As if she knows what I’m thinking Neva touches my arm. ‘It might be that they wanted you to reveal who your source was.’
‘That’s the most likely,’ I say. ‘But how would they know if and when I drank the milk?’
Neva shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. That’s the biggest mystery here. But your place has been compromised. We need to get out of here.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. I had all day while you slept. If they’re watching me, leaving will alert them that I’m onto them. Even so, I’m concerned that they may realise you’re here with me. I checked the flat and I couldn’t find any surveillance, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t any,’ I say.
‘What do you propose?’
I don’t speak. But I open the front door and point to the flat across the hall and show her the key, which was in the cutlery drawer in my kitchen.
Then, I say loudly, as a precaution, ‘We sit tight and see what happens.’
Chapter Fifty-Three
MICHAEL
Mrs Kendal’s flat is the reverse of mine, and other than the furniture, it feels like I’m in the mirror image of my own. A knock at the door signifies the arrival of the Thai food. I nod towards Mrs Kendal’s bedroom door, and Neva takes my cue to go in there. I open the door to a spotty kid who works the delivery slot to earn his way through university. I’m pleasant to him as I take the food. He shows no curiosity, and doesn’t even attempt to glance into the flat as I place a tip in his hand. After he’s gone, I close and bar the door again. Neva comes out of the bedroom and she fetches plates and cutlery from the kitchen.
After the strange enforced fast created by the events of the day, we are both hungry. We eat in silence. The food is delicious and I try to clear my mind as I chew, sipping the wine in between bites. But the awful thing is, I can’t really switch off. I’m still processing what’s happened, both with Neva and with the drugged milk.
After dinner, I go back into my own flat. Neva helps me carry Mrs Kendal’s crockery, which we load into my dishwasher. Then we begin to empty my cupboard and fridge of any foods that could have been tampered with. I’m left with a few cans of soup, a can of plum tomatoes, a can of baked beans and some eggs, as I reason that any piercing of the eggs would become evident as the eggs would leak in their box. But at the last minute, I throw away the eggs as well. I’m just not sure enough that they haven’t been touched.
With a full bin bag, I go out of the flat and throw it down the garbage chute.
When I return, Neva is replacing the black bag in the kitchen bin. She looks at me with complete understanding.
I feel invaded. My home no longer feels like the safe haven it once was, but I’m not sure what to do about that. I take a few personal items and we go back to Mrs Kendal’s flat, but not before I pretend to go through my regular evening routine, ending with turning the light off in my bedroom as though I’m going to sleep.
In Mrs Kendal’s standard double bed, we are a little cramped. Despite the previous evening, we don’t touch. It doesn’t seem appropriate in the old woman’s room.
The next day, I go out and get some proper provisions, replacing the eggs and other perishables while Neva stays back at Mrs Kendal’s flat. When I return, briefly, to my own place to collect her crockery from the dishwasher, I see the carton of contaminated milk still in there.
‘I could get this analysed,’ I say to Neva, bringing it back with me.
‘But how do you know you can trust anyone in MI5’s lab?’ Neva asks.
I don’t answer but I know she’s right. If I take the milk in, then whoever is responsible may learn that I found it. I can’t risk showing my hand. Not yet. I must remain beyond suspicion until I find out what I need to know.
Neva helps me unpack the groceries. We put them away in companionable silence, and then I make us a sandwich.
She’s making no attempt to leave, which I’m pleased about. Her presence makes this easier somehow, but I’m concerned about what’s happened and her safety. We need to find out who’s behind the drugged milk.
‘We need to explore ways in which you can observe your colleagues,’ Neva says, as though she’s reading my thoughts, ‘without them realising.’
We discuss this, though I don’t talk about who those colleagues are, and she doesn’t ask.
‘Are any of them acting out of character?’ she asks.
I think about it and can’t come up with a definite answer. The autopsy report on Sharrick, the lack of toxicology, is the only thing I can pinpoint as strange. And that was all down to Ray. It doesn’t make sense that he would be behind this.
After supper we go to bed. We still don’t touch each other; we merely sleep. It’s been a very strange weekend.
Chapter Fifty-Four
MICHAEL
When Monday arrives, my paranoia is heightened. I dress and behave just as I do every work day, but all the time I’m struggling with the change in my feelings about Archive. Part of me wants to just go into the office and tell Ray what happened, get him on side, but I still have a nagging doubt about him. Despite the fact that I had previously excused his behaviour to myself, I now re-examine it, because it was out of character. It’s difficult to acknowledge that he, or any of the team, could be playing double sides. But after what’s happened, I can’t take any chances.
‘You’ll be here when I get back?’ I ask Neva. She’s lounging in bed, watching me dress. She looks incredibly sexy and I’m almost tempted to get back in with her.
‘As long as no one sees me, I should be safe here. Your neighbour isn’t likely to come back early, is she?’
‘No. She’s away for at least another month,’ I say.
‘I’ll keep my eye on your place. If someone comes in and tries to spike your milk again, I’ll have to deal with them.’
‘I know.’ I don’t tell her that it’s a relief to think she will be there making sure that doesn’t happen. ‘Try not to kill them; they may be able to tell us something.’
On impulse, I lean over and kiss her. She kisses me back and when I pull away, she is reluctant to let me go.
‘I’ll be back about six,’ I say.
At Archive, I work alone in my office. Beth is in Switzerland and Ray and Leon are huddled together working on another case. I’m relieved that they’re all busy; it gives me the opportunity to study their activity unobserved. I think back over the years and try to identify any time when Ray, Leon, or Beth haven’t been a hundred percent straight with me. I can’t remember any such occasion.
With Beth’s office unmanned, I go in and do a quick search of her desk. The drawers are unexpectedly messy, with stationary stuffed in randomly. I’m surprised by this as I’ve always found Beth to be well organised. Without finding anything of interest, I close the drawers and return to my office. I don’t know what I expected to learn anyway.
A few moments later, Ray emails me and asks me to come to his office. I head down the corridor to see him. Having snooped in Beth’s office – but also because I’m keeping Neva a secret from everyone – I’m feeling a little guilty. I take a breath before I open Ray’s door.
‘Hey, Mike,’ he says as I enter.
He’s sitting at his desk with a brown folder in front of him. I find myself examining his friendly, open expression, and analysing his tone. Is it ever so slightly forced? Does he know I’m hiding something major from him?
‘Take a seat,’ he says. ‘I’d like to give you a new case. The missing kids.’
‘Beth was working on that,’ I say.
Ray nods. ‘She’s going to be away for a few more days. I’d like you to look at this.’
Ray pushes the folder at me. I open it and immediately feel confused. I see photographs of all the missing children, and a cohesive dossier on each of them.
‘But this is Beth’s case,’ I repeat. ‘I’m sure she’ll pick it up again when she gets back. She’s been very invested in it.’
‘I know. And that’s the problem, Mi
ke. Beth is too close to this one. I’ve taken it back. I want you to deal with it from now on. Plus, I’d like to see some actual progress on this too. We’re getting pressure from above since you and Beth saw Simone Arquette. And Beth doesn’t seem to be going anywhere with it.’
I take the folder back to my office and flick through it. I then remember the line of enquiry I’d passed on to Beth – my suspicion of a teacher or other employee involvement at the schools. There is nothing in the file to suggest she followed it up. In fact, the dossier has no additional notes from Beth at all.
I look on the shared drive and try to find Beth’s transcripts. Surely, she has a document showing her progress so far? But I can’t find anything despite checking several directories. The only explanation for this is that she didn’t save her work to the shared drive. Sometimes I don’t either, so this is not uncommon. I plan to ask her for it all when she returns, but in the back of my mind I’m beginning to wonder if she deliberately sat on this and did nothing. There would be only one reason she would do that, and that would be if she was involved somehow in the Network.
My mind runs away with the idea of her working for the enemy. I can’t imagine it. She was so passionate about finding out what had become of the missing children. Even so, this lack of activity is strange. I only hope I’m wrong, and that she’s been doing something that I just can’t access right now.
Well, no matter what, I decide to follow the line of enquiry I’d previously suggested to Beth. Putting aside what I’d been working on, I pick up the phone and ring one of the schools in question. I decide to look up the Janice Brayford Preparatory School. This one is nearby and it’s the one that Amelie Arquette went missing from – the same child I believe that Neva once was, but I haven’t built up to broaching that question with her yet. Though maybe I will soon. In the meantime, I’ll try and give Ray something we can feed back to Amelie’s family. That at least would take the pressure off Archive and will allow me, with Neva’s help, to look into this in more detail.
Chapter Fifty-Five
MICHAEL
The headteacher was very helpful on the phone and agreed to let me come to the school that afternoon. Now I wait in the small office occupied by her secretary, but I’m not there long before the imposing woman opens the door to her office and invites me in.
‘Sorry to have kept you,’ she says.
I show her my ID and give her one of my formal business cards. ‘I appreciate you seeing me at such short notice.’
She offers me a seat and coffee; I decline the drink, and sit down in a small area of the office where two sofas face each other with a coffee table in between.
I study Mrs Denton. She is in her late forties, with brunette hair that’s going grey. She has a faded look about her. Doesn’t wear make-up, though plenty of women her age still do; it’s almost as though she doesn’t want to be noticed as a woman, but recognised as a powerful figure ruling her school with a rod of iron.
‘So, how can I help you?’ she says after a few moments of awkward silence. ‘You said this was important.’
‘It is. I want access to your employment records,’ I say.
‘If I might ask why?’ she says.
‘I’m looking at who worked here at the same time that Amelie Arquette attended, and if they remember the day she disappeared.’
Denton’s face pales. I keep my expression blank but I watch her for any sign, any tell, that will show me she knows more about this than she should.
‘My entire career has been at this school,’ she says. ‘I was Amelie’s teacher at the time. But you probably already know that. I’ve struggled with this so much since. I shouldn’t have let her go to the toilet unattended but my classroom assistant had taken another child to the sick bay. I was alone with the class and couldn’t leave them.’
‘Children go to the bathroom alone all the time,’ I point out. ‘You couldn’t have known.’
‘Yes. That was true. Then. The school has a policy now of escorting to and from during class times. I initiated it myself when I took over as head five years ago.’
‘Well, you obviously have an alibi, Mrs Denton,’ I say. ‘But what of other members of staff?’
She tells me about the rigorous investigation made by the local police, how all the teaching staff were interviewed.
‘Because Amelie was a diplomat’s daughter, the investigation was taken very seriously,’ she says. ‘I take it they never found her?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘But we’ve reopened the case recently.’
She doesn’t ask me why, which I am expecting. Instead she looks thoughtful. ‘But surely you have the police records of who worked here at the time?’ she says. ‘And their interview transcripts.’
‘I do.’
‘So then what more can I give you?’
‘I believe Amelie went willingly with her kidnapper; she knew them,’ I reveal to see her reaction.
She looks startled. ‘You don’t really think one of the teaching staff was behind this?’
Instead of answering her question, I ask her about security at the time. The doors were locked when I arrived today, and my identification was studied before I was allowed in. But could a stranger just enter the school in any other way?
‘Security wasn’t as it is now,’ she admits. ‘Reception doors were unlocked. Parents often walked in and went to their child’s classroom to collect them. Now they aren’t allowed to do that. The world has changed. This changed our school!’
I leave her office with a promise that her secretary will send over a list of former employees. I want to see if any of them aren’t mentioned in the police report. I have a feeling about this case, and although I’m not suspicious of Denton, I think she may still know more than she realises.
As I walk through the reception, I see a pile of prospectuses left on a table for potential students. I take one, for future reference.
When I return to my office, I pull the prospectus out of my briefcase and flick through it. There is a section inside about the history of the school: a four-page spread telling the story of how Janice Brayford founded it in the 1950s. Brayford was still alive, and almost ninety when Amelie Arquette went missing, but by then someone else had taken over the running of the school.
I look back at the folder Ray gave me earlier and see that Jacqueline Brayford-Bell was the headmistress from 1995. It isn’t much of a surprise to learn that Jacqueline is Janice’s only daughter.
Denton had said she took over five years ago, so I assume that this was when Jacqueline retired. I try to work out what age Jacqueline was by then, but can’t because I don’t know what age Janice had been when she had her daughter. It is certainly research for later if I think it will help, but for now I’m merely curious.
I put the prospectus down, then, looking once more through the file, I make a list of who I need to contact.
I spend the rest of the afternoon ringing a few of the other schools. It’s difficult to get to speak to the heads for most of them, and so I arrange a few telephone appointments for the next day. Then, at 5pm, I put the prospectus, and the folder, in my briefcase and shut down my computer.
Tonight, I have every intention of speaking to Neva about her past.
Chapter Fifty-Six
MICHAEL
When I return home, I go into my flat as usual. I turn on lamps and close curtains as though I’m home. Then I go across to Mrs Kendal’s.
Neva is in the kitchen. There are two pans boiling on the hob. She holds out a glass of red wine to me, then she returns to stirring something she’s cooking in one of the pans.
‘I hope you like spaghetti bolognese,’ she says.
I’m a little shocked by this display of domesticity; it isn’t something I’ve ever considered that she does.
‘I like cooking,’ she says. She looks at me and her eyes dip shyly. ‘Remember, I was taught to fit in. Cooking is a useful skill.’
It’s very odd for me to have anyone cook for me
. There’s been no one in my life since Kirstie, and that hadn’t turned out so well in the end. I feel more than a little uncomfortable with it, but I force myself to stand and watch her while I sip my wine.
‘Can I help?’ I say after a few seconds.
‘This is weird, isn’t it?’ she says.
‘Yes. Very.’
She stops stirring the wooden spoon around the pan and reaches for her own glass of wine.
‘Yeah. For me too. I usually do this alone,’ she says.
We are very similar. And very different. Both of us live in a less-than-normal world. Mine at least pretends to be normal, but since she’s alone all the time other than when she is on an assignment, I wonder how Neva’s universe can come anywhere close. And yet she does this so well. She looks so natural. Is this a performance or am I seeing the real her?
‘Sieve?’ she says.
‘Huh?’
‘To strain the spaghetti.’
I search through Mrs Kendal’s cupboards until I find what she’s looking for. Then I hold out the sieve. She takes it, places it in the sink, and then she takes the second pan off the hob and tips the contents into it. She shakes it, straining away the water. Then she returns the pasta to the pan. From the fridge she cuts a piece of butter from a bar and swirls it around the spaghetti, returning the pan briefly to the hob until it all melts.
‘Plates?’ she says.
I get the plates and she serves up her creation.
We sit at the breakfast bar. We eat. We sip wine. The bolognese sauce is delicious. I try not to stare at her, or make a big deal of the fact that she’s cooked for us. It doesn’t mean anything, other than a practical need being filled. But she looks so at home here it makes me feel relaxed as well. I wonder about this, how she can just be so calm, and then I realise it is all a facade. Something she does to hide her real emotions.
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