Joe repeated the mantra he used when anyone tried to draw him out on the subject of the girls.
‘I can’t talk about this. Sorry.’
He found himself biting back the urge to shout at the top of his lungs, to yell at the birds, the sea, the skies.
I saw what he did. I found them. I saw what he did to their bodies.
He watched Adam reach for the door of the Range Rover, exposing his wrist for a second time.
‘Nasty scratches.’ Joe kept his tone neutral. Adam looked down at his arm then glanced to his right.
‘Occupational hazard in the zoo world,’ he said. ‘I got these feeding a bunch of dusky langurs.’
Joe nodded. ‘I’ll call.’
‘Merci et au revoir,’ said his visitor. Then he drove away.
If the body language experts were to be believed, Adam Pennefeather had just lied: eyes to the left indicated that the speaker was exercising a function of memory; eyes to the right meant he was using the creative part of the brain, otherwise known as lying.
The police would carry out a routine search of Bella’s home and the area where she was last seen. By going further afield, Joe could keep ahead of the official investigation without stepping on their toes. Katie would be pissed off but that couldn’t be helped. Adam was right: Joe owed him. He would do his best to find the missing girl then life would go back to normal. Or what passed for it.
Turning, he caught sight of the three-legged dog, now keeping watch on the Beach Cafe as the manager opened up. Not for the first time he found himself wondering if it was too late to retrain. A zoologist perhaps. Or a dog whisperer. Or a vet. Anything that didn’t involve dead children and being lied to before breakfast.
3
Joe steered the MGB around the Canterbury ring road, snaking alongside the ancient city walls, heading for what he still thought of as home. The evening rush hour had dwindled, the freak heatwave was over and there was a tang of autumn in the air.
Since being briefed by Adam, he had covered half of Kent, visiting the locations on the list drawn up by Saffron Pennefeather. He had shown the photo of Bella to many people but drawn a blank. Throughout the day, he had reported the lack of progress to the missing girl’s father.
He’d also had business cards printed – just his name and number – and sent his wife two texts. Katie had yet to respond. Three possibilities. She was buried in work or punishing him for moving out.
Or something was wrong.
Heading along New Dover Road, then Watling Street, Joe turned into Marlowe Avenue, pulling up outside the red-brick semi. Away from home for only ten days, he could already feel a chasm between his new existence and the life that thrummed inside the house, with its louvre-shuttered windows and manicured front garden. Nearly eight p.m. The lights were on but there was no sign of Katie’s Volvo. Either she was out or Luke had borrowed her car.
Approaching the door, Joe fished his key from his pocket then hesitated, Katie’s words echoing in his head.
Things are different now. Don’t just turn up and let yourself in.
He hadn’t made a big deal of it but his antennae had started to twitch. Had he protested, she would have repeated the terms of their trial separation. No impromptu visits. No state-of-the-union chats. No bad-mouthing each other to their son. But their civilized approach to this rupture in their marriage was only part of the story, the part that masked primitive emotions. Despite the build-up – the Kinsella case, Joe’s need for ‘space’ – this house was still his cave, this woman still his mate. Animosity towards rivals was hardwired into every fibre of his being. An animal instinct. There was no reason to assume that Katie was seeing someone else but it was now a possibility.
During twenty-two years of marriage, Joe had looked, flirted and fantasized (he was married, not dead) but never slept with another woman. Nor had he taken seriously the idea of Katie being unfaithful. Now they were in virgin territory. Did the old rules apply?
The separation had been his suggestion but Katie had proved unexpectedly enthusiastic.
I get it. You went through hell. You need to work out how to live the rest of your life. Then the kicker. Maybe we both do.
Banishing the image of his wife with another man, Joe rang the bell. Expecting his son to open the door, he was startled to see Katie, and surprised by her new hairstyle. He braced himself for a glare (why didn’t you phone?) but she blew out her cheeks and sighed with relief.
‘Thank God it’s you. Spider in the kitchen. Size of a planet.’
* * *
‘You’re putting on weight,’ she said. ‘You look almost normal.’
Joe was focused on his cupped hands, transporting the spider from the sink to the back door.
‘Pity it’s down to junk food,’ Katie continued. ‘I can smell it oozing from your pores.’
Joe raised an eyebrow. ‘Oozing?’
‘You smell like a walking vindaloo.’
He kept his attention on the spider, elbowing open the kitchen door and releasing the insect into the garden.
‘Tegenaria domestica,’ he said. But she didn’t seem to hear.
‘Since when are you a private detective?’
Katie’s question was a reference to the message he’d left on her voicemail. Joe didn’t respond immediately, playing for time. Rinsing his hands under the tap, he was still absorbing the new hairdo. Gone was the shoulder-length look she’d sported through their married life, replaced by a stylish blonde bob. Joe knew she’d been building up to the change for months, insisting that the style he preferred was ‘no longer age-appropriate’.
(And that was another development he could do without: the jargon she was sucking up from How To Be A Manager books that had colonized her bedside table since her promotion.)
‘New hair?’
He knew he sounded stiff but he was ill at ease, a stranger in his own home.
‘Stop avoiding my question, Joe. Since when do you work as a private eye for Elephant Boy?’
‘I’m not working for Adam. I owe him.’
His eyes roved the kitchen, taking in the whiteboard.
The Oracle. A grid listing family appointments, itemized in Katie’s neat handwriting: red for herself, blue for Luke. Joe couldn’t help noticing that his own name had already been deleted. He bristled with indignation at the idea of being airbrushed out of the family, but the moment passed. He missed many things about life in Marlowe Avenue. The Oracle was not one of them.
Monday–Friday 7.00 am: swimming
Tuesday 7 pm: book group
Wednesday 8 pm: Macmillan Nurse’s.
Joe couldn’t resist. ‘Macmillan Nurse’s what?’
‘Sorry?’
‘It says, “Wednesday, 8 p.m., Macmillan Nurse’s”.’
‘It’s a committee meeting,’ said Katie. ‘We’re raising money for charity. Maybe a fun run.’
‘For Macmillan Nurses – plural?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why the apostrophe?’
Katie rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, how I’ve missed the punctuation police.’
She turned away, opening the fridge as Joe scanned the whiteboard.
Wednesday 2 pm: dentist – Luke
Friday 8 pm: H.
He got no further.
H…
Who or what was H?
Katie closed the fridge and handed him a can of Heineken, his reward for dealing with the spider. Her mind was already back on work.
‘Adam Pennefeather doesn’t like having a woman in charge,’ she said. ‘He’s also richer than God so he thinks he deserves special treatment.’
Good point, well made.
She’d met the man just once but her evaluation was accurate.
‘Plus he’s seriously creepy,’ she said. ‘What sort of man collects murderabilia?’
Joe snapped open the beer. ‘First I’ve heard of it.’
‘I Googled him,’ said Katie. ‘Remember Ned Kelly, the Australian outlaw? They dug up his
remains a few years ago. Pennefeather tried to buy them but Kelly’s family created a stink and forced him to back down. So he moved on and managed to get his hands on the coffin of the guy who assassinated JFK.’
‘Lee Harvey Oswald?’
Katie nodded. ‘They exhumed him to quash some conspiracy theory that it wasn’t his body. But it turned out it was him so they buried him in a new coffin. Your pal bought the old one in an auction. Fifty grand.’
Joe thought of the scratches on Adam’s arm, his inkling that the man had lied. He resolved to pay Pennefeather a visit first thing.
‘His daughter’s missing. Cut him some slack.’
Katie opened the fridge again, poured a glass of tomato juice then took out a clingfilm-covered bowl of raw vegetables: cauliflower, carrots, celery.
‘His precious Bella is probably shacked up with a bit of rough from Chaucer Estate,’ she said. ‘We’re doing all the usual checks but if you insist on playing gumshoe…’
She tailed off and bit into a carrot. Joe was determined not to let the visit deteriorate into a row. He sipped his beer. Tried to sound nonchalant.
‘How come you didn’t return my calls?’
She looked away. ‘I was having the day from hell.’ A sip of tomato juice. ‘How are the nightmares?’
‘Same.’
‘Still not smoking?’
He nodded. ‘Ten days and counting.’
‘Have you been taking the pills?’
‘Yep.’
Joe was surprised at how easily the lie slipped from his lips. Was this the way things were now? Years of plain dealing and honesty cast aside after a brief separation? If he asked ‘Who’s H?’, would his wife tell the truth? Was H the reason for the new hairdo? And since when had she started eating raw vegetables?
The awkward silence was broken by the sound of a key in the front door accompanied by the hiss of music from his son’s earbuds. Luke slouched in, chewing gum. Grey hoodie, low-slung jeans, new Nike trainers.
Joe braced himself for a sarcastic barb. He didn’t have long to wait.
‘Wow,’ said Luke, removing his earbuds. ‘It’s the Dad of the Year.’
Joe managed half a smile. He resisted the temptation to mention the goatee sprouting from his son’s chin.
‘I didn’t hear the car,’ he said.
Luke cast a sheepish glance in Katie’s direction. She rolled her eyes.
‘Clever-clogs managed to get it stolen.’
Luke scowled. ‘I didn’t “get it stolen”, it just happened.’
A few copper-coloured strands of his three-day beard caught the light.
‘When was it stolen?’ said Joe.
‘The night before last. I came out of the Admiral Nelson and I’m like, “Whoaah, dude, who stole my car?”’
‘Whose car?’ said Katie.
A shrug. ‘Whatever.’
Joe drew breath to speak but Katie pre-empted his question.
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t drinking.’
Luke nodded. ‘Unless you count Red Bull.’ He cast a smirk in Joe’s direction, gesturing towards the can of Heineken. ‘Anyway: pot, kettle, black.’
Joe poured the rest of the beer into a glass and handed it to his son.
‘Cheers,’ said Luke. He put his chewing gum in the bin. ‘How’s the midlife-crisis-on-wheels?’
Joe sighed. He was tired of defending his decision to swap the Renault Espace for the MGB Roadster he’d coveted since he was eight years old.
1968. Red. A poem on wheels.
‘The car’s fine,’ he said. Then, unable to resist retaliating, ‘How’s the job hunt?’
Katie winced, picking up on the thinly veiled accusation.
‘Nice one, Joe. We must do this more often.’
Luke said nothing.
Joe sipped his beer. He frowned as a thought struck. Turned to Katie.
‘How have you been getting to work without your car?’
‘Someone gives me a lift,’ she said. Her smile was a shade too bright.
‘I see,’ said Joe. His eyes flickered to the Oracle.
H…
Before he could ask a follow-up question, the cat entered through the flap.
‘Hey, Spike,’ said Joe as the cat made straight for him, twining itself around his ankles.
‘He bit me twice yesterday,’ said Katie. ‘But he hears you and he’s straight back indoors, sucking up to Dr Dolittle.’
Joe picked up the cat, cradling him in his arms. Spike began to purr. Katie’s mobile shrilled. She retrieved it from her briefcase and exited the kitchen. Joe smiled at his son.
‘Seriously,’ he said. ‘Is there any job news?’
A sulky shrug. ‘I’m working on it.’ Luke took a sip of beer. ‘How’s Dungeness? How’s all the thinking?’ There was no mistaking the hostility in his voice.
Joe longed for a cigarette. His craving soared to eight out of ten.
‘I’m sorry this is tough for you,’ he said, ‘but you’re twenty, not twelve, and it’s not for ever.’
Joe’s relationship with his son could best be described as ‘complicated’. The boy’s attitude was no surprise, given his father’s decision to swap family life for solitude and a shack on the beach. But as the police shrink’s letter to Katie had explained, after all Joe had been through – guilt over his failure to find the girls alive, trial by media, public vilification – taking time out wasn’t a matter of choice, it was a question of survival.
Sometimes we need to break down in order to break through.
All the same, Luke had every right to feel aggrieved. In all his son’s years of schooling, Joe had attended precisely one sports day and two school plays, one of which – a production of Grease – he’d had to leave early thanks to a breakthrough in a murder inquiry. Homework, bedtime stories, foreign holidays, parent-teacher meetings – little of what passed for family life had been allowed to get in the way of ‘catching the bad guys’, an excuse he’d first used when his son was three.
Joe placed the cat on the floor and picked up his beer. Vaguely aware of Katie’s phone conversation out in the hall, he crossed to the bin and dropped the can inside. His eye was caught by something amid a pile of carrot peelings.
The stub of a roll-up.
He turned to his son.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’
Luke followed his father’s gaze and grinned.
‘Mum’s smoking weed? Awesome.’
Joe sniffed the roll-up. ‘Just tobacco,’ he said. ‘Even so…’ He cocked his head to one side. Not amused.
Waiting for a response, Joe was aware of a change in the timbre of his wife’s voice. Low. Urgent. He could make out a few words.
‘Give me twenty minutes.’
Ending the call, she walked back into the kitchen. Joe raised a quizzical eyebrow but her focus was on gathering files from the table.
‘They found Bella’s body.’
The colour drained from Luke’s face.
‘Who’s Bella?’ he said.
‘Bella Pennefeather,’ said Katie. ‘A daughter of Dad’s old friend Adam. They found her in the meat yard at his wildlife park.’
In the days to come, Joe would replay this scene in his mind, over and over, but he knew what he’d witnessed: his son had flinched at the mention of Bella’s name. Katie missed the moment. She was busy rummaging for her keys. Pulling on her jacket. Making the switch from wife and mother to senior investigating officer.
But Joe hadn’t merely seen his son’s reaction, he’d felt it.
He heard a car pull up outside.
‘Don’t wait up,’ said Katie, hurrying into the hall. The front door closed behind her. The house was flooded with silence. Luke stared into his beer. Joe kept his eyes on his son’s face.
‘Did you know her?’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Bella Pennefeather.’
‘Nope.’
Joe took the photo from his pocket.
>
‘Are you sure?’
Luke studied the picture of the freckle-faced blonde. He furrowed his brow then returned his father’s gaze.
‘I’ve never seen her before in my life.’
‘OK,’ said Joe.
His heart was hammering. Blood thudded in his ears. For the second time since breakfast he knew he was being lied to.
4
Ask Adam about scratches on wrist.
Joe pressed ‘send’. The text was on its way. It was gone midnight but he knew Katie would be at the wildlife park, dealing with the discovery of Bella’s body while stamping her authority on the murder investigation team. He’d deliberated long and hard before prompting his wife to ask Adam a leading question but had decided it could do no harm.
He took a shower then lay on the sagging mattress and tried to sleep.
For once, his dreams didn’t feature the Salamander or the Kinsella girls. Instead, Luke and his copper-coloured goatee featured in a roller-coaster nightmare whose kaleidoscopic intensity jolted him awake before dawn, his stomach hollow with nameless dread.
Brain still buzzing with the memory of his son’s lie, he lay in the darkness, listening to the sound of the waves while replaying the scene in the kitchen at Marlowe Avenue.
Katie: ‘They’ve found Bella’s body.’
Luke pouring a beer, his face etched with… what, exactly? Alarm? Fear?
‘Who’s Bella?’
‘Bella Pennefeather. Did you know her?’
‘Nope.’
Luke’s frown as he examined Bella’s photo.
‘I’ve never seen her before in my life.’
As daylight filtered through the salt-smeared windows, Joe went into the bathroom and shaved. He took a mug of tea outside, into the misty dawn, and scanned the beach for the three-legged dog.
Out at sea, a giant tanker was gliding by in one of the channels that lay close to the shoreline. Looking past the power station, towards the salt marshes, Joe could see anglers’ tents ranged along the shingle, their occupants fishing for cod and bass. A few hundred yards to the west of the shack lay Joe’s nearest neighbour, a ponytailed man in his seventies, owner of one of the houses fashioned from Victorian railway carriages dragged onto the shingle a century ago. Unlike Katie, Joe had never cared for property porn but he envied the septuagenarian’s quirky home. You could keep McMansions and ‘luxury penthouse apartments’. A converted railway carriage on a windswept beach. That was living.
Animal Instinct Page 2