To Catch a Rabbit (10 page)

Early in the afternoon, the phone rang.

‘Karen? Charlie Moon here. Tell me about your brother.’

Jaz hadn’t wasted any time sharing her story. Moon listened briefly, then interrupted. ‘You know that the first forty-eight hours is crucial in any missing person’s enquiry?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, don’t get your hopes up.’

It was as if he had thumped her, hard, in the solar plexus. When she finally breathed in, her throat ached with the effort of trying not to cry.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Look, while you’re on, I want to talk to you about something else.’

She coolly discussed the body of a dead woman, a suspected drug overdose, and gave him the name of the police station in Doncaster. She imagined her tone to be measured, professional, while underneath she was screaming.
You bastard. My hopes are all I’ve got
.

Bonfire Night: 11.
30am

Phil slowed down for the roundabout and took the second turning, away from the estate where Carole had her lock-up garage. He was on a dual carriageway but kept his speed down, watching out for the left turn on Len’s hand-drawn map. Level with the flats at the top of Carole’s estate, he passed a lay-by where a piece of blue and white plastic tape fluttered in the hedge like a kite tail. Just beyond it he spotted the lane. Len had put a letter T on the map and, sure enough, there was the sign, a red and white T on a blue background. A dead end. He turned in.

The van jerked as the front wheel swished through a deep puddle. He would have to watch out for more potholes; the road surface hadn’t been repaired for years. On either side spindly hedges banked up above the grass verge, stalks of decaying rose-bay willow-herb stood to attention and a dumped fridge had attracted an island of rubbish all around it. The road sloped up, away from the dual carriageway. Where the sun had reached, the frost was melted and there was a surplus of colour; the deep brown of ploughed earth, blood-red berries, and thick green grass were saturated like an old Kodacolor snap. While on the frosted side the colours were calmed and delicate, as if a Christmas card painter had prepared them.

He almost missed the gateway in Len’s instructions and had to put his foot hard on the brake, immediately wishing he hadn’t when he heard the boxes shift behind him and thud against the back of the driver’s cab. Ahead the lane continued downhill and a pitted and rusty sign warned
Danger: Quarry Workings: Keep Out!
To his right a rough track skirted a line of trees. He put the van into first gear and swung right, up on to the track.

This must have been a proper road once, years ago. The stony surface gave plenty of grip, as long as he kept in the tyre-marked ruts, but it was a bumpy ride. He wondered why Johnny Mackenzie stored all this stock in such a God-forsaken place, when his own farmyard was full of barns and outhouses, but as the question formed in his mind, he tried to dismiss the obvious answer.

In the shadow of the trees a small, mucky-white caravan stood looking lost on the edge of a ploughed field. Phil glanced at it as he passed, not wanting to take his eyes off the track for too long in case the wheels caught the slippery mud at its edge. The caravan seemed to be abandoned, faded orange curtains pulled tight at the windows. The track followed the edge of the woods and there in front of him was an old Nissen hut, its corrugated metal hulk painted black and patched up in places with new sheets of metal, like a battle-scarred whale. This was what Len had drawn for him, a simple up-turned U-shape, marked on the map as ‘Mackenzie’s Hut’.

He unlocked the padlock with the key Len had given him and started to unload the van. Carole’s trays of drinks had to come out first before he could reach the boxes of microwaves. The ground around him was wet, so he placed the pallets on the floor just inside the hut. It was gloomy in there with no source of electric light, so he propped both doors wide open to see what he was doing. There were three rows of metal shelving units. They were battered and slightly rusty, as if they’d done years of service in a factory or a warehouse. Most of the shelves were empty, but towards the back of the shed a few boxes were stacked on the bottom shelf, covered with clear plastic sheeting. He lifted the edge and saw a label which read ‘Aviators: UV lenses: silver.’ Sunglasses. Wrong time of year for shifting those. Something caught his eye and he looked up quickly. Just for a moment it seemed as if the light had dimmed: as if someone or something was blocking the doorway. He stood still and listened. There was nothing but the wind, breathing through the leafless trees and a single bird, a thrush he guessed, singing close by. He went outside and looked around but the place seemed deserted.

Phil worked quickly, unloading the boxes from the van into the Nissen hut. It was late morning and he wanted to get out of there and back to Carole’s garage as soon as possible, then up to Hull by lunchtime. The bacon sandwich seemed a long time ago. When the van was empty, he lifted the drinks trays back in and slammed the van doors. He pulled the metal doors of the hut closed and clicked the padlock shut, tugging at it once to check it was locked. He turned to the driver’s door and that was when he saw her.

On the step of the caravan a girl was standing with her arms folded over a long dark coat. She was about fifty yards from him but in the quiet air her voice carried clearly.

‘You want cup of tea? I have made for you.’ Foreign, maybe Polish, he wasn’t sure.

A rook took off from the top of a Scots pine and circled, barking a greeting or a warning. He walked across to the caravan and took the warm mug in his hands.

‘Sorry. No milk.’ The girl said, reaching inside the caravan for her own mug. She leaned against the door, waiting for him to taste it.

He took a sip. The tea was black and sweet.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I needed this.’ And he meant it: not least for the shock of seeing this thin young woman watching him, and the realisation that she’d been watching him since he arrived.

‘So, you work for Mr Mackenzie?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Of course.’

He followed her gaze out over the field.

‘You work here?’ he said and pictured her picking potatoes like her ancestors in the Polish countryside.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I work here.’

It seemed miles from anywhere and there was no sign of a car or even a bicycle. The tea was cooling in his mug but he felt reluctant to drink up and leave. The girl continued to watch him with incredibly green eyes, ringed with hazel. Her hair was bright red. He was no expert, but he guessed it was dyed. He drained the mug and handed it to her.

‘That was great. I’d better go.’

‘Okay,’ she shrugged.

She was still staring at him as he walked back to the van and got in. He turned the engine over and put it in reverse, he didn’t fancy backing all the way down to the quarry road, so he pulled forward towards the trees in order to turn round. He shifted into reverse again and put his foot on the accelerator but the van didn’t move. A fountain of mud was being thrown up from the spinning front tyres.

‘Shit!’ The rear wheels were still on the stony track but the front wheels were on the soft, wet grass. He pulled the handbrake on and got out to take a look. The girl was coming over and he was relieved to see she wasn’t laughing at him.

‘You want I push?’ she said.

She didn’t look strong enough.

‘Can you drive?’ he said, but she shook her head. ‘Maybe if I show you what to do, then I can push and you can put your foot on the pedals and steer.’

‘Is very dangerous. Through the trees is quarry side. Is very steep.’

‘You’ll be going backwards, so it’ll be okay.’

It was about ten metres to the edge of the trees and he would be in front of the van. If it lurched forwards instead of backwards, he’d have to jump clear and hope she could stop it in time.

She looked doubtful but came closer. He helped her up into the driver’s seat.

‘Put your left foot on the clutch, that’s that pedal, okay? Now I’m going to move the gear stick. That’s reverse; don’t change it, whatever you do. Keep your left foot down. Then put your right foot on the accelerator and bring your left foot up when I say go, but not before. Got it?’

She nodded, her jaw clenched with concentration and he was distracted for a moment by the line of bone that traced her cheek. He would have liked to run his finger along it.

‘So?’ she said, ‘I’m ready.’

He went to the front of the van and braced himself, hands above the radiator grille. He could see her through the windscreen, behind a reflection of spindly-armed trees and a cloudless sky, staring straight ahead as if she was preparing for a cavalry charge.

‘Ready and go!’

The engine whirred and the mud sprayed in his face but as he put all his weight into the van it lurched back, stalled and stopped with all four wheels back on the track.

‘We did it!’ she called.

‘Yes, we did.’ He wiped a fleck of earth from his lip and went to help her down. She laughed at him, exhilarated by her success.

‘Is very powerful, to make an engine to go. I would like to drive, I think.’

‘You should learn.’

She lifted her hand and he almost flinched, but then she wiped his cheek with her fingertips. He felt a pulse in his groin and tried to ignore it. She took his hand and jumped down.

‘I’ll be back this way later on,’ he said. ‘I’ve got another load of stuff to bring down, so if you need anything?’

‘Okay.’ she said. ‘Yes. Something to eat. I am so bored with cup of soup.’

She asked for a sandwich and he promised he’d be back. The van rattled more than ever on the track and it was a relief to pull on to the smooth surface of the dual carriageway. He decided to risk the cassette player again and pulled a new tape out of the bag. He turned at the third roundabout on to the motorway and put his foot down as Jackie Wilson’s ‘I Get The Sweetest Feeling’ filled the van with sound.

‘We were told not to. We were told we would be sent back if we did that.’

Karen knew from Mr Moyo’s testimony that they’d used an agent, paid a lot of money for so-called help, which had turned out to be worthless. Jaz told her they might have got asylum from Zimbabwe if they’d gone through the proper channels, but the borrowed passport counted against them.

‘We’re going to have to find a way to prove you are not, in fact, South African. We’ll have to explain why you didn’t have your own papers.’ Jaz’s voice was calm and gentle, but Florence Moyo was restless. ‘If Mr Moyo wants me to go through it again with him?’

‘He’s gone to find work, with my daughter. A man has told him there is some work.’

It was illegal for them to work, but Karen understood they had to eat.

‘I thought Elizabeth was at school?’ she said.

‘She’s nearly sixteen.’ Florence Moyo sounded defensive. ‘Look, if we play by your rules, we will starve.’

Jaz put his hand in his inside pocket. ‘There might be some funding you can apply for, but meanwhile, I’d rather your daughter was able to stay in school, please, let me help.’ He took three twenty-pound notes out of the wallet. ‘Just a loan.’

Florence Moyo got to her feet unsteadily. She seemed to sway for a moment, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall. Then she walked out of the office with her head held high. Jaz folded the money and put it back in his jacket.

At the school gates Karen was the last of the Year Two parents to pick up.

‘There’s Mummy, at
last
!’ Mrs Leith forced a smile. Ben ran to Karen and fished her hand out of her coat pocket, gripping it in his own.

‘I’m on a new book. The dog’s not in this one. What’s for tea?’

‘Good. Or bad, if you like the dog. Fish fingers?’

‘Yeah!’

She held Ben’s hand as they crossed the road. He was telling her about an argument with his best friend but she didn’t hear the words, just the cues to nod or shake her head. She was thinking about Mrs Moyo and trying to imagine what she must be feeling. Florence Moyo had said she would do anything to keep her family safe. Since Karen had come back from her visit to Stacey, she’d done nothing more about trying to find Phil. That was useless, pathetic, when she had none of the problems Mrs Moyo had to face.

‘…anyway,’ Ben was saying, ‘it can’t be true, because you are the biggest Mummy at school. You’re almost as big as Mr Evans and he’s the headteacher.’

‘Tallest, you mean I’m the tallest. Biggest makes me sound…’

‘Fat?’

‘Cheeky boy!’ she laughed and pretended to chase him. Just now, if anyone was watching, they would think what a jolly mum she was, a catalogue mum, kicking up the dead leaves, her corduroy skirt matching his dark red scarf. They thundered down the pavement and arrived together, breathless, at the front door.

When Ben was safely in front of children’s TV, she went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. The girl at Doncaster Central Police Station left her on hold for seven minutes. She counted it on the kitchen clock. She should have been on to this sooner. Charlie Moon was right, a thirty-two year old man, with all his faculties, was not a priority case, so she was going to have to be pushy. The line let out an intermittent beep and an electronic voice reminded her she was on hold and thanked her for waiting. She wondered if they’d put any posters up yet or whether the Missing Person’s Unit had decided to feature Phil in one of their newspaper campaigns. She’d seen them on screens in the doctor’s waiting room and by the Post Office queue. She might suggest that to the desk sergeant at Doncaster, if she ever came back on the line.