‘I understand,’ says the light of my life. Well, the smaller one.
‘Good girl. I knew you would.’
She laughs. ‘Auntie Julia says that means we can all go to Paris. She promised to show me some famous paintings.’
‘That would be perfect, darling,’ I force myself to say. And after all, it’s true. What an opportunity for my girl, and to think that she’ll have someone with her who really appreciates art. It’s the chance of a lifetime and I’m a fool to begrudge her these extra days away, apart from me. Heaven knows what Brenda will make of Paris, but I shall leave it up to Tim to diffuse her discontent. ‘Say goodbye now and we’ll talk again soon, and maybe by then I’ll be feeling so much better we can decide when you can come home.’
‘Yes please,’ she says, polite as ever. She is a credit to my parents – they have schooled her well in my absence. ‘Bye bye, Mummy. Au revoir.’
‘Au revoir.’ I cut the connection, knowing that it is indeed au revoir and not adieu, as I have feared ever since waving farewell to her.
Alex watches me as I set down the phone on top of my hospital bed. ‘All right?’ His marvellous eyes are full of love and concern.
‘Absolutely fine.’ I present my best optimistic face to him. ‘Tim was totally correct to think that once she knew I’d had a car accident, she would understand. She wants to come home – but she also wants to go to Paris. So that gives us a window, in which I will endeavour to recover as much as possible, and Amber might be found.’
Alex nods in agreement and I see a trace of fury flash across his face, his rage at his former employee who could betray him in this way. ‘The police are onto it. It might take time, but they will surely trace her now we have a confirmed sighting.’
‘It’s so infuriating.’ I cannot contain my frustration. ‘Surely they can speed up the process? What about facial recognition software?’
He raises his hands. I know, I know, don’t shoot the messenger. But I’m stuck here, unable to help. ‘We have to trust them to do this. They have to make sure the trail is watertight. If it ever comes to using it as evidence, you can understand why they are playing it by the book. Any shortcuts could make it inadmissible in court.’
He’s right, of course, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I just want them to find her and get her behind bars. I sigh and he reaches for my hand. ‘But at least I can leave here soon,’ I say, fixing him with my gaze. ‘Do speak to the doctors again, my love. Get them to release me into your care. I’m so much better, I really am. My face is nearly back to its usual shape and I can disguise the bruises with makeup now. I really have no wish to become a bed-blocker.’
He snorts. ‘Nobody can accuse you of malingering. Far from it – you know how anxious I am that you’ll be moved too soon.’ All the same, he’s weakening, I can tell, and I press my advantage shamelessly.
‘Think how much easier it will be for you if I’m home. You can work from there, we’ll have the dogs to guard me and your own security. Kylie can tend to me. You won’t have to come in here several times a day, keeping Marks and Sparks in business.’
Finally he nods. ‘All right. I’ll ask them, but don’t be upset if they say no. We have to defer to their medical expertise.’ He gives me one of his gorgeous grins, which melts my heart. ‘My God, Kate, I can’t wait to get you home.’
Detective Constable Watkins pulled her swivel chair closer to her desk and stared in concentration at the screen. ‘Come and see this, sarge. I’m sure it’s her.’
DS Marcom rubbed his eyes, itchy from a twelve-hour shift. There had been so many false dawns in the search for Amber Simpson that he didn’t seriously believe this could be any different. Still, Watkins was young, and keen, and eager to make her mark in the department. She also had excellent eyesight, which is more than he himself could claim. ‘All right, Watkins, what have you got?’ He walked wearily over to her desk.
She pointed carefully to a figure on the grainy CCTV recording. ‘Take a look at her. See, she’s carrying that big bag we know she had at the antiques shop.’
Marcom bent down to see what his constable was referring to. She’d paused the shot, and the blurry figure could have been anybody to his mind. Then again, he couldn’t have told the difference between two large handbags. Maybe his colleague was in a better position to judge.
Amber had been clearly identified on CCTV from a helpful bar owner on a street between the antiques shop and Piccadilly station, and then again on the busy concourse itself. Knowing what time she’d arrived there had helped. It should have been a relatively easy task to spot her getting off a train at Lime Street, but the sheer volume of people pouring across the platform there had made the task impossibly hard. Now they were combing the recordings from different cameras around the many exits from the station, for the time period in which they estimated she must have arrived. If she hadn’t got off at an earlier stop or doubled back on herself, that was.
Watkins twirled the chair around and brought to life the computer screen on the adjacent desk. There was the shot from the bar owner in Manchester. She froze it. ‘See, her bag has distinctive long tassels hanging off metal hoops – one at each point where the strap attaches and one on the central zip.’
‘If you say so,’ said the sergeant, nonplussed. It was just a bag.
‘It’s from Accessorize, last year’s winter collection,’ Watkins explained.
‘You’re sure about that, are you?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘When you recognize it, it’s obvious. My sister had one. You can get them in several colours. Hers was brown – of course we can’t see what colour this is, on this black and white film, but it’s definitely the same model. Now look at the first screen again.’ She zoomed in on the figure she’d pointed to before. ‘See that? Three tassels, long ones.’
‘Yes, but if it was available on the high street there must be hundreds – if not thousands – out there,’ he pointed out.
‘That’s not all. Look, same shoes, same hat. It’s her.’
Marcom tried his best to keep the rising excitement from his voice. It could still be a red herring. ‘OK, so where’s this?’
‘On a side road just by Lime Street. Hang on, we should be able to go to the next available camera along.’ Fingers flew across the keys and the sergeant looked on in envy, wishing he could control his computer like that.
‘Here she is again. What’s she doing?’
He screwed up his eyes but couldn’t see clearly enough to tell.
Watkins drew back, pushing a strand of short blonde hair behind her ear, and then leant forward again. ‘She’s heading for a bus stop. If I fast-forward a bit . . . there we are. Look, she’s getting on a bus.’
‘What number?’ asked the sergeant, now deadly serious.
‘Can’t quite see. Oh, hang on. If I move it on a bit . . . it’s a 75. Look, it’s clear from this shot. Definitely a 75.’
‘So it is.’ Even Marcom could see that. ‘Right, well, we track the route of that bus as thoroughly as we can and try to find out where she gets off.’
Watkins nodded. ‘We can do that. But I was just thinking, it goes to Ullet Road, doesn’t it? Back to near the flat she was last known to live at?’
‘Surely she wouldn’t try anything that risky. She’s gone to all that effort to hide her identity – turning up on her old doorstep would be suicidal.’
Watkins shrugged. ‘Maybe she’s not thinking clearly. She must be feeling the pressure. We know she hasn’t used her bank cards – what’s she living on? How long will the money from that vase last?’
Marcom stroked his chin and thought for a moment. ‘Right, we get CCTV footage from around that part of Sefton Park. We’ll still track the bus – she could easily have got off before there. But, in some strange way, what you suggest could very well be right. Well done, Watkins.’
He turned away and left DC Watkins beaming with satisfaction at her desk.
Nineteen
‘What di
d you like best?’ asked Brenda as she nervously made her way along the Métro platform. She held Amelia’s hand tightly, as much for her own comfort as the child’s safety. Normally the only public transport she took was the bus back home. The little girl didn’t seem bothered at all by the heaving crowds, Parisians going about their daily lives and also plenty of tourists, wandering around more slowly, pointing at signs, looking at maps or dictionaries or their phones. Brenda supposed she must be used to all that from London.
‘The big gallery with the triangle thing outside,’ said Amelia promptly. They’d taken her to the Louvre earlier that day, and she’d been spellbound by everything there. ‘I liked the lady with the dark hair.’
‘What good taste you have,’ said Julia, joining in. ‘The Mona Lisa is reckoned to be one of the world’s greatest paintings.’
Amelia nodded as if she agreed. ‘And what did you like?’ she asked Brenda politely.
‘I liked the paintings in that other place,’ Brenda said, trying not to panic as a group of unruly schoolchildren surged towards them, small brightly coloured rucksacks on their backs. ‘The . . . splodgy ones.’ She couldn’t remember their name but she’d enjoyed the pictures, full of energy and life.
‘The Impressionists,’ Julia said quickly, to make sure Amelia remembered the correct name and didn’t go home telling Kate that she’d seen splodgy paintings. Although this part of the trip was meant to be fun, she wanted it to be educational as well.
‘Impressionists,’ repeated Amelia dutifully. ‘Look, this is our train.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Brenda uncertainly, quietly terrified of taking the wrong one and getting lost in this overwhelming city.
‘Because they said so,’ said Amelia. Brenda nodded – she herself had made no sense of the booming announcements, which sounded like gobbledegook spoken alarmingly quickly, but the child had clearly understood.
The three of them crowded onto the carriage. Tim had headed back earlier to make some calls from their hotel, and Brian had never left it in the first place. He’d claimed he had a stomach upset but Brenda suspected he was as nervous of Paris as she was, and had faked it to stay in the safety of their room. And a very nice room it was too, with a glorious view of Montmartre and all the tourists strolling through the streets. She couldn’t begrudge him a day of people-watching from the sanctuary of their elegant ironwork balcony. He’d have hated the Impressionists anyway. He liked pictures which bore a close likeness to the real thing.
At least tomorrow they’d be starting their return journey. A few days in Paris were more than enough for her, if she was honest. It was all too hectic for her taste. It made Liverpool One on a Saturday afternoon look quiet and relaxing. Even better, Tim had sorted their tickets and they weren’t going to have to fly. She had almost cried with relief when he’d told her. They’d be taking the train instead, all the way through to St Pancras in London, where she’d be able to get a proper cup of tea and ask for the food she wanted in her own language, without relying on a four-year-old. It couldn’t happen soon enough.
They’d then spend the night in London so that Amelia didn’t arrive in Liverpool late in the evening, but would be ready to see her mother after a good night’s sleep. They’d all agreed this was the best course of action: after such a long separation, nothing must mar the reunion, and for all her precocious cosmopolitan ways the little girl still needed her rest. Brenda privately felt that they all did, and a brief stay in one of the capital’s quieter hotels would do them the world of good, after their whirlwind trip around France, with all its rollercoaster of emotions.
She kept that thought firmly in her mind to shut out the horror of the crowded Métro train, with everyone pressing against her and no room to sit down. How did anyone do this day in, day out? She longed for the sharp tang of the Mersey and the open space around Alex’s house, the dogs running wild and the bees diligently making their honey. She wondered how Alex was getting on, and if Kylie was keeping the house in good order. Well, she’d find out shortly. The sooner the better.
*
Amber could not sit still. She was heartily sick of staring at the walls in her Airbnb rental, the same old pictures, the boring little knick-knacks the owners had put there to make any guest feel more at home. Well, it wasn’t working. Now that she’d had the best, Amber recognized these objects as the cheap tat they were. If she had the patience she’d have cleared them all away in a box for the duration of her stay, but she didn’t. She was permanently on edge, furious with herself for hiring the wrong man to do the job, frustrated that she couldn’t even see Alex, pining for his presence, angry that Kate was still able to see him and that they’d be enjoying cosy chats in the hospital while she was stuck in this tedious room.
She was unhappy with her current diet, too. She was forced to live on takeaways which she had delivered, minimizing the chance of being recognized outside. She was working her way through all the local ones, not using the same one twice just in case somebody knew her. She couldn’t bear to eat Chinese, not after the old flat in Litherland, so that reduced her choices. It was impossible to eat healthily like this. She’d spent years avoiding the temptations of a good creamy korma or a pizza slathered with extra cheese, but now that was pretty well all she could get. She could feel the effect on her waistband. Another thing to blame on Kate: all that hard work put in at the gym or pounding the streets in running shoes overturned by a short spell of constant junk food. This was not part of her plan.
She could have screamed in irritation, but that might scare the neighbours, attracting undue attention. She mustn’t do that. She had to keep her cool. She just had to bide her time and plan her next move carefully. The money from the vase and the other items she’d sold would last a little longer providing she didn’t go mad, so she had a cushion, giving her time to think things through. What she really needed right now was a way of working off this destructive nervous energy. Damn Giles, the coward, for running away. She could have worked off some energy with him all right. Now that door was closed to her too.
Don’t think about him, he’s not worth it, she told herself. Good riddance to bad rubbish. All he ever did was pretend she was Kate. She didn’t need someone like that in her life.
She balled her hands into fists and pressed them angrily against her thighs. She had to get out of here, if only for a short while. She’d go running in Sefton Park, that was it. If she put her hair up and tucked it into a baseball cap, wore sunglasses and hid her figure in a loose sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms, she’d get away with it. Come to think of it, the loose clothes would be more comfortable now anyhow. Nobody would think this ballooning figure was her. It might be agonizing to her self-esteem to have visibly put on weight, but it was actually a decent disguise.
Acting swiftly so that she didn’t change her mind, she flung off her too-tight blouse and jeans and got into the baggiest items in her limited wardrobe, grabbed her sunglasses, and twisted her hair tightly into an elastic band before jamming on a baseball cap. It was one she’d found in this room, left behind by a previous visitor, and it proclaimed ARSENAL across the front. That would throw anyone off the scent – she’d never dream of supporting a London team. Her family had been Everton for generations.
Finally ready, she tucked her key on a chain round her neck and headed outdoors, to burn off her grievances with a few circuits of the big park.
DC Watkins stretched her arms above her head, linked her fingers and pushed her palms away. Every muscle in her back protested in agony. She’d been sitting at the same desk for far too many hours, reviewing CCTV almost non-stop, certain the footage from around the Sefton Park area would show something significant. The trouble was finding it. The tune of the song ‘Needle in a Haystack’ was permanently stuck in her head. ‘Give it a rest, change the record,’ she muttered, lowering her arms once more and swivelling the chair round to check the second screen.
Yet again she stared at the section of road served by the 75 bus
route. Watkins might not have been in the job as long as most of her colleagues, but every ounce of instinct she’d acquired thus far was screaming at her that she was on the right track. There was another bus, coming to a halt. Off got an elderly man, a young couple manoeuvring a buggy while trying to control a toddler, and a couple of schoolkids. Then, last of all, a woman on her own.
Watkins zoomed in, hardly daring to breathe. It was tricky to tell from this angle how old the woman was, or even exactly what she was wearing, but as she turned to walk down the pavement more details became apparent. She had on a pair of sunglasses, and her hair was obscured by a sun hat. She carried a big shoulder bag, and from her other arm there swung a carrier bag of some kind.
It had to be her. Watkins noted the time the footage had been taken, and quickly compared it to when they knew Amber had got on the bus. Unless the bus had got stuck in heavy traffic, the gap was much longer than they’d have expected. That was why they hadn’t looked at this piece of film yet – they’d assumed she would have arrived ages ago. But that carrier bag . . . she could have got off the first bus, popped to a shop, got back on another bus on the same route. Now here she was, strolling along the side of Ullet Road.
Watkins tried to keep calm. It didn’t mean Amber was still there, only that she’d been there on the day in question. She might be visiting a friend – just because they didn’t know of any didn’t mean she didn’t have them. And yet . . . that carrier bag. Groceries? Something for wherever she was staying? Watkins knew it was speculation, and she couldn’t zoom in close enough to see the logo on the plastic, but if she herself had been going to visit a friend, she wouldn’t have taken a load of shopping along. A bottle or a small present, yes. Not a bagful of stuff.
For the Love of Liverpool Page 30