Dark Place to Hide (24 page)

‘That’s NOT true!’ I bellow, my hands clutching at my scalp.

I take a step towards Alexa and her eyes widen, the whites expanding like fried eggs in a pan. Then she breaks into peals of laughter and sits down on the edge of the sofa. She tosses her hair back, as if we’ve been playing a game.

‘Why are you doing this, Alexa?’

Her eyes close in a prolonged drunken blink and I realise there’s no point in trying to reason with her.

She lurches towards the front door.

‘I’m not sure you should be driving,’ I say.

She stares at me. ‘
Don’t
tell me what to do.’ She takes a step back into the room and pulls a mouldy nectarine from the fruit bowl on the window ledge. She tosses it up like a tennis ball. ‘I don’t know where she is – but I know one thing.’ She drops the nectarine back in the dish and steps onto the mat. ‘If she’s got any sense – she won’t be coming back.’ With that she swings her hair in a fan-shaped blur and slams the door.

I find myself here again. It’s cold and damp – there’s no light inside, no creature comforts. I don’t know what got into me. I can’t believe I lost it like that, with your sister. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m capable of. I have to sit here – in solitude, in punishment, for what I have done.

Alexa’s words were outrageous, of course they were; she was angry at my rejection of her and she wanted to hurt me – but I shouldn’t have overreacted like that. I’m ashamed – thoroughly mortified – about what just happened. She
knows
about my anger. She can read me in a way that others don’t seem to. Even more than you perhaps, Dee. That’s because you’re so forgiving and see the best in people. Alexa sees the truth. It’s unnerving. She sees me for what I am.

I’m shivering, even though it’s a barmy night. The old chicken coop is the best place for me. It’s been my point of refuge since we moved here; my primeval cave. Alexa knows my anger is deep-rooted and dangerous. I think back to the blind rage I felt when my mother got the call to say my father had died. I allow myself to relive the trembling fury that claimed me as I ransacked his house. It feels now like a black and white dream; I watch it from a distance and can’t believe it was me. No – that’s not true. The worst thing is – I
can
believe it was me.

I admit it. There is a side to me that is out of control. I don’t seem to have the middle ground others have, where they feel their anger brewing and let it out. I hate seeing people shout, slam doors, swear; I can’t seem to give my anger expression in those ways. Instead, I squash it down, hold it in – then I explode like a cannonball with contemptible behaviour. It’s a side I do my utmost to hide, but Alexa has seen it and revels in her discovery. Mr Nice Guy isn’t so nice after all. She’s right. There are no excuses.

14 August – 15
^th
day missing

Clara went missing on Monday; it’s now Thursday and the police have no leads whatsoever. An adult going missing is bad enough, but a child…I feel the weight of Marion’s desperation settle in a layer over mine as I enter her cottage.

Her bedroom is almost dark when I walk in. So still and gloomy that for a moment I wonder if Marion’s passed away and no one has told me. I stop in the doorway and hear the catch of her breath; it snags in her throat in a regular rhythm.

Marion has given me a key so I can let myself into the house and speak to her whenever I need to. It’s nice to feel so trusted. I clutch on to small gifts such as this – there are not many joys in my life at the moment.

As I grow accustomed to the darkness I see she’s sitting up in bed. It’s an improvement, but she doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere. Her body is so thin, I can barely see how it can contain all her organs.

‘I’ve covered all the places on the list you gave me,’ I tell her. I set out early that morning with Frank and we checked everywhere I hadn’t already been. ‘The police have, too. We haven’t found anything…yet.’ I want to keep any shreds of optimism alive, but it’s a losing battle.

She nods, gripping the blanket, her knuckles blueish-white, pure bone.

‘Have the police asked you about all the people Clara knows?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ she says, sounding bleak.

‘Can I do the same? Sometimes things can come to you differently on a new day.’

I’m trying to inject hope where I feel none. I feel numb after my encounter with Alexa last night – I must have spent over an hour in the chicken coop stewing it over – and, right now, I’m going through the motions. Marion hands me a photocopied list of the names she gave to Sergeant Howis; all the people in Clara’s life – school friends, parents of friends, teachers, tutors from Sunday school and after-school clubs, the library, nurses and babysitters. There are twenty-seven names in all. ‘Oh – and Dr Pike,’ she adds, holding out a pen. ‘At the hospital.’

‘And your own doctor, there?’

‘Ah, he’s Dr Nivan Guha. There’s the local GP, too. Dr Geraldine Lane.’

‘Clara seems to know people at the allotment,’ I inform her.

‘Does she? I’m not surprised. She’s friendly with everyone.’ She draws in a sob. ‘That’s the problem.’

‘Can you think of anything – anything at all in the last few weeks that’s been odd or unusual, in connection with any of these people?’

‘You’re just like the police,’ she says almost smiling.

I’m tempted to point out that the police will cover all bases far more efficiently than I ever could. They have sniffer dogs, fingerprinting equipment and all the right gear. They have the right to walk into people’s lives and fire questions at them about where they were and what they were doing. I have no right to do that. I’m doing this because she’s asked me to – and to give myself something useful to do. Without this, I will only be staring at blank walls in a house I used to call home.

‘You might see something they don’t,’ she says, as if reading my mind. ‘You notice things. And you’ve met Clara. Something might strike you that slips past the police.’

‘I know. I’ll try.’ I pull up a chair to show I mean business. ‘So – what can you tell me?’

‘Well – two nurses at the hospital were supposed to be looking after Clara during the last few visits – Natalie and Sheila – they both lost track of Clara.’ I take down the details: times, dates, a brief summary. ‘Tessa is a new babysitter from across the road. I used to have Lorna, but I had to stop using her. She let it slip her boyfriend was round while she was supposed to be focusing on my daughter. Clara came back upset one time recently.’

‘When was that?’

‘It was before we went to the castle. She said something about the boy ‘helping’ when Lorna gave Clara a bath once. I didn’t like the sound of that at all, so I knocked it on the head.’ I took the boyfriend’s name – Wayne Right – he’s seventeen.

‘Do the police know this?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘They’ll run a thorough check on Wayne, for certain.’

‘There is something else, now I’m thinking. I didn’t mention this to the police. It may be nothing.’

‘Every little thing is worth investigating,’ I remind her.

‘At the hospital, when Clara had to get a check-up after she was stuck in the castle, we saw someone called Dr Norman. He was sweet with Clara, joked with her – you know. But she said something that I took to mean something else at the time.’

‘Carry on.’

‘Dr Norman was joking about the nursery rhyme Humpy Dumpty – he pretended to get the story wrong and Clara said “You should know that by now”. I thought she meant that
at his age
he should have understood the story, but what if it meant something else? What if it meant Clara and Dr Norman had already met and he’d recited it before?’

I stand up. ‘I’m going to pass this on straight away. In the meantime, keep thinking, keep writing things down.’ I nod to the notebook beside her bed.

‘I will – don’t worry.’ She wafts a paper-thin hand at me as I make a move to leave. ‘Before you go, I want you to have this.’ She leans down beside the bed and pulls something out of a paper bag – it’s a big effort for her. ‘Clara wanted you to have it.’ She hands me the butterfly mosaic Clara had been making in the kitchen when I last saw her.

The butterfly is mostly purple with pink and silver pieces, catching the light. ‘She made it into a mobile for you to hang in your kitchen…’

‘It’s gorgeous,’ I whisper, my fingers trembling as I take it.

I can’t look at her face. I’m completely overcome and I don’t want to upset her by dissolving into an emotional heap at her bedside. ‘I’ll go and pin it up right now.’

On the way back to the cottage, I call Neil and pass on the details about Dr Norman. He sounds neutral in his response so I can’t work out whether he’s grateful for my input or finds it interfering. I don’t care. I’ll carry on until we get somewhere.

Tara rings soon after, just as I’m fending off Frank at the front door.

‘I managed to find someone who went to the retirement party in June,’ she says. ‘Her name is Elaine Passmore and she was happy to give me her number to pass on to you.’

I thank her and before I do anything else, I find a drawing pin and take Clara’s gift into the kitchen. I stand on a chair and fix the loop of cotton thread onto the beam that runs inside the window. The mobile sparkles as it turns. Apart from Frank, it feels like the only thing that isn’t dead in the place.

I make the next call. Elaine is driving, but pulls in at the roadside to speak to me.

‘Yes, I remember seeing your wife at the party. Tedious affair, to be honest. We were only there to put in a polite appearance.’

‘Was she okay? Did anything unusual happen?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Did she drink much, do you know?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Her voice catches and I realise she’s nervous. ‘I remember she had a glass in her hand at the start. We all did to try to get into the party mood. She didn’t usually drink much, did she?’

‘No – not usually.’ She seems to be stalling. I want her to get on with it.

‘What else happened? Did she look unwell, upset?’

‘I’m not sure…’

‘Please, Elaine. She’s missing. Anything could have happened to her.’

She takes a staggered breath. ‘I saw her talking for ages to Stephen Morrell, the deputy head. She was drinking a blue lagoon cocktail. Yes – that’s right – I remember, because it spilt on her dress.’

A blue lagoon cocktail? That doesn’t sound right at all. You don’t normally like cocktails, Dee.

There’s a break in the connection. ‘I’m not sure Diane was looking a hundred per cent, now I think about it,’ she goes on, assuring me there’s nothing further she can tell me. The phone cuts off – through loss of signal or by design, I’m not sure – but I’ve heard enough.

There is somewhere I need to be.

‘I shouldn’t be doing this,’ Tara points out, a half-smile on her face.

‘I know, but…’ She opens the first door and finds the key for the second. I flip the light switch; it’s one of those gloomy buildings that needs constant strip lighting.

‘No – turn them off,’ she says, flapping her arms. ‘I know my way around without them.’

She turns left along the corridor and I follow her. I marvel at the way the smell of sprouts is still in the air weeks after the end of term. It’s as though the place has a life of its own – a kind of ghost town – after all the children have gone.

‘Has Diane ever mentioned Stephen Morrell to you?’ I ask.

‘Not with any affection. He’s the deputy head. She thinks he’s creepy.’

‘Married, Elaine told me.’

‘Yeah – with two kids, I think.’

‘Elaine said Diane was talking to him at the party…’

We push through a pair of swing doors. ‘Diane never said anything.’ The thud of the closing door echoes along the corridor, like a train coming. ‘I know for a fact that Elaine has a bit of a thing for Stephen, so I wouldn’t read too much into what she says. She’s probably jealous.’

‘Have you ever known Diane to drink cocktails?’

She laughs. ‘Only rarely. She likes the idea of them, more than the taste, I think – you know – the colours and the bits and pieces that go in them.’

That makes sense. You love bright greens and turquoise – and pretty little trinkets.

‘She thinks they’re overrated,’ she adds.

Tara has a key to the staffroom; it’s the only place teachers can get hot drinks so everyone is allowed one, but the secretary’s office is another matter. I, however, have come prepared.

‘You must leave it exactly as you found it,’ Tara insists. ‘I could get sacked for this.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

I take the set of skeleton keys from my rucksack and choose the one suitable for Yale locks. I only ever use them to show my students – I give a demonstration in their first term, then they are forgotten.

Once inside the office, I check the blinds are drawn and wave Tara in. She hangs in the doorway reluctantly, but her eyes give her away. They’re sizzling with daring now, not fear.

‘I’ve never committed a crime before,’ she whispers.

The place is compact and has a shiny new desk as the centrepiece. On the corner is a dead fern. I check the Rolodex beside it, but it contains details of electricians, heating engineers, glaziers and other maintenance services; it’s not a directory of staff addresses.

‘Can you shine the torch on the filing cabinet?’ I ask.

She points the beam over my shoulder and I try one of the other keys. I get into the cabinet without a hitch and carefully flick through the files.

‘You’re good at this,’ she affirms.

I try the next drawer down and find what I need. I scribble down the address and our job is done.

Tara wants to come with me, but I need to do this next part on my own.

‘Phone me, okay?’ she insists.

I leave her at the school gates; she heads towards Portsmouth and I hop on my bike and start cycling to the other side of Cosham. I decide it would be better not to warn him with a phone call.

A child of around ten answers the door and I ask if it is the right address for Mr Morrell.

‘Sure,’ she says, chomping roughly on a banana. ‘Dad…it’s for you,’ she calls out. She leans against the wall, the front door half-open, chewing. Wearing a short skirt with rolled-down socks, she rests the sole of one foot against the wall. There’s meanness etched around her eyes and she has an air of invincibility about her. She’s at that stage between girl and bolshie teenager; the kind I’d want a sweet child like Clara to avoid.