The Bad Mother

First published in Great Britain in year of 2013 by

Quercus
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London W1U 8EW

Copyright © 2013 by Isabelle Grey

The moral right of Isabelle Grey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

PB ISBN 978 0 85738 648 9
EBOOK ISBN 978 0 85738 650 2

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are t either the product of the authorís imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk

Isabelle Grey
began her career as a non-fiction author and feature writer for national newspapers and magazines before turning to television, contributing episodes to numerous drama series from
Midsomer Murders
to Jimmy McGovern’s
Accused
. Her first novel
Out of Sight
is also published by Quercus.

Also by Isabelle Grey

Out of Sight

For my daughter

PROLOGUE

A neat sign fixed to the fresh white stucco of the Victorian terrace read ‘Seafront B&B’. Ed Fowler glanced up at the house number over the front door, one of those modern transfers that looked like etched glass, and rang the bell. He turned for a final look out to sea. It was an idyllic summer evening and the view could not have been prettier. He hated these calls. Most missing person enquiries were quickly resolved, but as he’d left the office his inspector had reminded him of the ACPO guidelines: If in doubt, think the worst.

The guidelines meant that for the next hour he’d have to be both reassuring and suspicious. It had happened in enough cases across the country that the worried parent – or more often step-parent – who reported the kid missing turned out to be its killer. It was important to take nothing for granted.

The door was opened by a tired-looking man in his early sixties. ‘Mr Parker?’ asked Ed.

‘No, Hugo Brooks,’ the man said, clearly encouraged by
the sight of a police uniform. ‘Tessa Parker is my daughter. Thank you for coming. We didn’t know what else to do. We’re all downstairs.’

Ed followed him to a large basement kitchen where Hugo made the rest of the introductions. ‘My daughter Tessa. And Mitch’s father, Sam Parker.’ Ed noted that Hugo declined to identify the father of the missing boy as Tessa’s husband. ‘This is my wife Pamela,’ finished Hugo, taking a seat at the big pine table beside a thin, colourless woman.

Ed turned to Tessa Parker; she was probably in her mid-thirties, dark brown hair cut to frame her face and direct grey eyes that contrasted with her delicate features. ‘It’s your son, Mitch Parker, who’s gone missing?’

‘We’ve not seen him since yesterday evening.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Has he gone off like this before?’

‘Never.’

‘He’s very reliable,’ said Hugo. ‘Very conscientious.’

‘Do you know what his plans were when you last saw him?’ Ed picked up on the guilty looks exchanged by Tessa and her presumably estranged husband. It could be that there’d been a row and the kid had run off – happened all the time – but he’d have to wait to see it proved before he could relax. Meanwhile Tessa Parker was taking just that bit too long with her reply.

‘He was upset,’ she said. ‘A problem with his girlfriend. He ran off.’

‘Then he’ll probably be back any minute,’ Ed suggested with deliberate optimism. ‘Have you tried phoning him?’

‘His phone’s turned off.’

‘Have you spoken to his girlfriend?’

‘She left for America yesterday.’

‘Is she American?’

‘No, English. But her mother’s working over there.’

‘Could Mitch have tried to follow her? Teenagers do sometimes get crazy ideas. Have you checked to see if he’s taken his passport?’

The brightness in the mother’s eyes made Ed hope, too, that this one
was
just a runaway, but he could also see from the father’s unease that he was burning up with shame over something. Sam Parker didn’t look the type to be violent – a boyish sort of man – but Ed knew enough never to trust appearances. The grandparents seemed to be in shock, but at least they weren’t the interfering type: they sat mutely together at the end of the table, watching and listening.

Ed took a closer look around. The rear windows of the half-basement were wide open, and warmth seeped out of the Aga, but it wasn’t a homely room; this was a place of business, filled with stainless steel machines, labelled storage boxes and efficiently stacked bulk catering packs. On one wall was a whiteboard with names listed beside room numbers and boxes ticked to indicate choice of newspaper or vegetarian options. There were no fridge magnets, family photos, school projects or even postcards. ‘What about your guests?’ Ed asked. ‘Are you able to give me a list of who’s been staying recently?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s all on the computer upstairs.’

‘Was Mitch particularly friendly with any of them?’ Ed asked.

‘No.’

‘Any regulars who took an interest in him?’

‘No.’

‘Do you mind if I take a look around, Mrs Parker?’ This was always a tricky moment, when it first dawned on families that, however genuine the police officer’s concern, they might also be considered as suspects.

‘No,’ she said weakly. ‘No, of course not.’

‘I’ll need to search the guests’ rooms as well,’ he told her.

‘Most of them have gone out for dinner, I think.’

‘Perhaps you could go up ahead of me and check who’s there? Let them know?’

But Tessa sank into the nearest chair, and Ed watched as Sam, the husband, went to her, was about to touch her shoulder, but then rested his hand on the back of the chair instead.

‘I’ll go,’ said Pamela, the grandmother of the missing boy.

As she slipped out of the room, Hugo also got to his feet. ‘I’ll show you around,’ he offered.

Ed followed Hugo from room to room. Next to the kitchen was a laundry room with massive machines and wooden pulleys on which hung white sheets and pillowcases. He rather liked the dry smell, thought it evoked order and cleanliness. Next were a storeroom, a larder, and then what Hugo described as the ‘snug’ – a dim, cheerless
little place with a battered couch and shelves of folders and box files.

Upstairs, four light and airy double guest bedrooms and an interconnecting family suite occupied the first floor, where it became clearer how the three terraced houses had been knocked into one, the space once occupied by staircases now taken up by additional bathrooms. The three front rooms looked directly out to sea, and all were decorated in misty blues and greens. All were occupied, suitcases, clothes, shoes and magazines strewn across beds and chairs. Ed searched thoroughly but as swiftly as he could, while Hugo remained each time in the doorway, answering any questions but offering no distraction. Only once, as they passed a landing window, did Hugo remark that it would be getting dark again soon.

The low-ceilinged attic flat bore no traces of bloody confrontation, and Mitch Parker’s narrow room seemed typical enough for a teenager, as did his sister’s. The kitchen arrangements up here were rudimentary and the family’s living room, though tidy and bright, was little more than a couch, easy chair, coffee table and television. Ed never ceased to be amazed by what he learnt from people’s homes. Sometimes it was squalor, with dogs all over furniture that wasn’t yet paid for and kids with no sheets or blankets on their beds. Here it was as though the family had neatly squeezed itself into as small a space as possible in order for the business to thrive. All the best rooms, decked out with obvious love and care, were for visitors – the rest didn’t seem important.

He completed his search on the ground floor – reception area in the wide hallway, office and guests’ breakfast room – finishing in the guests’ pleasant lounge. The bay window looked out to sea and the blue walls drew the last of the evening light inside. Beside the empty fireplace stood a substantial wooden doll’s house. Ed went to open it but discovered that two small padlocks secured its hinged door. He turned to Hugo, who seemed to understand immediately. ‘I’ll go and ask Tessa for the key,’ he said, and disappeared.

Ed felt rotten. He knew it was ridiculous to insist, but evidence such as murder weapons had been hidden in more bizarre places, and it was his job to check. The front of the doll’s house had been painted to replicate the windowed facade of a wide Victorian terrace identical to the house in which it stood. Ed squatted on his heels to peer in through the miniature windows, and could make out a staircase with tiny spindles and a curved and winding balustrade. Three and a half rooms on each floor, one above the other, led to an empty attic. Opposite the front door a woman’s coat lay over the banister; on the floor beside it sat a white vanity case small enough for a mouse.

Expecting a quaint Victorian stage set, Ed was surprised that the immaculately detailed furnishings were at once both modern and old-fashioned. He failed to understand why anyone would go to such trouble over the kind of dull, second-hand stuff his grandparents had, but though his spying gaze felt oddly intimate, he could see nothing significant or unpleasant inside. He became aware of Tessa
Parker behind him and, as he straightened up to take the tiny key from her, knew he must look as foolish as he felt.

‘I found Mitch’s passport,’ Tessa told him. She looked dejected at the elimination of a possible explanation.

‘Right. We’ll circulate his details on the Police National Computer.’ He forced himself not to avoid her anguished gaze. ‘Juveniles are automatically assessed as Medium Risk and all cases reviewed after forty-eight hours,’ he went on, desperate to offer her something to cling to. ‘The vast majority are quickly resolved.’