by J. S. Monroe
Now, as he drops down over the hill into the village, working the gears of the Austin-Healey, he feels nothing but dread. He’s already been overtaken by two police cars, lights flashing. Up ahead, another police car has parked in a lay-by, and two uniformed officers are erecting signs on the other side of the road. Beyond them an old silver BMW is driving up the hill, away from the village and toward the police. It looks like Tony and Laura’s car. Luke watches as it slows to pass the officers, who are now starting to put out cones. One officer looks up at the BMW and the driver waves a hand in acknowledgment.
Luke’s sure it’s Tony, checks no one’s behind him and brings the Austin-Healey to a halt, waving down the BMW as it approaches. Tony stops too, lowering his window.
“Nice set of wheels,” Tony says, turning down his car radio.
“Office car,” Luke says. “Laura still with her mum?”
“And still mad at me.”
Luke feels guilty about Laura. When she’d rung the office this morning, he felt she was wanting him to talk to Tony, find out what was going on, ask why he was so keen on helping Jemma. But Luke hasn’t rushed to the village to save their marriage. He wants to talk to Jemma, check she’s okay.
“Have you seen Jemma around?” he asks.
“Are you kidding? Everyone’s looking for her,” Tony says, nodding at the police behind them. “They’re about to cordon off the whole village. She disappeared this morning apparently.”
“Not staying with you then?” Luke asks, cursing himself for been in London last night.
“Took a room in the pub,” Tony says. “Laura wasn’t happy with her being at home.”
“I can’t understand why Laura’s so convinced she’s Jemma Huish,” Luke says, watching as the policemen farther down the road stop a car.
“Search me.”
“I mean, why would she come back to the village?”
“I thought you stayed in town in the week anyway?” Tony asks, ignoring his question. He seems distracted today.
“I need to talk to Jemma—about her mother.”
“Her mother? She doesn’t know who she is, let alone her mom.”
“No change?”
Tony shakes his head. “Still can’t tell us her own name. What’s with the mom anyway?”
“I think we might have been at school together.” Luke pauses. “Did Jemma ever take that DNA test in the end?”
“Last I heard she’d refused. Don’t blame her. You guys have the biggest DNA database per capita in the world. Steer well clear of it, I say—a threat to all our civil liberties.”
Luke glances in his wing mirror. Another car is coming down the hill behind him.
“Maybe she should do one,” Luke says. He doesn’t want to tell Tony why, that it might be the only way to establish his paternity.
“Better get going,” Tony says, noticing the approaching car. “Before the cops arrest me.”
“Problem?”
Tony grins, tapping the steering wheel. “Car’s not registered.”
CHAPTER 47
I can’t catch all the words, but I know that Tony has stopped to talk to Luke. There’s a faint smell of petrol and stale milk in the boot. As I listen to the two men, a part of me wants to smash my fists against the side of the car, shout and scream, but I know I must stay silent.
It sounds like Luke has come down from London specially to see me. He’s talking about how he thinks he was at school with my mother. I want to see Luke on his own again, but it’s not possible now.
Tony accelerates away after he has finished chatting, and we drive for another five minutes or so. It’s hard to be sure, but I’m guessing we’re on small roads. Lots of twists and turns, and very few other cars seem to pass us.
When we stop, Tony doesn’t let me out immediately. He just sits in the driver’s seat, turns up the radio and listens. I can’t hear any other noise except for the baleful call of distant crows. Maybe he’s checking that no one is around. The high sun dazzles my eyes when he finally opens the boot. He looks at me for a moment—in pity, perhaps—before he speaks.
“We got out of the village just in time.”
“Is that why we stopped?” I ask, uncurling myself. “The police?” He holds my arm as I jump to the ground. We have come off the road and driven down a narrow track. All around us is wet-dripping woodland, mostly beech, washed leaves glistening in the sun. It must have just rained, a short summer shower. Beyond the trees, fields dotted with sheep.
“They waved us through—still setting up the roadblock. Another minute and you’d have been caught. I stopped to talk to Luke. He’s driven down from London in some old car—surprised he made it.”
I decide not to let Tony know that I heard most of their conversation.
“I thought he worked in London during the week,” I say, as he takes my suitcase and radio out of the boot. He leaves me to lift out the roll mat and sleeping bag.
“You remember that?” he asks, pausing before he snaps shut the boot door.
“It’s what it says in my notes.” I’ve still got them with me, in the back pocket of my jeans.
“His father’s unwell. He’s come down to check on him.”
I know Tony’s lying. It’s good for me to see how he behaves when he’s not telling the truth. He’s an accomplished deceiver.
“The shelter’s about a hundred yards in there,” he says, nodding. We both stand still, taking in the ancient woodland. I feel so vulnerable out here with him on my own, but I know there’s no choice. The solitary bark of a deer does nothing to quell my fear.
“Are you staying with me?” I ask, as we start to walk down a faint footpath.
“I’ve got to head back to the café,” he says.
I’m relieved. At least I won’t be out here on my own with him for long. I’m not ready. Not yet. We veer off the footpath and head deeper into the woods, stepping through thick brambles. I can see the shelter up ahead, a small mound covered in grass and nettles. The entrance is overgrown. How many people know about this place? I follow him down a set of graffiti-covered concrete steps. At the bottom, twelve feet underground, he kicks away a crushed can of lager and an old packet of cigarettes. The litter of teenagers, lovers.
“You won’t be here long,” Tony says, holding up the light on his phone to show me the dingy space. He must sense my fear. The shelter is about ten yards long and three yards wide. Like a cell. The far end is illuminated by a pool of sunlight streaming in from a hole in the roof. Some old leaves and twigs have fallen through beneath it, bathed in a ray of sunlight, but otherwise the concrete floor is clear. It’s dry, but that’s about all this place has got going for it.
“When were you here?” I ask.
“Last Sunday. The village history society organized a walk. I was the honorary Yank. US forces stationed here in the war used it to store ammunition, preparing for the Normandy landings.”
“So it’s quite well-known?”
“Not this one,” he says. “Everyone goes to another shelter, near the memorial. You’ll be fine here. You’ve got the radio. And I’ll bring some food later. Coffee too?”
“Tea would be great. Anything herbal.”
“Look, it’s not ideal, I know, but you need to be out the village,” Tony says, putting an arm around me as if we are newlyweds surveying our first home. I try not to flinch, but I want him to go now. I need to get my head around everything, work out where I am, what happens next.
“Can I call you?” I ask, peeling away to climb back up the steps. “If someone arrives.”
“No one’s going to come out here,” he says, following me up to the surface. “Trust me. And if anyone does, maybe a dog walker, just stay low until they’ve gone. Text is better—if you’re worried. Just don’t call me. I might be with the cops again.”
“How far is it to the roa
d?” I ask, looking over to where the car is parked.
“A mile, perhaps a bit more. It’s remote.”
Without warning, Tony turns to face me, holding both my shoulders. There’s a chill in his eyes and his grip is firmer, more aggressive than before, his body pressed close to mine. I start to panic, unable to reach for my wrist, but I’m spared by the tones of his mobile. He steps back and removes it from his pocket, looking at the caller ID.
“Unknown,” he says, raising his eyebrows at me. “That’ll be the cops then.” He becomes more serious as he takes the call and listens. “I’ll be at the café in fifteen.”
He hangs up and turns to me again, the same look in his eyes.
“DI Silas Hart wants some more mac-and-cheese balls,” he says, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “I need to head back to the village.”
He smiles at me for a second, his hands on my shoulders again. “I’ll return as soon as I can.” And then he kisses me hard on the lips. I think of Fleur, try to recall her face, praying for him to be quick. I was prepared for a kiss but he wants more this time, his hands searching under my skirt, squeezing my thigh. Fleur was never like this. Her touch was gentle, mutual.
“Later,” I say, trying to push him away, frightened by his strength. “The police are waiting for you.”
“Fuck the cops,” he whispers, starting to rip at my shirt.
“Please, Tony,” I say, louder now. “I’m not ready.”
Reluctantly he stops and looks at me, his eyes heavy with lust and something more frightening. And then he turns and sets off through the brambles toward the car.
“Text me,” I force myself to call after him. “And thank you. For everything.”
His silence is scaring me. “Did we bring any paper?” I ask, trying to bring things back to the everyday, the mundane. “A pen? I’ve got a lot to write up.”
He stops in his tracks. It’s a while before he speaks, and when he does, his voice sends a shiver down my spine. “Maybe it’s best you don’t write down anything today.”
CHAPTER 48
Luke is in the pub, having a swift midday pint with Sean. He’s looked everywhere for Jemma, walked the canal towpath, skirted the woods on top of the hill that overlooks the village, the community gardens, the station, the church, but he knows it’s a lost cause. If the police can’t find her, he’s got no chance. Officers seem to be everywhere, conducting door-to-door inquires, checking every car that drives in and out of the village, making appeals in the media.
The mood among locals has changed since Luke was here yesterday morning. Gossip has given way to sadness and maybe a touch of shame as the quiet village finds itself in the public glare.
“When I spoke to Freya Lal, she said the woman in Germany who adopted her daughter was a Baha’i,” Luke says.
“Interesting religion,” Sean replies.
“I know,” Luke says. “I’ve been doing some research.”
“Practiced by the chemical weapons inspector Dr. David Kelly, of course. He of the sexed up Saddam Hussein dossier.”
“You’re incredible, Sean.” He’d read all about it in his research.
“Murdered, for sure.”
“I thought he took his own life?” Luke asks.
“Suicide is forbidden by Baha’is. How long have you got? There’s a theory that—”
“Sean, Jemma had a tattoo on her arm. I don’t know if you noticed.”
“I’d be lying if I said I did.”
“It was a lotus flower. The Baha’i temple in Delhi is shaped like a lotus.”
“It’s also a Buddhist symbol. The eight petals of the mystical purple lotus represent the noble eightfold path taught by the Buddha. Kind of an important flower for Hindus too. And Jains and Sikhs. I’ll need to check about the Russian Orthodox Church.”
Now’s not the time for more of Sean’s Soviet conspiracies. “If Jemma’s adopted mother was a Baha’i,” Luke says, “there’s a good chance she might be too.”
Sean seems to notice his change of tone. “You really want to find this woman, don’t you?”
Luke nods, drinking deeply from his beer. “She just seems to have vanished into thin air.”
“A well-known Russian speciality.”
Luke glances up to see a crime-scene investigator pass through the pub into the old stable block at the back, where Jemma stayed. He’s wearing a white oversuit, mask and purple gloves.
“What’s going on there?” Luke asks the barman.
“They’re searching the room where the woman stayed.”
“Forensics?”
“Full works.”
“I need to speak to them,” Luke says to Sean, slipping off his barstool and heading for the back door.
CHAPTER 49
Jemma turns up the radio and listens. She’s early—it’s the weather forecast. Her watch must be running fast. She walks up the flight of steps and looks around. Dark woodland, afternoon light slanting through fir trees. She’s lucky to be in a place like this, with only muntjacs for company. It doesn’t look as though it’s been used for years. So close to the village and yet so far. She misses it more than she thought she would: the security of an enclosed rural community, the friendliness of the people. Most of them.
She hears the hourly pips down below and returns for the news bulletin. A tit-for-tat expulsion of spies from Moscow and London; new powers of arrest for the police; a manhunt in a Wiltshire village...
Her blood runs cold as she listens. Police are searching for a former mental health patient who has not been seen for a year. There are fears that she may be dangerous, and the public is warned not to approach her. “We’d request that anyone with information about Ms. Huish contact us immediately,” a detective is saying. His name is familiar.
Jemma closes her eyes. She can feel the memories coming back, like a flash flood, sweeping down the barren mountain of her past, restoring it to life. She suddenly feels vulnerable, out here in the woods on her own. Angry too. Anger like she hasn’t felt for a long time.
She walks over to her bag, rifles through her clothes and finds what she’s looking for. Her hand is shaking too much to hold up the kitchen knife for long. She drops it back into the bag and sinks to the floor, where she cradles her knees and starts to sob, rocking backward and forward. More memories. Nightmares. She has a routine for this, a strategy to restore order, but this is way too big, swatting away the years of therapy and medication as if they never happened.
She puts her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the voices, but it’s no good. Panicking now, she goes back outside to breathe in the immutable peace of the forest. Nature is her last hope. The trees here are untroubled by news reports. At first she hears nothing, but then a faint whisper from high up in the canopy of the forest begins to speak, quietly encouraging her to call. Give warning.
She looks away, ignoring them, and returns inside to pick up the knife.
CHAPTER 50
Silas Hart is in the middle of interviewing Tony in his café again when he gets a call to go over to the pub. It’s been a busy few hours, no time to eat. He’d rather die than admit it, but he was looking forward to trying some more of Tony’s vegan food, maybe one of his black bean and chipotle veggie patties. It will have to wait.
“Stay here,” Silas says to the American, as he stands up from the table.
“Is that an order?”
“A polite request. And if we don’t get anywhere with Jemma’s room at the pub, we’ll want to search your house.”
“You’ll need a warrant for that,” Tony says, retreating behind the food counter.
“We’ll get one, don’t worry.”
Silas walks out of the café door with Strover. Tony is beginning to annoy him. They won’t need a warrant if they arrest him.
“Run that clown through the PNC,” he says, crossing t
he road to head up to the pub. Strover has many fine skills, including an ability to return sarcasm with interest, but she’s also one of the best when it comes to searching the Police National Computer, cross-referencing intel with the newer Police National Database. Good at anything to do with computers. And social media. A digital native, according to HR. Whatever that is.
“His wife’s left him then?” Strover asks.
“A short break with her mum, according to the good doctor.”
There’s no point hiding anything from Strover. She knows that he still fancies Dr. Patterson, even if she did hamper their investigation. Female intuition.
“Jemma’s a fit-looking woman,” Strover says.
“You said it, not me. And she went back to Tony’s for dinner last night, according to Abdul the Afghan.” Silas had caught up with Abdul earlier, had a nice chat in the pub kitchen, promised to try one of his lamb curries.
“You think Tony knows where she is?” Strover asks.
“Not sure,” Silas says, as they arrive outside the pub. “We might be wasting our time anyway. CSI has found something.”
CHAPTER 51
I couldn’t stay in the shelter for a second longer, not after hearing the news on the radio. The next few hours will be critical. Have I left it too late? The hairbrush should buy me some time, but I will also need a slice of luck for what lies ahead.
I’ve left my suitcase behind—I’ve got everything that I need. Up ahead I can see the grass track that leads over to the lane. There’s no traffic around but I must be careful. If I’m right, the lane runs one way to the village, the other up to the main road out of the valley. A mile, Tony said. Maybe a bit farther. I stop and listen. All I can hear is the sound of the summer breeze rippling the beech trees high above me.