looks like he might have leaned against a wall, or perhaps it’s from the gate.
I’m desperate to do something normal, something that takes up no thinking time, to alleviate the terrible ache in my head, even though I know that’s impossible. I slide the shoulders of my husband’s jacket from the chair. I’ll take it down to the kitchen, see if I can get the mark out. It’s the sort of meaningless little task I’d be doing if Grace was downstairs watching television and Oscar was taking a nap.
I check the two pockets and take out an unused folded handkerchief, which I place on the desk. When I fold the jacket over my arm, I notice there’s one of those deep inside pockets too.
I plunge my fingers in there and wriggle them around, and they close on something small and cold and clinky. I pull it out to find I’m holding three tiny keys hanging from a single thin metal ring.
I put the keys on the desk with the handkerchief and take a step towards the door. And then I stop and turn around again.
Blake will be back from the police station soon. Doubts flood my mind again about the reason for his sudden change of heart in leaving the house. It feels disloyal even to admit to myself that I don’t trust my husband. Blake’s a good man, I know that. Everybody says so. Except Barbara Charterhouse; she doesn’t seem too impressed with him.
I pick up the keys and look at them nestled in the centre of my palm. This is probably my only chance to glance inside the desk drawers and the filing cabinet.
I dangle the keys over the desk again and then snatch them back into the palm of my hand and insert one into the filing cabinet. Second try, it twists and I open the top drawer.
Blake has organised the contents of the cabinet in suspended files, each one bearing a little white tab with neat printed letters to mark out the contents. ‘Monthly Surgery’, ‘Statutory Docs’, ‘Minutes & Agendas’.
I’m surprised at his efficiency. In everything else he’s so laid-back, haphazard… the moss on the path, the dirty washing by the bed.
In the bottom drawer is more of the same, largely containing details about various planning applications in the local area.
I close the drawer and lock the cabinet again, shaking my head at myself. Of course there’s nothing there to show I have reason to mistrust Blake. What did I expect? The names and addresses of a dozen women he’s seeing behind my back? I have to wake him most nights where he’s fallen asleep on the couch. I hardly think he’d have the energy to entertain other women.
I move over to the desk, the suspicious side of me reasoning I might as well look in there now I’m here.
Nothing in the left pedestal is of any interest. Half-filled notebooks, more stationery, pens and the like. I lock that side and move on to the right.
The top drawer is super-shallow and contains only a ruler, writing implements, a couple of erasers and a book of stamps. There’s only a single drawer underneath, but it’s a deep one.
I’m surprised to see this drawer is in disarray compared to the others. It’s filled to the brim with magazines, balls of string, even a couple of screwed-up plastic shopping bags. I rummage through what seems to be rubbish dumped on top of a pile of brown folders. Inside them is old documentation about consultations for building a new cycleway in the city. I push the folders back and dig my hand underneath them.
My fingers hit the bottom of the drawer and butt up against something straight and firm that’s packed down the side.
I stop rummaging for a second and listen. All is quiet downstairs, no sign that Blake has returned. I’d easily hear the front door open and close from this room, anyway.
Confident that I have a few more minutes, I remove all the random items and place them on the desk. Then I grasp the pile of brown folders and pull them out too.
When I peer down into the nearly empty drawer, I instantly freeze.
Lining the bottom of the drawer are bundles and bundles of cash. Fifty-pound notes.
I’m no expert, but I reckon there must be at least two and a half thousand pounds in each of the bundles, and I count twenty-two of them.
That’s over fifty thousand pounds. In cash.
We are basically on our uppers, financially, so where on earth can it be from?
Eighteen
DS Bean looks up from reading through some paperwork as I enter the living room.
‘Lucie! You look pale, love. Come and sit down.’
I remain standing.
‘Earlier, you told me I can ask you anything.’ I move in front of her and watch the well-rehearsed sympathetic smile slide from her face.
‘And I meant it. Of course you can.’
‘Then tell me the real reason the detectives asked Blake to go down to the station,’ I say, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. ‘Why would they do that, unless they think he’s got something to hide?’
Fiona sighs and sits further back in her seat, as if she’s subconsciously trying to increase the distance between us.
‘It’s not that they think he’s hiding anything, it’s just that…’ She hesitates. ‘It’s just that when we walk into these situations – where a family is in peril – we have to be sure to give people the space to be brutally honest with us about their circumstances.’
I let that sink in for a moment.
‘So why ask Blake to go with them and not me?’
Fiona’s right foot begins to tap on the floor.
‘Well, again it’s all to do with circumstances. Obviously our priority is to determine the relevant events around Grace not returning home when she was expected. You’ve told us you were here, in the house, all the time and we’ve got no reason to disbelieve you. Blake on the other hand has stated he was out and about, and we just need to be crystal clear on everyone’s exact movements.’
Of course; it was when they asked exactly where he went and who he saw while I slept that he became jumpy and offered to go to the station. They think he might be having an affair and wouldn’t want to say in front of me. I can’t deny that that thought had crossed my mind too, until I found all that cash. And yet even now, I feel guilty, both for snooping and for thinking the worst of my husband.
What if there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for the cash, like… I don’t know… he’s lookin
g after it for a community group or something?
Over fifty grand?
That amount of money is a serious sum, too dangerous and risky to be stuffed in a drawer. Why not put it in the bank, like a normal person?
Maybe Blake planned to speak to me in private about it, explain what it’s doing there. If the police find out, they might suspect he’s embezzling funds or something.
And then I remember again that he volunteered to go with the police.
Why would he do that if he’s got nothing to hide from me?
‘Looks like you have a visitor,’ Fiona says distractedly, looking out of the window.
I spring up from the sofa and peer at the black cab that’s parked at the end of the driveway. The door opens and a man gets out and the press swarm around him. When he turns around, his face a mask of alarm, I rush to the door.
‘It’s my dad, he’s got Oscar with him.’ I begin to push my feet into the old trainers I keep in the hall.
Fiona appears at my side and lays a hand on my arm. ‘Let me go, Lucie.’
Something about the look on her face stops me in my tracks and I step back as she opens the front door.
The press are wild, like a bunch of animals. Dad says a few words to them but it only seems to make them hungry for more. Fortunately, they step back when Fiona arrives, taking Oscar from Dad’s arms, together with his changing bag.
‘Is this Grace’s brother? Has he hurt his head?’
‘Did your granddaughter often walk home alone?’
‘Did you have any concerns over the care of your grandchildren?’
The short, accusing questions don’t stop during Dad’s slow progress up the path. Fiona follows him, offering a buffer from the unwelcome attention.
When Dad steps inside the hall and holds out his arms to me, his face is grey. I bury my face in his shoulder and he wraps me up tight like he’d do when I was a kid and would get upset that other kids had a mum and I didn’t.
I listen to the rasp of his laboured breathing and I start to sob.
Nineteen
When I met Blake, I was already over the full-blown agoraphobia I’d been suffering from, thanks to two years of therapy that had helped me immensely.
I was no longer housebound, and although I still preferred not to go out alone, I could function; make the journey to and from work and other necessary trips.
It was only a part-time position as an events coordinator for a big hotel on the outskirts of town, but it got me interacting with people again. It was a struggle at first, and I used to dread going in each day, but gradually it started to get a little easier.
I learned that although my body was displaying all the signs of genuine panic – increased heart rate, burning cheeks, dry mouth – if I pushed through that and told myself the fear wasn’t real, it was just anxiety, I could still do my job and do it well.
Still, although it might get easier, it never fully leaves you. The fear, I mean. To this day, my first reaction is to avoid very crowded or busy spaces if I can. I still feel a little anxious when I have to go out alone, even walking Grace to and from school. Just the thought of seeing the other parents at the school gate fills me with an illogical kind of dread.
If I’m honest, it’s a big reason behind me agreeing to let Grace walk home alone from Olivia’s house. I don’t want her to end up like me, living under the shadow of what might happen. Plus, if I’m honest, I revelled in getting up Nadine’s nose when she ruled it was too soon for Grace to make the walk alone.
God, how I wish I’d listened to my mother-in-law. Just this once.
I wish, I wish… I don’t know why I’m torturing myself, because it’s too late for wishing and it’s impossible to turn the clock back.
I take Oscar from Fiona’s arms and clasp his warm, plump body close to mine, relishing his faint vanilla smell. The mark on his temple has turned a vivid dark red.
‘Looks sore. What happened?’
‘He took a tumble off the bed,’ I murmur into Oscar’s sparse fine hair when I see Fiona studying his head.
She nods. Presses her lips together.
With Dad and my baby close by, I feel more reassured and I’m beyond thankful to have them here.
Even though Dad assures me he changed Oscar before he left home, I do it anyway and then prepare to feed him. There’s an element of reassurance in this ordinary day-in, day-out routine and I crave to have it back in my life again.
‘Thanks for coming over, Dad. I know it must’ve been a massive effort to come here.’ His chest problems make all physical movement twice as taxing. ‘Blake would’ve picked you up, you know.’
‘I couldn’t just sit in the house, wondering how you were, worrying about where Grace has got to,’ Dad explains in the kitchen, sipping the tea Fiona gave him before making herself scarce. ‘I hate that house anyway.’
I pause opening Oscar’s food jar. ‘I thought you loved living there? You’ve always said you never want to move.’
Dad shrugs and purses his lips. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he says blankly. ‘Stuff like this happening, I suppose it makes you realise the importance of being near family.’
Dad’s hardly a million miles away. He lives in Colwick which is just a ten-minute drive from our house on a good journey.
I realise he looks really low and I reach over and squeeze his hand.
‘Don’t you start fretting about me, love. You’ve enough on your plate as it is.’ He presses his lips together. ‘When will Blake be back from the cop shop?’
‘Any time now,’ I say and glance at the doorway, making sure Fiona isn’t lurking. ‘I’m worried he’s keeping something from me, Dad.’
As soon as I’ve said it, I regret it. Dad’s face pales.
‘What do you mean? Something like what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he’s got another woman.’ My effort of sounding tongue-in-cheek falls flat.
‘I’ve never heard such a load of rubbish.’ Dad huffs. ‘Blake plainly adores you.’
I loosen the lid on the food jar and stick it in the microwave for thirty seconds.
‘Even so, he obviously didn’t want to talk in front of me. That tells me there’s something he’s keeping quiet about.’
Dad puts down his mug and taps his fingertips on the worktop. ‘Why give yourself even more to worry about, love? You’ve got to focus on keeping yourself well, so you’re fit when little Gracie gets home, eh?’
I nod but I can tell Dad’s worried sick about Grace just like I am. He’s pale and nervy and acting out of character, like saying he hates his house.
We’re just trying to survive the great gaping hole that’s been burned out of the middle of all our lives.
Was Grace abducted? Lost and picked up by an opportune pervert? At this very second, as I heat up baby food and Dad drinks his tea, is she alone and terrified somewhere close by in a dark, locked room?
All the dark stuff nobody’s saying is stacking up in the silences between our words. It lives and breathes in the space around us where we can’t touch it, see it, or escape it.
Twenty
Sixteen years earlier
The day she finally left Nottingham for Newcastle proved to be traumatic for Lucie.
For the past twenty-four hours, her father had seemingly morphed from a proud, beaming parent who told everyone he met about his daughter’s academic prowess into a blubbering wreck who held her in an iron grasp so long on the platform, Lucie feared she might actually miss the train.
‘Promise you’ll text the second you arrive?’
‘I promise, Dad. I told you, I’ll even text on my way there. I’ll let you know what’s happening every step of the way.’
‘The rest of your stuff should be there later today, including the cleaning products. Now don’t forget, make sure you…’
‘… bleach the floor, the loo and the worktop before I move my stuff in. Yes, Dad, I know all of it off by heart. Please don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’
Her father would never have meant to, but he was really unnerving Lucie by reminding her of a thousand possible perils she might encounter on her arrival. She was already managing very nicely on her own to ruin any optimism with a heavy lacing of dread, and she didn’t need his anxiety as well.
Her dad worried about germs and nutritious meals; Lucie fretted constantly about making new friends and fitting in. Between them, they’d managed to turn what should have been an amazing experience into a probable nightmare.
Lucie finally managed to extract herself from Pete’s vice-like grip and board the train. She put the small suitcase on the shelf above her head and her bulging rucksack on the empty seat next to her.
The carriage was quite busy, although there were still plenty of unoccupied seats. Lucie noticed there were several other young people with parents standing plaintively on the platform. The other students had a look of anticipation with a touch of nervousness; like herself, she thought. Perhaps she wasn’t so different after all.
As her father took a few steps forward and stood on his tiptoes next to the window, Lucie willed the train to get going. She was genuinely in fear of him jumping aboard and begging her not to go. She’d never live down the shame amongst all these other people.
She waved, her eyes prickling with emotion as she viewed her dad from this new angle of independent university student. She saw his tired eyes and drawn expression. She saw the worn trousers and the shoes he had owned for years, and realised she couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought herself anything new.
And yet her two large suitcases, soon to be on their way up to Newcastle, were packed with new garments, courtesy of a recent shopping trip with her father.
Pete had done so much for her; Lucie couldn’t even count the ways.
She pressed her face and hands closer to the glass and blew him a kiss.
‘Love you,’ she mouthed silently.
The train gathered speed and soon the platform fell away. She watched until her father was nothing more than a waving shape amongst the other people left behind. Then she settled back into her seat, took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
