‘They’re not gonna catch us,’ he said, still grinning, and slapped the settee either side of her.
‘But they—’ Her words were cut off by his hand over her mouth.
‘I said: They’re not — gonna — catch us.’
* * *
Then he was gone, and Lee-Anne knew they were as good as caught. He looks like the devil when he smiles like that, she thought. All teeth and eyebrows and eyes horrible and glittering. She flinched at the memory of his breath on her cheek and in her mouth — the reek of last night’s beer and fags an assault on her. And his teeth, so gleaming and white. Close — so close — to her face. Lobo hurt other people, not her. Never her. But today he’d hit her — twice.
She went from room to room, drinking in the colours and the fresh clean smell of it all, wishing she had a camera, to capture the colours, to keep hold of the feeling. Her mates had been dead jealous when she showed them all her new gear. Jade and Rhiannon still lived at home with their mums, and Lee-Anne had enjoyed acting the sophisticate, offering them a choice of tea or coffee, biscuits or cake. It wasn’t fair! He was going to spoil it all out of spite.
She turned on the radio and flumped down on the sofa, then picked up a magazine to read. She was just getting into an article entitled ‘Does your man please you?’ when the radio cut out.
‘Frig,’ she said, and went to fiddle with the switches and dials. It didn’t help. Then she noticed that the stand-by light on the new TV was out. She went into the tiny, windowless kitchen and switched on the light. Nothing happened. The microwave clock was blank as well. ‘Shit,’ she said. Bloody leccy.
She returned to her place on the sofa and tried to settle into her magazine, but she kept thinking about Lobo, coming home late, probably tanked up. One of two things would happen: either he would be too out of his skull to fix the power or he would make a big thing about how helpless girls were and how it takes a man to sort out an electrical problem. The fact that she’d got a B grade in physics GCSE and he’d got sweet FA was neither here nor there — anyway, she hadn’t told him — but she knew she wouldn’t be able to stomach him droning on about how girls didn’t have a technical cell in their brains.
She put down her magazine and rummaged in the cardboard box under the sink until she found a pair of pliers and some fuse wire. She left the door on the latch and went downstairs. The meters were in the basement, so probably the fuse boxes were, too. The door opened inwards, and it was stiff, but she knew better than to put her shoulder to it: there were only three steps down from ground level. The rest had rotted and finally collapsed when the meter man called last autumn. No one had been since, which suited most of them fine, because they got estimated bills but used more juice than they would normally dare.
The light, a naked sixty-watt bulb, worked. Lee-Anne edged down to the third step and sat down. She turned around and lowered herself the rest of the way. It wasn’t much of a drop, when you were expecting it.
She went to the bank of meters and mains switches, looking for the one labelled Flat 6. The switch was off.
‘What the f—?’ Lee-Anne caught a movement from the corner of her eye and wheeled round, just as the light went out. She screamed.
Chapter 20
Sallis clicked his fingers at Mike Delaney. Mike paused in his conversation with the manager of the credit card company. The clerical staff seated near Sallis also fell quiet.
‘Where?’ Sallis said. ‘Long stay, level C. Right. Got it. Cheers, mate.’ He hung up. ‘Mrs Fournier’s car,’ he explained. ‘Manchester airport. Did they find her car keys at the house?’
Mike shook his head. ‘They’ll have to break in.’
Sallis nodded at the receiver in Mike’s hand. ‘Sarge . . . you haven’t put the credit card company on hold?’
Mike grinned. ‘Taste of their own medicine.’ The civilian clerical staff and CID had spent the afternoon checking all the major credit card companies to find out if Mrs Fournier had an account with them. It had taken an hour of phone calls, faxes, call backs and security checks to make contact with someone who had the authority to answer his questions. ‘Ask the boss if we can have a forensics team sent over there.’ Mike punched a number on the keypad of his desk phone.
‘Mr Whittle, sorry about that. We need to know if anything has been cashed on Mrs Fournier’s card since last Friday — here or abroad. Can you do that?’
‘We should be able to give you that information immediately a transaction is made,’ Mr Whittle said. He scrolled through Angeline Fournier’s account details. ‘There are a lot of outgoings in Italy and France.’
‘After Friday?’
‘No . . . nothing since then, but she did book a flight with BA ten days ago. You’d be able to get the flight details from the airline, if I give you her card number.’
It took another two hours to find out that Mrs Fournier had not used her credit cards since booking her airline tickets. She had bought £2,000 worth of traveller’s cheques and £500 in euros at the same time. Her flight out was on Wednesday the seventh, from Manchester to Hendaye, near the Spanish border. Her return flight was scheduled two weeks later.
‘The only money in her purse was a few euro cents,’ Douglas said.
Mike, Sallis and Douglas had gathered in DI Crank’s office. ‘American Express are trying to find out if she cashed any of the traveller’s cheques,’ Mike said. ‘But if they were spent in shops, it depends how fast they process them — it could be days before we know.’
DI Crank eyed Mike Delaney as if he had imparted this information with the distinct intention of spoiling his day. ‘Was she definitely on the flight out last Wednesday?’
‘According to BA.’
Crank scratched his chin. ‘So why did she come back early? And why didn’t she use her credit card?’
‘She had plenty of cash with her.’
‘Maybe. But why leave her car at the airport?’
‘Maybe she didn’t come back by plane,’ Sallis offered. ‘She could’ve come back on the ferry.’
‘Or she could’ve got a flight back,’ Mike suggested, ‘driven home, and then whoever killed her took the car and drove it back.’
‘A bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’ Douglas chipped in. ‘She drives home, he tops her and then takes her car all the way back to the same airport.’
Mike wasn’t fazed by his scepticism. ‘Manchester is the only international airport I know of in the North West,’ he said. ‘And if he found all that foreign dosh on her, it might’ve given him the idea of taking a nice foreign trip.’
Crank grunted noncommittally. ‘You can’t get away from the fact her cards haven’t been used,’ he said. ‘Normally, you’d expect thieves to squeeze as much as possible out of stolen credit cards in the first few days — before the shops are alerted.’
Mike shrugged. ‘If he didn’t have the PIN numbers, he’d be stuck. Unless he had a female accomplice, and an extra form of ID.’
‘Her driving licence and passport weren’t found,’ Sallis said.
‘So, he’s got the ID, but he still hasn’t used the cards. Maybe he’s working alone, after all,’ DI Crank said. ‘Anything from the car?’
‘Sorry, boss.’ Sallis had checked with the SOCOs at the airport car park, just before the meeting. ‘Nothing obvious. No travel documents or maps — and no obvious signs of violence. It’ll be down to forensics now.’
Crank nodded his approval of Sallis’s thoroughness. ‘Did her parents give us anything useful?’
‘They don’t speak any English,’ Mike said. ‘And they’re quite elderly. The French authorities are supposed to be getting back to me when they’ve got some answers.’
* * *
Fraser returned after five o’clock. Jenny was in the sitting room, exhausted, bruised and scratched. He reached to touch her cheek, but she flinched from him.
‘I’d never have left you alone with him if I’d known,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, love.’
�
�Sorry doesn’t cut it, Fraser,’ she said. ‘Sorry doesn’t even begin to fray the edges.’
He watched her for a few moments, then shrugged. ‘What can I say?’ He went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a whisky. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked. Jenny didn’t reply. He poured one anyway, carried it over and placed it on the table next to her.
‘Where were you?’ she asked.
‘I told you — I went to school, did some sorting out.’
He glanced sideways, avoiding her gaze, and Jenny said, ‘Wondering if I tried to contact you at school?’
He avoided her eye. ‘Ach, you know it’s impossible during the teaching day. Messages’re never passed on.’
‘And what if someone goes to your school, to your classroom, and finds it all locked up and no sign of the diligent schoolmaster?’
Annoyance and guilt fought for control of his features. ‘You came to school?’
‘Not me,’ Jenny said. ‘The police.’
Fraser blanched and looked towards the door. ‘The boy. Is he—?’
‘He’s sleeping,’ Jenny said.
‘Then I don’t get it.’
‘Neither do I,’ Jenny said, taking a swallow of whisky while she decided how much to tell him. ‘The charming constable Douglas called. He wanted to speak to you — wouldn’t tell me why.’ She laughed, one hand went to her cheek. ‘He didn’t really get much opportunity, come to think of it.’
‘Look, I said—’
She waved away his apology. ‘I imagine it has something to do with the car accident. He telephoned later when he couldn’t find you at work — it was his visit that set off Alain in the first place, and he didn’t want to cause any further upset.’ She flashed Fraser a bitter smile. ‘Nice to know the man has some sensibilities. He wanted you to contact him as soon as you got home.’
Fraser had become very quiet. A sudden shudder ran through him, sploshing his drink and he stared balefully into his glass, watching the streaks of whisky drain from the sides of the tumbler.
‘I thought they said it could have been stolen by someone planning a robbery,’ he suggested.
‘They did say that, didn’t they? After all, they know that I didn’t drive the car that night. But it doesn’t make sense, bringing it back — I mean who does that?’ She was giving him the chance to come clean, but he was refusing to take it. ‘They also said,’ Jenny pressed on, unwilling to reach the conclusion she felt was inevitable, but needing to know the truth, ‘that they will go back and run through the rest of the video tapes to see if they could catch the thief returning the car.’
Fraser closed his eyes and took a gulp of whisky.
‘Was it you, Fraser? Did you take the car?’ He took a breath, and in that unbearable hiatus Jenny blurted out, ‘Please, don’t lie to me.’
He exhaled. ‘I borrowed the car,’ he said. ‘I didn’t “take” it, I borrowed it. And I put the damned thing back exactly as I’d found it.’
‘Not exactly, surely?’
He shrugged.
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘And why lie about it?’
Fraser passed a tired hand over his eyes, and Jenny saw that he seemed ill with exhaustion. Over the past week they had both lost sleep, had both been worried and anxious. She had thought it was for Alain — but perhaps she had misinterpreted the cause of Fraser’s restlessness.
‘I needed the car,’ he said. ‘And I didn’t lie. You just assumed it couldn’t have been me. It was you told the police I couldn’t drive.’
Jenny laughed. ‘This is unbelievable! Leaving aside what you said to me in the supermarket car park, are you really trying to put this on me?’
‘Jenny, I needed the car,’ he repeated. ‘I knew you wouldn’t miss it.’
‘So why didn’t you say something? I’d have left the car at home. Why’d you let me think you can’t drive?’
‘I’ve been taking lessons. It was supposed to be a surprise. I’ve not passed my test yet, but I thought if I learned it would be a help.’
‘Great help,’ Jenny said. ‘You know you’re likely to lose your licence before you’re even qualified to drive? What the hell was so important?’
Fraser stood and poured himself another drink. ‘I can’t say. Not yet.’
‘You mean you won’t say.’
He swung round. ‘Look,’ he began, hotly, ‘I pay my share. It’s my car as much as it’s yours.’
‘This has got nothing to do with money, Fraser. At least not for me. You drove the car uninsured. What if you’d hurt someone?’
‘But I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?’ He set down his drink and crouched in front of Jenny, placing both hands on her shoulders. She shook him off.
‘How do I know what you did?’ she demanded. ‘How can I be sure of anything anymore? What is it you’re not telling me?’
‘You’ll just have to trust me a little longer, Jen. I promise I’ll explain everything when I can.’
She stared at him. He really hadn’t understood. ‘Don’t you get it, Fraser? The fact is I can’t trust you at all. I can’t trust a single word you say.’ She walked out and he didn’t try to stop her.
* * *
She was right. She couldn’t trust him.
It’s all about trust, Fraser thought, and he was losing it — had lost it. He didn’t know if he could trust himself anymore, and if she didn’t yet hate him, she soon would. And he would deserve that, too.
The nightmare, for him, had begun a week before Jenny had even heard of Mr Hunter. The same man had telephoned and asked Fraser the question that had so upset Jenny: Have you had any children adopted? Her mind had gone immediately to the child they had lost, the children they had fostered who had moved on to adoptive parents, and the longing, the yearning, the pain each separation had caused them, but Fraser had thought of one child only. He had suspected even then the true nature of the call, the true identity of the caller.
Jenny had lost the baby two years before his affair. It had been enough, at the time, that she had survived. They had been grateful to be together, not to be lost to one another, but gradually, over the months that followed, the horror of that night had begun to fade.
His terror on that night, like Jenny’s pain, became harder to recall, and the memory ceased to be a succession of breathless snapshots: Jenny in agony. Jenny screaming, flailing about on a hospital trolley, fighting the oxygen mask. Fraser trying to comfort her, out of his mind with worry. But as the months passed a creeping regret gradually displaced all other emotions, until all he could remember of the rush to the hospital, the howl of the ambulance chorusing with Jenny’s screams, the blood and the anguish and the terrible dread, was the debilitating sadness that they would never — could never — have children of their own. The realization had incapacitated them both for a time. For months they barely spoke to each other. The effort of communication was beyond them. Then Jenny had suggested fostering, making the tacit acceptance of their situation explicit, incontrovertible.
He couldn’t accept that. Not at first. It had made him desperate to a degree of which he had not thought himself capable. He never thought of leaving Jenny, not in the real sense of moving out, but he could not be with her, collude with her in the acceptance of their sterility. For a short time, he had hated her even for bringing up the idea of fostering, and although he would never have admitted this to himself, had wanted almost to punish her for having failed them both.
His hand went to his shirt pocket and he took out a raggedly torn scrap of fax paper. He stared at the address printed on it, still undecided.
* * *
‘Fancy having another crack at Lynn Halliwell?’ Calcot and Weston walked back to the car, the gravel of Vi Harvey’s driveway crunching underfoot. The house was locked up. There was no one home.
Weston eased himself into the passenger seat. ‘What I really fancy is a heart-to-heart with Mrs Harvey,’ he said.
‘Well, don’t look so glum! Phone her up, leave a message on her answerp
hone. She’ll get back to us.’
While Weston made the call, Calcot turned the car in the direction of Liverpool, and Lynn Halliwell’s flat. They were just in time — the nanny was packing.
‘Going somewhere, Miss Halliwell?’ Calcot asked. Clothes were stacked in neatly ironed and folded piles, and the larger items had already been placed in the bottom of a large and well-travelled suitcase.
Lynn smiled, a touch nervously. The dark red blotches had faded, apart from one or two on her neck, and a sore-looking patch on one hand, leaving her skin pale, clear, almost translucent. She had a pretty mouth, but her smile was forced. ‘Holiday,’ she said. ‘Since Mr Harvey won’t be needing me for the next week, I thought I’d visit a college friend.’
‘Where’s that?’ Calcot asked.
Miss Halliwell coloured slightly. ‘Why?’
Calcot and Weston stared coldly at her, Calcot counting the beats — five — before she went on the defensive.
‘I don’t see that it’s any of your business where I go in my free time. I mean, why are you here? What are you after?’
‘A straight answer,’ Weston said, annoyance making him laconic.
‘I told you, I’m staying with a college friend. I don’t have to tell you where.’
‘He’s been in touch, has he?’ Calcot asked. Miss Halliwell looked confused by the question, as though afraid it was some kind of trap. ‘You said Mr Harvey won’t be needing you next week — presumably he told you that.’
‘Oh . . . yes.’
‘Only he hasn’t found time to contact us,’ Weston told her.
Miss Halliwell lifted one shoulder. ‘He’s a very busy man.’
Calcot gave her a disingenuously puzzled smile. ‘I thought he was supposed to be on holiday.’
‘He is, but he still has to fit all the office work in. He’s busier on holiday than when he’s at home.’
‘Touching,’ Weston said.
‘What?’
‘Your . . . admiration for your boss.’
Miss Halliwell looked from Weston to Calcot.
‘Where is he?’ Calcot asked.
‘In the Lakes somewhere.’
THE LOST BOY an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists Page 16