To Catch a Rabbit (12 page)

Forsyth led them into an office and offered Lizzie a chair while Sean remained standing. She explained the issue of the woman in the catering trailer and Sean filled in some of the details about his visit to Stanley Mayhew.

‘So how can I help?’

Sean couldn’t decide whether the guy was being stupid on purpose.

‘You rent the fields, the crop, potatoes or whatever,’ he said, ‘and you bring in the people to pick them, and they’re the people, according to Stanley Mayhew, who live temporarily on his land.’

‘But we’ve got no-one up there at the moment.’ Forsyth interrupted him. ‘It’s the wrong time of year. It’s all earlies on that field, nice little salad potatoes. That’s what people want these days.’

‘Okay, but when you did have someone up there for the early potato harvest,’ Lizzie’s voice was brittle, she was losing patience, ‘was there a catering trailer there and was anyone living in it?’

‘No idea. You’d have to ask the guy that brings in the pickers. I use agencies.’

‘Could you give us a name?’

Forsyth’s smile dropped. He rubbed his plump hands together.

‘Now let me think, I’m not sure I can remember, we have a lot of contracts, and a lot of competitors too, you see, and I don’t like to just, you know, divulge that sort of information.’

‘I could come back with a search warrant.’ Lizzie sounded like she meant it, but Sean was hoping Forsyth wasn’t going to hold her to it.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Forsyth scribbled something on a compliments slip, which he handed to Lizzie. ‘The agency I used this autumn was called Exchange Labour. There’s the number. The fellow’s name is Mackenzie, Johnny Mackenzie.’

‘There’s a folk band on,’ Jaz was saying. ‘Charlie reckons they’re good. He’s going to get a few guys from his work to come along.’

‘Sure, why not?’ Apart from a million reasons, but none of them formed into words. She told herself she really needed to get out more, and she needed to stop grabbing the phone like this every time it rang.

On Friday, she arrived at The Brown Cow at seven-thirty. It was a tiny Victorian pub on the corner of a street near the river. She opened the door and the sound of a fiddle drew her in. There were three musicians sitting at a corner table by the fire, playing something fast and folky to an audience scattered round the room. People were drinking and talking, breaking off to applaud when a tune found its way to the end. She was relieved to see Jaz at the bar.

‘I’ve bagged the snug,’ he said. ‘Bit quieter in there. Why don’t you go through?’

He went to get the drinks while Karen tried to relax. The snug lived up to its name, a tiny room with just two tables and dark, wooden panelled walls. A woman in jeans and a leather jacket appeared in the doorway.

‘Hi, you must be Karen. Jaz said I’d find you here. Natalie Drummond, by the way.’

She had a Northern Irish accent and a bright smile. They shook hands. Natalie was in the Vice Squad and said she’d done some work with the Human Trafficking Service.

‘With your man Charlie Moon, trying to get through to the girls who are on the game.’

By the time Jaz came back from the bar, Karen and Natalie were deep in conversation about the issues of trafficked women.

‘The problem is, you’ve got to prove they’ve been coerced,’ Natalie was saying, ‘because you have to accept that for some women, it’s a choice.’

Jaz was struggling to balance two glasses of wine and a pint. Natalie took one of the glasses with a smile, which was returned by a boyish grin from Jaz. It was an expression Karen had never seen in the office. She had a sinking feeling. When she was a teenager, it was called playing gooseberry. Hopefully some others would be along soon.

An impossibly fast jig was being played in the next room. Karen decided she would give the two of them time alone, so she mouthed that she was going to the ladies’ and slipped out of the snug. In the main body of the pub all eyes were on the three musicians and Karen found herself hypnotised too. She leaned against a wooden shelf in the pannelled wall and watched. It didn’t seem possible that the fiddle players’ fingers could move that fast and still be making the right notes. She thought of Phil and the times she’d seen him play. It hadn’t been often, not often enough she realised. But she’d been fascinated by the way his trombone could make such an amazing range of sounds and when he played guitar, it had actually made her want to weep. Mind you, just about anything could do that at the moment. Even Max had noticed. He’d suggested she talk to a shrink, but that wasn’t going to make any difference.

She didn’t see Charlie Moon until he was next to her. He was speaking but his voice was drowned out. She pointed to the snug and hoped he didn’t interrupt the lovebirds’ private moment too soon, while she went to the ladies’ and contrived to spend as long in there as she could. She wondered how soon she could leave without appearing rude, but as she washed her hands and tidied her hair in the mirror, she told herself to make the best of it. After all, she was out, without the kids, and the music was all right. Max was working late and Trisha from next door was babysitting. She could give it another hour for form’s sake, then do a runner.

A second glass of wine helped. Back in the snug Natalie was rattling off a string of anecdotes about the things she’d seen in brothels.

‘...and the poor wee lass was laid out, chocolate sauce all over her chest, while this great big fellow was on his knees licking it off.’

Karen could see why Jaz had chosen the privacy of the back room. Half way through her third glass Karen remembered she hadn’t eaten much all day. She’d picked at a cheese sandwich at lunchtime, but her appetite had failed her. Now the wine was working on her muscles and she wondered if she might just fall asleep. Her toes tapped lazily under the table to the rhythm of a bodhran, while she watched Jaz smiling and nodding at everything Natalie said. Charlie didn’t say anything at all. From the other room she could hear feet pounding and shuffling across the wooden floor.

Suddenly Charlie nudged her arm. ‘Fancy a dance?’

Before she had time to think about it, she was on her feet, being guided through to the main bar.

‘Thought we should let them get on with it.’ Charlie was almost shouting to be heard. ‘Don’t know why they feel the need to drag their friends out to witness the bleeding obvious, but I think he’s still telling himself they’re just mates.’

That clarified a lot about the whole set-up of the evening. A set-up, that was exactly what it was, and she was the stooge, Charlie too. Well, she thought, she was here now, half-cut on cheap pub wine and she might as well make the most of it. So she and Charlie danced, bumping limbs and treading on toes, in a vaguely Celtic reel. When the song ended, they collapsed on to two seats in the main bar. She realised he was laughing and it had the most incredible effect on his face. The tight lines around his eyes lifted and she found herself smiling back.

‘I hope you’re not laughing at me!’

‘God no, Karen, I’m laughing at myself and my two left feet. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m going to have to get something to eat.’ She drained her glass and the wine stuck in her throat like acid.

‘One more dance?’ he said. ‘Then I’ll take you to a little place I know. We can get something to soak up the booze.’

On her next trip to the loo she slurped some water from the tap, trying to sober up. She’d have to go soon, she really would. But it was ten o’clock by the time they left the warmth behind them and she stood on the edge of the pavement swallowing cold air. Her head was unsteady on her shoulders and she was trying not to feel sick.

He led the way down the river path, back into the city centre. Walking sobered her and she started to wonder if Max would be worried. Charlie was quiet, only swearing under his breath as his foot slipped in goose muck. She didn’t have much to say either, so they listened to the water slapping against the stone of the bank and the distant voices of night-clubbers on the bridge. They cut through the Coppergate Centre and came out at All Saints Church by a kebab van, where he bought her a large portion of chips.

‘My treat.’ he said.

‘Is this it? Classy joint.’

They sat on the wall behind the church, and ate in silence, licking chip fat off their fingers. Her legs and arms began to feel more solid, although she knew she was still drunk. He asked her if she was all right and she said yes, she was fine.

‘And you’re a much nicer man than I thought you were.’ It sounded childish, and the fact that she was slurring didn’t help. ‘No, I didn’t mean that.’

‘Yes you did,’ he sighed. ‘I’m not always the most sympathetic person in the world, I know that.’

‘You said it was a waste of time, after forty-eight hours.’ He didn’t reply. ‘That was my brother you were talking about, how would you like it if your brother…?’

But she couldn’t carry on because tears were streaming down her face. He put his hand on her shoulder and held her steady, as if she would rock off the wall.

‘Tell me about it,’ he said.

She took a deep breath and told him all she knew, about her visit to Doncaster, about the lack of any clues anywhere and the fact that Stacey didn’t even seem to care. He questioned her gently about Stacey’s version of events and why was it so hard to believe that Phil had gone off with another woman?

‘How much do we ever know about one another? Especially our families.’ he said. ‘Just because you knew someone in the past, doesn’t mean you can understand what they’re doing now.’

‘It doesn’t fit.’ She wiped her nose on a ragged tissue she found in her pocket. ‘That’s all. It just doesn’t feel right, do you know what I mean?’

‘I know exactly what you mean. But having a hunch isn’t enough. In my line of work I need something more definite.’

‘I think about him all the time. Even when I’m thinking about something else, it’s there in the background, like a dull hum that you can’t switch off.’

‘You seem to be coping really well. On the surface anyway.’

‘I’m just drowning the hum out with stuff, work stuff, family stuff. So long as I’m busy.’

She was shivering and he helped her down from the wall, offering her his coat, but she refused. As they walked towards the taxi rank, the wind pushed against them and a group of drunken young men almost collided with her, but Charlie pulled her out of their path just in time.

‘Steady.’

His arm stayed round her shoulder for a second longer than was necessary. When it was gone, she could still feel its weight and warmth. She turned away and a fine spray of rain brought her round, back to herself: Karen Friedman, married mother of two, who shouldn’t be out this late with a man she hardly knew.

They reached the line of taxis waiting with their engines running like purring cats, and she wondered if the drivers enjoyed their work or hated having to scoop up the casualties of the pubs and clubs.

‘Will you be okay?’ Charlie asked.

‘I’m fine. What about you? Do you have far to go?’ It had only just occurred to her that she didn’t even know where he lived.

‘Sheffield. But I’m on Jaz’s couch tonight. I should be in time for last orders if I set off back to the Brown Cow.’

She hesitated before saying goodbye. How were they supposed to do this? He took her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.

‘If you need any help, looking for your brother, I’ll do what I can. I’d like to help you, Karen. I’m sorry about what I said the other day. I’ll go to Doncaster, if you want me to, ask some questions, find out what they’re doing about Phil.’

‘Thank you.’ She meant it. It was like handing over a heavy load, her shoulders lifted.

He kissed her lightly on the cheek and then she was in the taxi, giving the name of her road. Against the window, she watched her double-blurred reflection against a moving backcloth of streetlights and shop lights. She was tired, more than tired. A sagging, limb-dragging heaviness forced her eyes shut. She lingered on the edge of sleep, replaying her evening over and over again.

Bonfire Night: 12.20
pm

Phil was approaching the first motorway junction out of Doncaster. The fuel gauge was on red, so he slowed for the slip road and tried to shift down a gear, but the gearbox had a mind of his own. The engine roared and decelerated as it found second instead of fourth. In the mirror he could see a lorry bearing down on him, the driver’s face and waving fist clearly visible. Phil swore and tried again, forcing the gear stick into place just in time to jerk away from the lorry before it was on top of him. He heard something slide across the floor of the van behind him and he remembered the cases of Panda Pops.

‘Bloody hell.’ He wasn’t going to get to Hull before lunchtime; Len would have to wait. There was a supermarket just off the motorway. He decided to fill the van up and get something to eat, then he could double-back and deliver the drinks to Carole.

In the supermarket he hesitated over the choice of sandwiches. His phone buzzed in his pocket with a text from Johnny Mackenzie. Phil read it, then rang the office number. It was the answer machine, so he left a message to say that he was on his way to Carole’s with the drinks. He looked back at the rows of plastic triangles and wondered if the girl in the caravan would like mayonnaise or not. It was weird to be standing here, trying to choose a sandwich for someone he’d barely exchanged two words with, but she seemed so vulnerable stuck in the middle of nowhere.

He went for the cheese ploughman’s - it would suit the landscape if nothing else - an iced danish and a can of Coke. While he was waiting at the till, he picked up a packet of sparklers for Holly. If he got back in time, they could go and watch the fireworks at the pub together.