Just What Kind of Mother Are You? (28 page)

He drives through Windermere and thinks about making a quick stop at Windermere Academy. He could take another look at the girl he has lined up next. Perhaps he might even get to talk to her today. He knows she’s seen him. She likes him. He’s watched her watching
.

Eventually he decides that two in one day is probably pushing things, even for him. So he drives on towards home. He needs to keep a lid on this thing if he’s to keep it fresh. If he’s to keep on doing it. He can always come back in the morning, he decides. See if he can’t catch her attention when she steps off the minibus
.

He visualizes her walking towards his car and his skin prickles with anticipation. Her dark skin, dark hair, chocolate-brown eyes …

DAY FOUR
Friday

36

I
T
’
S MORNING
. Thirty-six hours have passed since Alexa was round here calling me a whore, and Joe is up first. He’s naturally quiet and wounded around me, like there’s been a death, and I’m just praying to God he doesn’t have a change of heart and decide to give up on me.

The weather is on the change. Last night the forecast was for thick cloud and grey skies for the North-West. The high pressure responsible for the plummeting temperatures and all that dry, cold air from the north is on its way out. We’re in for a milder spell. Perhaps we won’t have a white Christmas after all.

I can hear Joe opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen.

‘Lise?’

He’s shouting from the bottom of the stairs, and I mutter something – not a proper word, more of a low moan – to let him know I’m awake and can hear him. ‘One of the dogs has puked up a load of yellow shit,’ he says.

Wearily, I call out, ‘I’ll sort it,’ and put my head back beneath the duvet.

This isn’t Joe doing tit for tat. It’s not ‘You slept with someone else so you have to do all the crappy jobs from here on in. Joe’s not like that. No, he just knows I’d prefer to do it myself, because anything Joe uses to clean up, i.e. cloth, mop, Scotch-brite scourers from the side of the kitchen sink, ends up destroyed in the process.

Kitchen cloths turn brown and get covered in grass (golf-shoe cleaning), the mop goes black and beyond rescue (cleaning of taxi roof), and so on and so forth.

I turn over and try to organize my thoughts for the day ahead. Kate is looming heavily, but just now, it’s Bluey who’s at the forefront.

Yesterday evening a young woman arrived at work in an unmarked white van, ready to collect Bluey. Before her arrival I’d got a little giddy about him being taken away for forensic analysis. The idea of Bluey being the missing link, the missing piece of the jigsaw in the hunt for the abductor of the three girls – well, needless to say, I got a bit excited about it.

But when she actually turned up with the bare cage in the back of the van I was seized by a wild panic that they were going to experiment on him. This was for no good reason whatsoever, and the young forensics assistant didn’t know what to do when I started shouting. When I realized I was making her frightened, I stopped. Sheepishly, I handed her the lead and told her it had been a difficult week and I was very sorry for my outburst. ‘I’m not normally hysterical,’ I said to her, and she left, quick as she could. Poor thing.

I wonder now how Bluey is. I wonder if he’s okay. She assured me he would be well looked after and would probably go home with her for the night. ‘Probably?’ I’d said accusingly, and she’d said,
‘No
,
definitely
.’

I hope to God he comes back. I don’t think I could cope if something happened to him, on top of everything else, little old bag of bones that he is. I wouldn’t forgive myself.

Joe shouts again that I need to come down and deal with the mess right now before the other dogs start lapping it up. So I swing my legs over the side of the bed, slide my feet into my slippers, and by the time I get down to the kitchen Joe has the coffee made and has filled the mop bucket with steaming water.
‘You put some bleach in this?’ I ask him, lifting the bucket out of the sink, and he says, ‘Yeah, just a bit.’

He’s already dressed in his work gear: clean jeans, a white shirt beneath a cotton or woollen jumper and polished boots. ‘You look handsome,’ I tell him, but there’s something in his face that makes me look at him twice. ‘Are you all right?’ I ask, and he says, ‘Yeah,’ but there’s something odd. ‘Your face is different,’ I say, and he shrugs. It’s as if his lines are not quite in the same places as they were last night. Like when the crevices bracketing a person’s mouth get filled with Restylane and they look sort of strange.

‘You’re sure?’ I ask him, and see a momentary flash of annoyance.

‘I’m not exactly gonna be shit-hot right now, Lise, am I?’

‘Suppose not. Sorry. I love you,’ I say, yawning. ‘Do I look like crap?’

‘You’re beautiful,’ he answers, coming over and kissing me on the mouth, ‘but your breath’s rank.’

I watch him as he’s shrugging on his jacket, his hair slightly damp – just a little too long – and curling on to his collar.

‘What do you fancy for tea?’ he asks, and I tell him I’ll pick up some steak.

‘It’s Friday,’ I say. ‘Let’s watch a film, get pissed and have sex when the kids have gone to bed. Try to pretend this week never happened.’

‘Paradise,’ he says, and kisses me, on the forehead this time. Then he picks up his keys and he’s gone.

I clean up the mess in the utility room. It’s impossible to tell which dog was ill, since they all gobble down their food with equal gusto, so I quit stressing about the things I can’t do anything about and sit down at the table with my coffee. Since yesterday I’ve adopted the mindset that there’s always a reason
for everything, and even though I know that’s really a load of crap, I’d say it’s helping.

I sip my coffee. David Bowie and Bing are singing ‘Little Drummer Boy’ softly from the radio over in the corner, and I decide I’d better get the Christmas tree up this weekend or else the kids will be on at me non-stop.

I hear them upstairs now. Alarms have gone off, and there’s a thump, followed by fast-moving footsteps. Ever since Sam could walk, which he did at nine months, he runs to wherever he’s going.

I hear the bathroom light going on, then off, then a quick run back in there because he’s forgotten to flush, then he’s down the stairs in less than ten seconds and sitting across from me.

‘Morning, Mum,’ he says, upbeat. I smile, cheered by his morning enthusiasm, knowing that within a couple of years it will wane to the series of grunts and complaints I get from the other two.

‘Did you have a good sleep, Sam?’

‘I had an extra-bad dream,’ he says dramatically. ‘I dreamt Mario and Luigi were on, this, like, really big rollercoaster and—’

I’m nodding vaguely, pulling a scared face when required, looking worried for the Super Mario Brothers as the dream is relayed (or rather, made up on the spot).

Mario and Luigi have featured heavily in our lives for a couple of years. Sam has, as well as every single game available, soft-toy versions of the two main characters which he plays with all the time. Last week I overheard Luigi say to Mario, ‘I’m gonna go take a crap,’ and wondered momentarily if Barbie ever found herself saying that to Ken.

I pour the milk over Sam’s cereal and place it in front of him. As he eats, he’s still talking. The Christmas fair is on Monday after school and I was supposed to send in raffle prizes. He’s
been told to ask me if I could serve tea or run one of the stalls.

I nod to him on autopilot, tell him I’ll talk to the teacher, because I’ve zoned out. Sam is fiddling with his eye, getting rid of the sleep that’s stuck to his lashes, and suddenly there’s this itch at the back of my brain that I can’t quite get to.

It’s an itch that’s been there since yesterday evening, tickling away at the edges of my dreams, giving me the sense that if I could just reach a little further, if I could just
think
a little harder, I would learn what I needed to know.

But it’s no use. The more I try, the further it moves from my grasp. So, for now, I forget it.

37

I
T
’
S
8.30
A
.
M
. and Joanne’s taking notes as DI McAleese brings them up to speed.

He tells the team that Forensics have lifted a reasonable sample from beneath the fingernails of Francesca Clarke, the third victim. Although they’re not expecting to find the perpetrator’s skin under there – he’s been far too meticulous, far too careful for that. It’s canine DNA they’re after – skin cells from the Bedlington Terrier.

If they can place the dog with Francesca Clarke,
then
get a positive ID from Lisa Kallisto for Charles Lafferty – the scrote who took the dog – they’ll have enough to tie him to the girl. And possibly enough for a conviction.

They just need to find him.

But there’s nothing to go on except the name Charles Lafferty, and the only thing flagging up on that is a brutal assault made on a forty-year-old estate agent in Windermere. Other than that there’s no record of employment, and nothing turning up on the ViSOR database.

McAleese doesn’t want this to turn into a waiting game. He doesn’t want to sit around counting down the hours till the abductor strikes again. They need a sighting, a number plate … anything.

So they’re back on door-to-door, and back to wading through hours of CCTV that’s been gathered from within a two-mile
radius of every school in South Lakeland. They know they’re looking for a good-looking, well-dressed guy in his mid-thirties. ‘Shouldn’t be too hard to find him,’ McAleese says, and they all groan. ‘TIE anyone cropping up twice,’ he instructs, and winds up the meeting.

Ron Quigley turns to Joanne. ‘Going to be a long, long day,’ he says, and she agrees, though she’s still thinking about Guy Riverty – released without charge yesterday afternoon.

In the end they had nothing to keep him in on and, after being almost certain he had something to do with his daughter’s disappearance, Joanne actually ended up feeling sorry for the poor bugger.

Two hours, four cups of tea and half a packet of custard creams later, Joanne’s found nothing on the CCTV – save for a couple of sightings of Joe le Taxi and a white 4×4 which she’s thinking about following up on when there’s a knock at the door. It’s the desk sergeant from downstairs. ‘Sorry to bother you, Joanne, but there’s a woman asking to speak to someone working on the kidnapped girls’ case. Says she wants to speak to a lady officer. You okay to come down?’

‘Have you checked her out? Not just a paranoid timewaster, is she, ’cause I’ve spoken to enough of them already. I’m right in the middle of this.’

He opens the door a little wider. ‘She’s adamant. Says she’s got some information. She seems legit.’

‘Fine. Be right there.’

Joanne approaches the woman, who’s sitting on one of the plastic chairs over by the windows. The woman is looking at her feet, avoiding eye contact with anybody else in the room. A length of Christmas paper-chains, done for the station by the nearby primary school, has come loose from the ceiling. It’s dangling a couple of feet from the woman’s head.

‘You wanted to speak to a police officer?’ Joanne asks as the
woman lifts her head. ‘I’m Detective Constable Aspinall. I’m working on the case.’

She’s a mousy little thing. Fortyish, dark-blonde hair, small frame. She’s wearing a mumsy outfit of jogging pants, trainers and a pale-blue Regatta jacket.

‘Can we talk somewhere more private?’ the woman asks, and Joanne says, ‘Okay. Just give me a minute to find a free room.’

Five minutes later, and the mousy woman tells Joanne her name is ‘Teresa Peterson.’

‘And what did you want to talk to me about?’

‘The girls.’

Joanne waits for her to continue but, for now, that’s all Teresa Peterson seems able to say.

‘You have some information about the girls who were abducted, is that it?’

Teresa blinks hard, stares downwards. ‘Yes,’ she says.

Joanne takes a couple of breaths, thinking,
This is not going anywhere
. Again, she waits. But when she suspects the woman might just stay like this for the rest of the day, she says, gently: ‘What’s upsetting you, Miss Peterson? What is it about this that’s making you distressed?’

‘Mrs,’ she says, then: ‘Mrs Peterson. Look, I’m not from around here. I’ve not been here long and so I’m not sure, I’m not completely sure—’

Joanne’s thinking she should have got Cynthia Spence to deal with this. ‘Whatever you tell me is held in complete confidence. Are you worried that you might get into trouble for speaking up?’

‘What if I’m wrong?’

‘What if you give me the wrong information?’

‘What if I give you the wrong
person
?’

Joanne relaxes her shoulders. She explains, ‘We have somebody
who can positively identify the suspect once we locate him. If the person you name is not the suspect, we’ll know immediately.’

Joanne reaches forward and touches Teresa Peterson’s wrist, just briefly. ‘You have nothing to be fearful of. Really, nobody is going to be charged with something they didn’t do. Why don’t you begin by telling me what leads you to suspect this person.’

Teresa Peterson reaches into the pocket of her waterproof jacket and withdraws a tatty piece of tissue. She blows her nose then closes her eyes. Her lips begin moving but no sound escapes. Joanne realizes she’s either praying or saying some sort of mantra, trying to ready herself.

Then her eyes flicker open. ‘I needed a photograph,’ she whispers, ‘a photograph of my shoes. They’re Kurt Geigers and they’re too tall for me … I’m not really the type who can carry off stilettos. I look silly. Shouldn’t have bought them, but I got them in a flight of fancy, and, well, they’re just sitting in the wardrobe, doing nothing.’

She looks at Joanne as if to say,
Do I go on?
And Joanne says yes.

‘When I found the camera it wasn’t where it should be, not where we usually keep it.’