The Lake House (33 page)

* * *

The Fox and Hounds did a roaring trade on Tuesday nights, due in no small part to its position across the road from a backpackers' hostel and its institution of a four-hour happy hour. There were other pubs closer to the Met, places that were teeming with police officers, but Donald reckoned he saw enough of the guys from work at work and it was worth the extra walk to have a break from talking shop. Sadie had taken him on faith for a long time, until she realised he always let her tag along, and they always talked shop, usually at his instigation. Truth was, the Fox and Hounds had the cheapest pints this side of the Thames and Donald was a cheapskate. A lovable cheapskate, but a cheapskate nonetheless. Tuesday was also the night all four of his daughters came home for dinner, and Donald had once told Sadie he needed all the fortification he could get if he didn't want to bust a cracking headache the minute he stepped across the threshold. “The arguments, Sparrow, the bickering and the shifting loyalties. I can't make head nor tail of it. Women!” He shook his head. “They're a mystery, aren't they?”

All of which was to say that Donald was a creature of habit and when Sadie set off for the Fox and Hounds, stomach growling, she knew she'd find him sitting on the bench below the framed picture of the frog who would a-wooing go. Sure enough, when she arrived, a telling fug of smoke sat thick above the booth. She paid for a couple of pints and then carried them gingerly across the room, ready to slide into the empty bench opposite him. Only it wasn't empty. Harry Sullivan was slouched in the corner, laughing uproariously at something Donald had just said. Sadie plonked her two beers on to the table and said, “Sorry, Harry. Didn't realise you were here.”

Like all old cops, Donald had seen enough of the odd and the ugly to have lost the ability to look surprised. The closest he came was the slight suggestion of an eyebrow shift. “Sparrow,” he said with a nod, as if she hadn't just spent two weeks in the wilderness at his insistence.

“Don.”

“Thought you were on holidays, Sparrow,” said Harry cheerfully. “Tired of the sun and surf already?”

“Something like that, Sully.” She smiled at Donald, who drained the last of his current bitter and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand before pushing the empty glass to the edge of the table.

“Cornwall, wasn't it?” Sully continued. “I had an aunt who used to live in Truro, every summer me and the brother and sister would—”

“How about getting us another round, eh Sull?” said Donald.

The younger detective eyed the fresh beers Sadie had brought with her, opened his mouth to point out to Don that he was already well served, before shutting it again. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed but realisation settled on his broad brow. He waved his empty glass in the general direction of the bar and said, “Might just go and fetch myself a fresh one.”

“Righto then,” said Donald pleasantly.

Sadie stepped aside so Harry could leave the booth and then she took his place. The leather was warm, an unfortunate physical manifestation of her growing sense she'd been replaced. “You and Sull have been partnering then?”

“We have.”

“Working on anything interesting?”

“B&E, pretty standard.”

Sadie itched for details but knew better than to press. She took up the menu and scanned it. “I'm starving. You don't mind if I eat?”

“Not at all.”

The fashion for gentrification had bypassed the Fox and Hounds, and the menu displayed a basic list of four choices, all served with chips, just as it had since 1964. So proud was management of its resistance to change, the fact was emblazoned in large print across the top of the menu card. Needless to say, Donald approved wholeheartedly. “Bloody tapas,” he'd said to Sadie on more than one occasion when a case took them further afield. “What's wrong with a good old-fashioned pie? When did people get so bloody fancy?”

The waitress came by and Sadie ordered fish and chips. “Anything for you?”

Donald shook his head. “Family dinner,” he said grimly.

The waitress left and Sadie took a sip of beer. “Family well?”

“Very well.”

“And you're keeping busy?”

“Very busy. Listen, Sparrow—”

“I've been busy, too, working a cold case.” Even as she said it, Sadie kicked herself. She hadn't intended to mention the Edevane family. Digging around after a child who'd been missing seventy years, tracking down old maps and police files, conducting interviews with the descendants of those involved—it didn't exactly scream rest and recuperation, but seeing Sully sitting there in her place had pushed all her buttons. Dolt!

There was no taking it back now, though, and Sadie figured the best thing for it was to move on with a new subject, cover her mistake. But even as she thought it, she knew it was too late. Donald's ears had pricked up like an Alsatian who'd caught a whiff of rabbit. “Cold case? Who for?”

“Oh, it's nothing really. An old officer in Cornwall who was looking for a sounding board.” She took a swig of beer, bought herself some time before compounding the lie. “A friend of my grandfather's. Couldn't really say no.” She started outlining the Edevane case before Donald could ask too much more about
how
it had come her way. Better he think her benignly helpful than weirdly obsessive. He listened, nodding occasionally as he shepherded tiny pieces of spilled tobacco across the table surface.

“I've got a feeling this shell shock is important,” Sadie said as the waitress deposited a plate of over-fried fish in front of her.

“You and your feelings, eh?”

Sadie cursed the poor choice of words but didn't bite. “Know much about it?”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder? I know a little.”

She remembered then that Donald's nephew had served in the Gulf War. Her partner wasn't the most loquacious of people but there'd been enough veiled references for Sadie to gather that Jeremy hadn't had what might euphemistically be termed “a good war.”

“Shit of a thing. Just when we think we've turned a corner, it hits him again. Terrible depression.” He shook his head as if the words to describe the gravity of his nephew's depression were not available. “Not your usual sad-sack blues, something very different. Hopeless, despairing, terrible.”

“Anxiety?”

“That too. Heart palpitations, fear, nightmares that seem real.”

“What about violent urges?”

“You could say that. My sister-in-law found him with his old man's hunting rifle, pointing it at the door to his younger brother's room. He thought there were militants inside; he'd had a vision.”

“God, Donald, I'm sorry.”

Donald's lips were thin. He allowed a quick nod. “Godawful thing. Gentle kid, he was, real good heart, and I don't just say that because he's my brother's boy. I always knew when my girls were with Jeremy I could rest easy.” He swept the tobacco pieces off the table with one angry swipe. “The things those boys had to do. The things they saw and that they can't forget. How does a person go back to normal after that? How do you tell a man to kill and then expect him to go back to normal?”

“I don't know.” Sadie shook her head.

Donald took up his beer and swigged savagely. When the glass was drained, he wiped the back of his hand across the bristles of his moustache. His eyes were bloodshot.

“Don—”

“What are you doing here, Sparrow?”

“I called, I left a message. You didn't get my message?”

“I was hoping you were joking. Friday the thirteenth and all that.”

“I wasn't. I'm ready to come back. If you could just trust me—”

“It's too late, Sparrow.” His voice had lowered, was almost a hiss. He leaned closer, glancing over his shoulder to where Sully was still propped against the bar, laughing with a blonde backpacker. “Ashford's opened an inquiry into the Bailey case leak. I heard it from Parr-Wilson, who always knows before the rest of us. There's pressure from above, an example needs to be made, internal politics. You get the picture.”

“Shit.”

“That's about right.”

They sat for a moment, each privately pondering the gravity of the situation. Don rolled the base of his glass back and forth on the table. “Jesus, Sparrow. You know I think a lot of you, but with my retirement at the end of the year I need to keep my nose clean.”

She nodded as the new reality washed over her.

“Best thing you could do would be to get yourself back to Cornwall. If the truth comes out—and it's not going to come from me—at least you'll be able to claim mental exhaustion, show them you recognised you did the wrong thing and took yourself off the beat.”

Sadie rubbed her forehead. Disappointment was bitter in her mouth and the pub suddenly seemed a lot noisier than before.

“You with me, Sparrow?”

She gave him a reluctant nod.

“Good girl. You were never here tonight. You've been in Cornwall the whole time, resting up.”

“What about Sully?”

“Don't worry about Sully. With Blondie over there laughing at his jokes, he's not even going to remember your name.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You should be glad.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And now you should be gone.”

She gathered her bag.

“And Sparrow?”

She turned back to him.

“Let me know how you get on with that cold case, eh?”

T
wenty-two

Rain was falling when Sadie reached her neighbourhood, fine silver darts slanting in the glow of the streetlights. Puddles pooled along the roadside and every car that passed sent a spray whooshing sideways. Sadie had thought the run home would do her good, but she was no clearer of mind than when she'd left the Fox and Hounds, and rather more drenched. She told herself at least things couldn't get much worse, that there was nothing a hot shower wouldn't improve, but as she approached her block of flats she noticed someone standing in the shadows beneath the entrance awning. People didn't usually linger in the rain for fun and this one had the distinct look of someone who was waiting: curved shoulders, crossed arms, a ready stance as he or she, it was impossible to tell from here, hugged the wall. Sadie broke her jog to a walk and glanced upwards. All of her neighbours' lights were on; the only black windows were her own—which meant, presumably, that the person standing there in the dark was waiting for her. With a determined sigh, she scrounged in her bag for keys and clamped the sharpest one between her fingers. Sadie had been caught off guard before—the disgruntled suspect in a drug case—and vowed never to let it happen again.

She told herself to stay calm, to keep walking at the same pace, even as adrenalin coursed beneath her skin. Her mind was reeling through all the old cases she'd filed, the list of questionable acquaintances she'd made, any of whom might have decided tonight was the perfect opportunity to settle an old score. She conducted a surreptitious survey of the cars parked in the street, wondering which, if any, held an accomplice, and remembered, with a sinking sensation, that her mobile phone was upstairs on its charger.

As she drew closer, the instinctive surge of fear she'd experienced was trumped by irritation. Sadie wasn't in the mood for playing someone else's game, not after the night she'd had. She gritted her teeth and called the stranger's bluff. “Are you looking for me?”

The person turned swiftly. “I thought you must've gone away.”

It was a woman's voice. Light from the streetlamp caught her face, illuminating it orange, and because Sadie was nowhere near as old or as practised as Donald, she knew her surprise showed loud and clear. “I did,” she stammered. “I'm back, I got back today.”

Nancy Bailey gave a slight smile. “Good timing, then, eh? Mind if I come in?”

Sadie baulked. God, yes, she minded. A home visit from Maggie Bailey's mother was the very last thing she needed as she tried to lie low in the face of the Super's inquiry. She could just imagine how continued links to the Bailey case would wash.

“You said to keep in touch,” said Nancy, “to let you know if I thought of anything?”

Stupid
. Sadie cursed herself for a twit. She remembered saying it as she and Donald had finished up their final visit to Nancy, advising her that the case was closed and police involvement in her daughter's situation was ended. “I'm sure you understand, Mrs Bailey, we can't go looking for everyone who decides to take a little holiday without telling people.” Donald had been the one to break the news, and Sadie had stood beside him nodding agreement. Only when they were down on the street again did she announce that she'd left her notebook upstairs and race back up to knock on Nancy's door.
Idiot
. Sadie was furious with herself, but what else could she do now? “Come on in,” she said, opening the front door and ushering Maggie's mother inside the building. She shot a look over her shoulder, half expecting to see one of Ashford's spies making notes.

Inside her flat, the television was still mumbling and the dead plant was still dead. The lighting was ominous or romantic depending on your perspective. Sadie made a hurried grab of things from the sofa—overnight bag with clothes spilling out of it, the letters and advertising mail she'd tossed there earlier—and piled them on the edge of the coffee table. “Make yourself comfy,” she said. “I'll just dry off. Won't be a minute.”

In her bedroom she cursed beneath her breath as she struggled out of her wet shirt and dug around in the drawer for a new one.
Shit, shit, shit
. She towelled her hair, wiped her face and took a deep breath. It was not ideal to have Nancy in her flat, no two ways about it, but she could at least make a good from a bad, seize the opportunity to end the relationship once and for all. With a deep, decisive sigh, she went back to the sitting room.

Nancy was on the sofa, drumming her fingers lightly on the thigh of her faded jeans as she waited, and Sadie was struck by how vulnerable she looked, how young. She was only forty-five, her ash-blonde hair hanging straight past her shoulders, her fringe long and blunt.

“Can I get you a cuppa, Nancy?”

“That'd be lovely.”

A quick scan of the kitchen revealed she was out of bags. “How about a whisky?”

“That'd be even lovelier.”

Sadie was reminded how much she liked Nancy. In another life, they might've been friends. That was part of the problem. She took down two glasses and brought them and Johnnie Walker to the coffee table. She knew what she ought to do: refuse to enter into conversation about Maggie's “disappearance', behave for all the world as if Nancy's daughter had just stepped out and there was every chance she'd returned home in the intervening fortnight, say something chatty like, “Have you heard from Maggie yet?” But as she opened her mouth to do so, she closed it again. She'd been such a vehement proponent of the theory that Maggie had met with foul play, it would have seemed impossibly false. She resolved to let Nancy speak first. She poured whisky into the glasses and handed one over.

“So,” Nancy said, “I went around to see the people moving into Maggie's flat.
Their
flat, now—the man she rented it from decided to sell, quick and quiet, as if my Maggie never existed.”

“You went to see the new owners?”

“I wanted to make sure they knew what had happened there. Just in case.”

She didn't explain further, but she didn't need to. Sadie knew what she meant.
Just in case Maggie comes back
. She could well imagine the conversation. In Sadie's experience most people did not enjoy the notoriety of purchasing and living in a place that had been part of a criminal investigation, though child abandonment was preferable to a murder scene she supposed. “And?” she said. “How was it?”

“They were nice. A young couple, newlyweds—their first home. They were still in the middle of unpacking but they invited me in for a cup of tea.”

“And you accepted?”

“Of course I did.”

Of course she did. Nancy's faith in Maggie was fierce, matched only by the lengths to which she'd go to prove that she'd been right, that her daughter hadn't abandoned her own child.

“I wanted to see inside, just one more time. She wasn't there, though, my Maggie. It was like a different place without her things.” Maggie's things were all in boxes, Sadie knew, piled on top of one another in Nancy's spare room, the one she'd had set up for Caitlyn. Nancy looked as if she were about to cry and Sadie wasn't sure what to say. She didn't even have a box of tissues to place meaningfully on the coffee table between them. “I know there was no point,” Nancy continued. “I know it was a stupid thing to do. They were nice, asked me questions about her, but I could tell by their faces they felt sorry for me, they thought I was mad. A crazy, sad old woman. I know it was stupid.”

It
was
stupid. A less forgiving couple and she might have ended up with the police arriving, a charge of harassment or even trespassing. But it was understandable too. Sadie thought about Loeanneth, still furnished seventy years after Theo's disappearance, and about Clive's account of Eleanor Edevane turning up year after year just to occupy the place where her son had last been seen. It was the same thing, only Nancy didn't have the luxury of maintaining a shrine to her missing daughter. All she had was a spare room loaded with boxes and cheap furniture.

“How's Caitlyn?” she asked, changing the subject.

That brought a smile to Nancy's face. “She's well, little petal. Missing her mother. I don't see her as much as I'd like to.”

“I'm really sorry to hear that.” She was, too. Sadie had been struck when she interviewed Nancy the first time by the number of framed photographs of the little girl displayed in her flat. On top of the television set, hanging on the wall, standing amongst other photos on the bookshelf. Apparently they'd spent a lot of time together before Maggie upped and left. Nancy had taken regular care of Caitlyn when Maggie was working.

“I feel like I've lost them both.” Nancy fiddled with the edge of a cushion on Sadie's sofa.

“You haven't, though. It seems to me Caitlyn will need you more now than ever.”

“I don't know where I fit anymore. Whole new life Caty's got. They've decorated a room especially at Steve's place, filled it with toys, a new bed with a Dora the Explorer duvet cover. Dora's her favourite.”

“I remember,” said Sadie, picturing the little girl in the hallway, her pink Dora nightie. The memory came like a sharp pain in her chest, and she could see how much it hurt Nancy to think that her daughter had been replaced so easily in the little girl's affections. “She's a kid. Kids like toys and TV characters, but they know what really matters.”

Nancy sighed and brushed back her fringe. “You're a good sort, Sadie. I don't know why I'm here. I shouldn't have come, I'll only get you in trouble.”

Sadie didn't mention that that horse had already bolted. Instead, she topped up their glasses.

“I suppose you're working on something else now?”

“No rest for the wicked.”

Sadie considered outlining the Edevane case, just to change the subject, but decided the parallels—a missing person never found—would be unhelpful. And Nancy wasn't really listening anyway, she was still thinking about Maggie. “You know what doesn't make sense,” she said, setting down her glass and plaiting her fingers, “is why Maggie would have left Caitlyn after she went through so much difficulty to have her in the first place.”

“To conceive her, you mean?” Sadie was mildly surprised. This was the first she'd heard of fertility issues.

“God, no, they only had to look at one another, those two. They had to move the wedding forward, if you know what I mean. No, I'm talking about
after
they divorced, custody. Maggie had to go to so much effort to prove she was a good mother; she had to get witness statements and put up with Social Services visiting and making their notes. Being so young the courts took some convincing, but she was determined not to let Caitlyn go. She said to me,
Mum, Caty's my daughter and she belongs with me
.” Nancy looked at Sadie with an imploring, somehow triumphant expression.
Don't you see?
it seemed to say. “Why would she go through all that only to walk out?”

Sadie hadn't the heart to tell Nancy that a court battle proved nothing. That there were very few separations where the parents
didn't
fight tooth and nail for custody, and that their determination frequently had less to do with a longing for parenthood than it did with one-upping their ex. She had seen otherwise mild, sane people fight viciously in the Family Court for guinea pigs and cutlery sets and the portrait Great-Aunt Mildred had painted of her terrier, Bilbo.

“Wasn't easy, neither. He's in a much better financial position than my Maggie, and remarried. She was worried the courts would decide that two adults, a mum and a dad, in the household were better than one. The judge got it right in the end, though. She saw what a good mum my Maggie was. And she
was
a good mum. I know what Steve told you, that business with her forgetting to collect Caitlyn from nursery, but that was a misunderstanding. She was only late because she'd started a new job, and as soon as she realised it was going to be tight, that's when I started helping. She was a terrific mum. When Caty turned two, all she wanted was a trip to the seaside and that's what we planned to do for her birthday. We'd promised and promised and talked about it for weeks, but the day before, she came over poorly. A high temperature, all floppy and sorry for herself. You know what Maggie did? She brought the seaside to Caty. Raided the storeroom at work for leftover supplies and spent the whole night making waves out of cellophane and cardboard, fish and seagulls and shells for Caty to collect. She put on a Punch and Judy show, just for Caty.”

Nancy's blue eyes gleamed with the immediacy of the memory. Sadie met the other woman's smile but her own was tempered with pity. She understood why Nancy had come tonight and it made her sad. There was no breakthrough in the case; she simply wanted to talk about Maggie, and rather than reach out to a friend or relative she'd chosen Sadie as her confidante. It wasn't uncommon during investigations for members of the victim's family to develop an abnormally tight bond with the police officer in charge. Sadie figured it made sense that someone whose life had been turned upside down by the shock and trauma of an unexpected crime would cling to the person who seemed to represent solutions and safety, who seemed to be in charge and able to fix things.

But Sadie was no longer in charge of finding Maggie, and she certainly wasn't able to fix things. Not for Nancy Bailey, not even for herself. Sadie glanced at the digital clock on the oven. She'd been hit suddenly by a wave of extreme tiredness. The day had been long and heavy and waking that morning in Cornwall seemed like something that had happened to someone else a very long time ago. She felt sorry for Nancy, but they were going over old ground which was in neither one of their best interests. She gathered their empty glasses into a cluster near the bottle of JW. “Nancy, look, I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm very tired.”