‘Hey, listen to me.’ Ravi tilted her chin so she looked up at him. ‘You have to take care of yourself too. You can’t think properly without sleep, and you’re no good to Jamie like that. Have you had breakfast?’
‘Coffee.’
‘Food?’
‘No.’ There was no point lying to him, he could always tell.
‘Right, well, I thought that would be the case,’ he said, pulling something out of his back pocket. A Coco Pops cereal bar that he pushed into her hand. ‘Eat that please, madam. Now.’
Pip shot him a look of surrender and unpeeled the crackling wrapper.
‘Breakfast of kings, that is,’ said Ravi. ‘Nice and softened by my arse-heat.’
‘Mmm, delicious,’ Pip said, taking a bite.
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘Connor will be here soon,’ she said, between bites. ‘And Cara. You three will head out with the missing posters, and I’m going to the Kilton Mail office. Hopefully someone is in.’
‘How many posters did you print?’ he asked.
‘Two hundred and fifty. Took forever, and Dad’s gonna be pissed when he sees I used up all the ink.’
Ravi sighed. ‘I could have helped you with those. You don’t have to do everything yourself, remember. We’re a team.’
‘I know. And I trust you with everything, except making the poster. Remember that email you almost sent to a law firm with the line “I appreciate that you are very busty” instead of busy?’
He smirked despite himself. ‘Well, that’s what I have a girlfriend for.’
‘For proofreading?’
‘Yep, just that, nothing else.’
Connor arrived a few minutes later, his hurried footsteps slapping against the pavement, cheeks redder than normal. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Was helping Mum call the hospitals again. Nothing . . . Hi, Ravi.’
‘Hey,’ Ravi said, clapping one hand on Connor’s shoulder, leaving it there for a few seconds as a look of silent understanding passed between them. ‘We’ll find him,’ he said gently, indicating Pip with his head. ‘This one’s too stubborn not to.’
Connor attempted a smile.
‘Right, these are for you.’ Pip pulled out the thick stack of missing posters, split them in half and handed them over. ‘The ones in plastic sleeves are for shop windows and outside. Ones without are for posting through doors. Make sure you get them up all over the high street, and the roads down by the common. And all your neighbours, Connor. Did you bring the stapler?’
‘Yep, got two and some tape,’ he said.
‘Good. We should get going.’ She nodded and left them there, pulling out her phone to check. The thirty-seven-hour mark had just ticked by, without any warning or fanfare. Time was creeping away from her and Pip picked up her pace to catch it.
Someone was there; a hunched shape and a rattling of keys outside the small Kilton Mail office. Pip recognized her as one of the women who volunteered at the town paper.
The woman was unaware she was being watched as she shuffled the bunch of keys and tried another.
‘Hi,’ Pip said loudly, making the woman jump, as she’d suspected it might.
‘Oh.’ The woman’s yelp became a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, it’s you. Can I help you with something?’
‘Is Stanley Forbes in?’ asked Pip.
‘He should be.’ Finally, she located the correct key and slid it into the lock. ‘We’ve got the write-up of the memorial to sort out before we print today, so he asked me to come in and help.’ She opened the door. ‘After you,’ she said, and Pip stepped over the threshold into the small front room.
‘I’m Pip,’ she said, following the woman as they passed two tired sofas, heading for the back office.
‘Yes, I know who you are,’ the woman said, shrugging off her jacket. And then, in a slightly less frosty tone: ‘I’m Mary, Mary Scythe.’
‘Pleased to meet you, again,’ she said, which wasn’t exactly true. She figured Mary was one of those people who blamed Pip for all that trouble last year in their nice, quaint town.
Mary pushed the door, revealing a small, square room, four computer desks lining its walls, as tight and claustrophobic as Pip remembered it. Guess that’s what you got for a tiny town newspaper that ran mostly on donations from the family living in that manor house up Beechwood Bottom.
Stanley Forbes was sitting at the desk against the far wall, his back to them, his dark brown hair in unkempt clumps, presumably from where his fingers had tunnelled through. He paid them no attention, leaning towards his desktop screen which, judging by the swathes of white and dark blue, was on Facebook.
‘Hi, Stanley,’ Pip said softly.
He didn’t turn. In fact, he hadn’t moved at all, still scrolling down the page on his computer. He hadn’t heard her.
‘Stanley?’ she tried again. Nothing, not even a flinch. He wasn’t wearing headphones, was he? She couldn’t see any.
‘Honestly,’ Mary scoffed, ‘he does this all the time. Has the most selective hearing I’ve ever come across. Tunes the whole world out. Oi Stan!’ She barked that last part, and finally Stanley looked up, spinning his chair to face them.
‘Oh sorry, were you talking to me?’ he said, his green-brown eyes jumping from Mary to settle on Pip.
‘No one else in the room,’ Mary said irritably, dropping her handbag against the desk furthest from Stanley’s.
‘Hi,’ Pip said again, walking over to him, crossing the distance in just four large steps.
‘H-hello,’ Stanley said, getting to his feet. He held out his hand, apparently to shake hers, but then evidently changed his mind and drew it back – then changed it again with an embarrassed laugh and re-extended the hand. He probably didn’t know the appropriate way to greet her, given their fraught history, and her being eighteen while he was at least late twenties.
Pip shook the hand just to make him to stop.
‘Sorry,’ Stanley said, replacing the awkward hand by his side.
It wasn’t just the Singhs he’d apologized to; Pip had also received a letter from Stanley a few months ago. In it he’d apologized for the way he’d talked down to her, and for Becca Bell taking Pip’s number out of his phone and using it to threaten Pip. He hadn’t known at the time, but he was still sorry. Pip wondered how sincere he really was.
‘What can I . . .’ Stanley began. ‘What do you –’
‘I know the memorial will probably take up a lot of room in tomorrow’s paper. But could you make space, for this?’ Pip dropped her rucksack so she could take out the reserved missing poster. She handed it over, watching Stanley read, his eyes furrowed and a hollow burrowing into his cheek as he chewed it from the inside.
‘Missing, is he?’ He looked down again. ‘Jamie Reynolds.’
‘Know him?’
‘Don’t think so,’ Stanley said. ‘Might recognize the face. Is he from Kilton?’
‘Yep. Family live on Cedar Way. Jamie went to Kilton Grammar, with Andie and Sal.’
‘Missing since when?’ he asked.
‘It says there.’ Pip’s voice rose impatiently. Mary’s chair creaked as she leaned closer to listen in. ‘Last seen around eight o’clock at the memorial, until I learn more about his movements. I saw you taking photos, could you email those to me?’
‘Er, yes, OK. Police?’ asked Stanley.
‘A missing person report has been filed,’ she replied. ‘Police response is non-existent right now. So, it’s just me. That’s why I need your help.’ She smiled, pretending like she didn’t resent having to ask.
‘Missing since the memorial?’ Stanley thought aloud. ‘That’s only, like, a day and a half, right?’
‘Thirty-seven and a half hours,’ she said.
‘That’s not very long, is it?’ He lowered the page.
‘Missing is missing,’ she countered. ‘And the first seventy-two hours are critical, especially if you suspect foul play.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes,’ she sai
d. ‘The family do too. So, will you help? Can you print that notice tomorrow?’
Stanley looked up for a moment, eyes spooling as he considered it. ‘Suppose I can move the article about the potholes until next week.’
‘Is that a yes?’ she said.
‘Yes, I’ll make sure it goes in.’ He nodded, tapping the poster. ‘Though I’m sure he’ll turn up OK.’
‘Thank you, Stanley.’ She returned his polite smile. ‘I really appreciate that.’ She pivoted on the heel of her trainers to leave, but Stanley’s voice stopped her as she reached the door.
‘Mysteries always seem to find their way to you, don’t they?’
Ten
The doorbell was shrill, splitting your ears the same way as a scream. Pip withdrew her finger, restoring quiet to the white-bricked terraced house. She hoped this was the right house, this was the one they’d told her: number thirteen Beacon Close, dark red door.
An aggressively white BMW sports car sat in the drive, throwing the morning sun back into Pip’s eyes, blinding her.
She was about to ring the bell again, when she heard a sliding bolt. The door swung inwards and a man appeared in the gap, screwing his eyes against the brightness outside. This must have been the new boyfriend, then. He was wearing a crisp white jumper – black Adidas track marks up the arms – and a pair of dark basketball shorts.
‘Yeah?’ he said gruffly, voice crackling like he’d not long been awake.
‘Hello,’ Pip said brightly. The man had a tattoo across the front of his neck, the grey ink stark against his white skin in symmetrical repeating shapes that looked a little like scales. A flock of birds emerged from the pattern, flying up the side of his face and into his brown close-shaved hair. Pip returned her gaze to his eyes. ‘Um, is Nat da Silva in? I just asked at her parents’ house and her mum said she’d probably be here.’
‘Yeah she’s in,’ he sniffed. ‘You a friend of hers?’
‘Yes,’ Pip said, which was a lie, but it was easier to say than: No she still hates me even though I keep trying to make her not hate me. ‘I’m Pip . . . Fitz-Amobi. Can I come in? I need to talk to her about something quite urgent.’
‘Yeah, I guess. It’s kinda early,’ he said, stepping back and gesturing for her to follow. ‘I’m Luke. Eaton.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ Pip closed the front door and followed Luke around the bend in the corridor, into the kitchen at the back.
‘Nat, friend of yours,’ Luke said as they entered.
The room was square, kitchen counters in an L-shape on one side, the other filled with a large wooden table. On one end of the table was what looked like a stack of money, the pile weighted down by BMW car keys. And on the other end sat Nat da Silva, a bowl of cereal in front of her. She was wearing what must have been one of Luke’s jumpers, her dyed white hair brushed to one side.
She dropped her cereal-loaded spoon and it clattered noisily against the bowl.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
‘Hi Nat.’ Pip stood there awkwardly, trapped halfway between Luke in the doorway and Nat at the table.
‘You already said what you wanted to say to me at the memorial,’ Nat said dismissively, picking the spoon back up.
‘Oh, no, this isn’t about the trial.’ Pip chanced one step towards Nat.
‘What trial?’ Luke said behind her.
‘Nothing,’ Nat responded, the word spoken over her mouthful. ‘What is it, then?’
‘It’s Jamie Reynolds,’ Pip said. A breeze came through the open window, fluttering the lace curtain and rustling a couple of brown paper bags on the counter. Probably takeaway bags. ‘Jamie’s missing,’ she added.
Nat’s eyebrows lowered, darkening her blue eyes. ‘Missing? His mum called me yesterday, asking if I’d seen him. He still hasn’t turned up?’
‘No, and they’re really worried. They filed a missing person report yesterday, but the police aren’t doing anything about it.’
‘My brother, you mean?’
Pip had walked right into that one.
‘Well, no, I spoke to the Detective Inspector. He says there’s nothing they can do. So the Reynoldses asked if I would investigate.’
‘For your podcast?’ Nat said that last word full of spite, hardening the consonants, sharpening them to a point.
‘Well, yes.’
Nat swallowed another bite of cereal. ‘How opportunistic of you.’
Luke sniggered behind her.
‘They asked me to,’ Pip said quietly. ‘I’m guessing you won’t want to do a recorded interview.’
‘Perceptive too,’ she said, milk dripping on to the table as another spoonful hovered between her and the bowl.
‘Jamie told his brother he was going to your house – your parents’ house – after the memorial, to spend the evening with you.’
‘He was supposed to. He never showed up.’ Nat sniffed, glancing quickly up at Luke. ‘Never texted to say he wasn’t coming. I waited. Tried calling him.’
‘So, the last contact you had with Jamie was at the memorial, in person?’
‘Yes.’ Nat crunched another mouthful. ‘Until just after Andie’s friends spoke, when I noticed Jamie staring into the crowd on the other side, trying to see something. I asked him what was up, and he said, “I’ve just seen someone.”’
‘And?’ Pip said when Nat paused for too long.
‘Then he left, presumably to go talk to whoever it was,’ she said.
That’s when Pip had last seen him too. Jostling her as he made his way to the other side of the crowd, a strange intensity on his face. But who was he moving towards?
‘Do you have any idea who the “someone” is that he spotted?’
‘No,’ Nat said, stretching her neck out with an audible crack. ‘Can’t be somebody I know or he would’ve said their name. He’s probably with whoever that someone is. He’ll come home. Jamie’s like that, very all or nothing.’
‘His family are convinced something has happened to him,’ Pip said, her legs starting to prickle from standing still too long. ‘That’s why I need to work out his movements during and after the memorial. Find out who he interacted with on Friday night. Do you know anything that might help?’
She heard an intake of breath behind her, from Luke, before he spoke. ‘Nat’s right, Jamie’s probably just staying with a friend. I’m sure this is a load of trouble over nothing.’
‘Do you know Jamie?’ Pip half-turned to look at him.
‘Nah, not really, only through Nat. They’re good friends. If she says he’s OK, then he’s probably OK.’
‘Well, I –’ Nat started.
‘Were you at the memorial?’ Pip asked Luke. ‘Did you see –’
‘Nah, wasn’t there.’ Luke clicked his tongue. ‘Never knew either of those kids. So no, didn’t see Jamie. Didn’t actually leave the house at all on Friday.’
Pip nodded at him, then twisted back to the kitchen table. As she did, she caught just the tail-end of the expression on Nat’s face. She was looking up at Luke, hand frozen mid-air on its way back to the spoon, mouth slightly open like she’d started to speak but had forgotten how. Then her eyes flicked to Pip and the face immediately dropped out, so fast Pip wasn’t sure she’d really seen it at all, nor what it might mean.
‘So,’ Pip said, watching Nat more closely now, ‘was Jamie acting strangely that night, or in recent weeks?’
‘Don’t think so,’ said Nat. ‘I haven’t heard from him much lately.’
‘Have you been texting? Late-night phone calls?’ asked Pip.
‘Well, not . . .’ Nat suddenly abandoned her cereal, sitting back in the chair with her arms crossed. ‘What is this?’ she said, her voice jagged with anger. ‘Are you interrogating me? I thought I was just telling you when I last saw Jamie, but now it’s sounding like you suspect me of something. Like last time.’
‘No, I’m not –’
‘Well you were wrong back then, weren’t you? Should learn from your mista
kes.’ Nat pushed her chair back and it screeched on the tiles, cutting right through Pip. ‘Who made you the vigilante of this crappy town, anyway? Everyone else might be happy to play along, but I’m not.’ She shook her head and dropped her pale blue eyes. ‘You’re leaving now.’
‘I’m sorry, Nat,’ Pip said. There was nothing else she could say; anything she tried only made Nat hate her more. And there was only one person to blame for that. But Pip wasn’t that person any more, was she? That yawning feeling opened up in her gut again.
Luke led Pip back down the hallway and opened the front door.
‘You lied to me,’ he said as Pip passed, a faint hint of amusement in his voice. ‘Said you were friends.’
She screwed her eyes against the glare from Luke’s car, turned back and shrugged.
‘Thought I was good at spotting liars.’ His grip tightened around the edge of the door. ‘Leave us out of it, whatever it is you’re up to. You hear?’
‘I hear.’
Luke smiled at something and closed the door with a sharp click.
Walking away from the house, Pip pulled out her phone to check the time. 10:41 a.m. Thirty-eight and a half hours missing. Her home screen was piling up with notifications from Twitter and Instagram, more coming in as she watched. The scheduled post on her website and social media had gone out at half ten, announcing the second season of the podcast. So now everyone knew about Jamie Reynolds. There really was no going back.
A few emails had come in too. Another company inquiring about sponsorship. One from Stanley Forbes with twenty-two attachments, the subject reading: memorial pictures. And one from two minutes ago: Gail Yardley, who lived down Pip’s road.
Hello Pippa, it read. I’ve just seen the missing posters around town. I don’t remember seeing Jamie Reynolds that evening, but I’ve had a quick look through my photographs from the memorial, and I’ve found him. You might want to take a look at this photo.
It’s unmistakably Jamie, standing there in Gail Yardley’s photo. The metadata tells me the photo is time-stamped from 8:26 p.m., so here Jamie is, undisappeared, ten minutes after I last saw him.
Jamie is almost facing the camera, and that itself is the strangest thing about the photograph. Everyone else, every single other face and every other pair of eyes are all turned up, looking at the exact same thing: the lanterns for Andie and Sal, hovering just over the roof of the pavilion during this sliver of time.
Good Girl, Bad Blood Page 8