You know what she’s like. Where had Simon heard that phrase, or something similar? It had seemed odd to him at the time, he remembered, but he couldn’t recall the speaker, the subject or the context. He frowned, trying to retrieve the memory.
Charlie tapped her knees impatiently. ‘Sir, it occurs to me . . .’
‘Does this involve towels?’
‘No.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Sir, you’re about Vivienne Fancourt’s age. You’re a senior officer. She thinks she can handle Simon and me, and we’re much younger than she is. But if you came along . . . No offence, sir, but you can be pretty bloody scary when you want to be.’
‘Me?’ Proust was aghast. He gripped the edge of his desk with both hands. ‘You’re not suggesting that I talk to her?’
‘I think it’s a brilliant idea.’ Charlie leaned forward in her chair. ‘You could do your dry ice act, it’d really put the wind up her. Sir, you’re the only one of the three of us who stands a chance of getting a confession out of her. Your persuasive powers are impossible to resist.’
Proust only noticed and disapproved of flattery when it was directed at people other than himself. ‘Well, I’m not sure . . . and I’m also not sure what you mean by “my dry ice act”.’
‘Please, sir. It might really make a difference. Vivienne Fancourt’s used to me by now. If the three of us go . . .’ Charlie stopped. A few days ago, she’d have been too proud and stubborn to ask for Proust’s help. She was irritated, briefly, by the thought that she might be becoming more mature. Why should she become a better person when no-one else ever did? Simon didn’t. Proust certainly didn’t.
‘The two of you,’ said Simon. ‘I won’t be coming.’ There was somewhere else he needed to go. You know what Alice is like. Except that, for the first time since he’d seen her at the top of the stairs, Simon wasn’t at all sure he did.
37
Friday October 3, 2003
I tiptoe into the nursery, leaving the door slightly ajar. David has not woken up, neither has Vivienne. Nobody has heard me. Yet. I must be quick, as quick as I can be without making any stupid mistakes. The painted eyes of the wooden rocking horse watch me as I cross the room. I approach the cot nervously, half expecting to find Little Face gone, to see nothing but bedding and cuddly toys when I look down. Another of David’s cruel jokes.
Thankfully, she is there, where she should be. Her cheeks look warm in the glow of her Winnie-the-Pooh night light. I can tell from her breathing that she is deeply asleep. Now is as good a time as any. And it has to be now.
I pull the Moses basket out from beneath the cot. It already has a sheet and blanket in it. Apart from this I am taking nothing – no clothes, no accessories, not even a bottle of formula milk. I do not want my departure to look planned. All the books I read when I was pregnant said that leaving the house with a small baby feels like a major expedition, because of the amount of luggage you have to take with you. This is not necessarily true, not if one is adequately prepared, and I am. Everything Little Face and I need will be waiting for us in Combingham.
I lift her tiny sleeping body and place her gently in the Moses basket, tucking her in with the yellow blanket. Then, as quietly as possible, I tiptoe out of the nursery and down the stairs, still in my nightie and wearing slippers instead of shoes, so that I make no noise as I walk through the house.
I do not put on my coat. To be outside in the cold for a few minutes in only a cotton nightie will be nothing compared with what I have been through this week. It will be easy. My coat will be found tomorrow morning, on the stand in the hall. I go to the kitchen, pick up my keys that are still on the work surface under the window, and unlock the back door. The front door is too thick and heavy. Opening and closing it would make too much noise.
Once Little Face and I are outside, I lock the kitchen door. I am shivering hard, but I don’t know if it’s the cold or my nerves. Setting the Moses basket down on the wet grass for a second, I stand on tiptoes and drop my keys in through the open window. They land in exactly the right place, beside my handbag and phone. When Vivienne reports me missing, the police will think it is significant that all my possessions are still at The Elms. It will make them more likely to believe that I did not leave here of my own accord, that some harm must have come to me. I do not feel guilty for misleading them. More harm has come to me than I would have believed possible a few months ago.
There would be no point taking my bag, in any case. If I use my cash or credit card I will be found almost immediately, before the police have a chance to begin their investigation.
I pick up the Moses basket and walk round the house. Wet grass tickles my bare ankles as I cross the lawn to reach the path. I pause for a second in front of the house and look straight ahead of me at the iron gate in the distance. Then I start to walk, accelerating gradually, feeling like an aeroplane on a runway.
I pass my car on the way to the road. I hate to leave it, but cars are too easy to track down. It’s only metal and paint, I say to myself, trying not to cry. If my parents are watching me from wherever they are, I know they will understand. I hope they are not. They had a happy life, and I would rather death were the end than have them alive in spirit somewhere, fearing for me in the way that I fear for Florence. When your spirit is consumed by fear and uncertainty, it starts to die.
As soon as I am on the other side of the gate, I feel lighter, as if a rock has been lifted from my back. It is odd to think that most people are asleep now, while Little Face and I are waiting in the shadows by the side of the road. I wonder how many nights I have slept soundly, oblivious, while, not too far away, strangers have tiptoed through the darkness towards an uncertain future.
I wait behind a tree with a sturdy trunk, the Moses basket at my feet. Little Face is still asleep, thank goodness. She always is at this time. Another hour and she will be close to waking up, her body telling her it’s time for her next bottle. David doesn’t know that most nights I also wake up as soon as she murmurs, that I know the workings of her body clock as well as he does.
I look down the road in the direction of Rawndesley. I can see cars, because the road is lit, but their drivers are unlikely to see me in this dark space between Vivienne’s fence and the row of tree trunks. I look at my watch. It is exactly one-thirty am. Any minute now. Not much longer to wait. At that moment, I see the Red Fiat Punto approaching. It slows down as it gets closer.
Our lift has arrived.
38
10/10/03, 11 am
Charlie hoped she hadn’t made a mistake, asking Proust to come with her. He’d done nothing wrong – not yet, they weren’t even there yet – but she already resented the inspector’s presence. She missed Simon. Purely as a colleague, in this instance. The two of them had interviewed together many times, knew the routine, how to read one another’s cues.
She felt nervous as she and Proust drove to The Elms in Proust’s Renault Laguna. She couldn’t stop sneaking little looks at The Snowman out of the corner of her eye. He was doing fine so far. He seemed calm, undaunted. Still, Charlie felt as if she were in sole charge of an unpredictable toddler. Things could take a turn for the worse at any moment.
She wished he’d put the radio on. She’d suggested it once, on the way to a conference a long time ago, and the inspector had given her a lecture about the foolhardiness of listening to anything when you were driving apart from the engine, in case you missed the sound of impending danger – a faint rumble from under the bonnet auguring an imminent explosion. Proust bought a new car every two years, and subjected his vehicle of the moment to more services than an evangelical church.
They arrived at The Elms, drove in through the open iron gates. Charlie half expected them to snap shut, like metal teeth, behind her. There was something too rigid about the perfectly straight, narrow path that led all the way from the road to the big white cube of house at the end. No turning back, it seemed to say. Too many trees at the front of
the house stalked the trim lawn, darkening it with their shadows.
They rang the doorbell and waited. Charlie concealed a smile behind her hand when she noticed Proust adjusting his jacket, trying to look as if he wasn’t.
David Fancourt answered the door. He looked thinner, but was as smartly dressed as he had been when Charlie last saw him, in beige trousers and a navy blue shirt. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any news,’ he said sullenly.
‘Not yet. I’m sorry. You’ve met Detective Inspector Proust.’ The two men nodded at one another.
‘Is it the police?’ Charlie heard Vivienne call out. Before David had a chance to answer, his mother appeared beside him. In one smooth, subtle movement, she elbowed him aside, took his place.
David shrugged and stood back. His eyes were dull. He didn’t care who stood in front of whom. Charlie had seen this many times before. Relatives of the missing gave up hope after a while, or pretended to. Perhaps they couldn’t bear the pity they saw in the eyes of the police officers who came to the door week after week, month after month, with no news. Charlie could imagine how one might decide, in that situation, to present a resigned front to the world. There was nothing more patronising than being let down gently.
She was as sure as she’d ever been that David Fancourt had no idea where his wife and daughter were. His mother, on the other hand . . .
Something about the look on Vivienne Fancourt’s face when she saw Proust made Charlie decide not to say anything, to wait. The inspector looked blank but officious. Charlie tried to imitate his expression, knowing she would hate to have it directed at her. It was a glare that gave nothing to its recipient: no information, no comfort.
‘David, could you leave us for a minute, please?’ said Vivienne after a few seconds.
‘Why? My daughter’s missing . . .’
‘This isn’t about Florence. Is it?’ She looked at Charlie.
‘No.’
‘Then what’s it about?’
‘David. Please.’
Fancourt sighed, then retreated.
‘You know, don’t you?’ said Vivienne.
Charlie nodded, battling against a sensation of unreality. It couldn’t be this easy. It never was. Well, it sometimes was, but not now, for God’s sake, not with Proust as a witness. The inspector shuffled his feet, adjusting his position slightly. Charlie knew he was as surprised as she was, could guess what he was thinking. This was the difficult interview he’d been brought along to help with? A woman so keen to confess that she does it on the doorstep? On the way back he would say, ‘There’s nothing to it, is there?’ or something equally maddening.
‘You’d better come in.’
Charlie and Proust followed Vivienne to the room she called ‘the little lounge’, the one that contained the framed photograph of David and Alice’s wedding. Charlie hadn’t been able to get the picture out of her mind, for some reason. Jealousy, probably.
Nobody sat down.
‘If you’re going to charge me, I’d rather you got it over with.’
‘Charge you with . . . ?’ Charlie let the question hang in the air. She didn’t like the feel of this at all.
‘Abduction,’ said Vivienne impatiently.
‘You know where Florence is,’ said Charlie. Proust listened in silence, his hands behind his back.
‘Of course not. What are you talking about?’
‘Abduction, you said . . .’
‘I didn’t abduct Florence.’ Vivienne was getting angry, as if Charlie was stupidly lagging behind.
‘You abducted the . . . other baby?’ Charlie still wasn’t sure she believed in this mythical ‘other’ baby. So what was she talking about? Get back in control, she ordered herself. Take the reins.
‘You don’t know, do you?’ said Vivienne, a superior sneer on her face.
‘Why have you never mentioned to any police officer the fact that you regularly used to see Darryl Beer at your health club?’
No flicker of fear. Damn. Vivienne looked surprised. ‘Why would I mention it?’
‘So you did see him?’
‘Yes. But I didn’t think anything of it. I see plenty of people there.’
‘What if I were to put it to you that you killed Laura Cryer, that you framed Beer?’
Vivienne turned angrily to Proust. ‘Is this some sort of joke, inspector? Me, frame someone for murder? I’m awaiting news of my granddaughter and this is all you’ve got to say to me?’
‘What if I said we could prove it?’ Charlie spoke before Proust had a chance to.
‘I would say you must be mistaken,’ said Vivienne coldly. ‘Since the events you are describing did not take place, you can’t possibly prove that they did.’
‘You took his towel from the swimming area. You removed hair and skin from it, and you scattered that hair and skin over Laura Cryer’s body, after you’d killed her.’
Vivienne almost smiled. It turned into an incredulous frown at the last minute. ‘You can’t honestly believe that,’ she said.
Charlie stared at her. Even an innocent person would be nervous by now, surely.
‘You told the secretary at Stanley Sidgwick Grammar School, in November 1999, that Felix would be starting in January 2001. How did you know he would? Laura wouldn’t have agreed to it. Felix was happily settled in a nursery local to her and she wanted him to stay there. So you must have known she’d be out of the way by then.’
Vivienne laughed. ‘You have got a vivid imagination, sergeant. Actually, Laura did agree to it. True, she wasn’t keen at first, but eventually I succeeded in persuading her. Felix would have enrolled at Stanley Sidgwick in January 2001 whether Laura was alive or dead.’
‘You didn’t persuade her,’ said Charlie. ‘What you did was murder her. She hated you, you told me so yourself. Why would she be persuaded by anything you said?’
‘Perhaps because I was offering to pay the fees and it’s the best school in the country,’ said Vivienne patiently. ‘Only a fool would turn down an offer like that, and Laura was no fool.’
Charlie wanted to scream. It was just about possible. With Laura dead, Charlie couldn’t prove Vivienne was lying. She’d met the type before: people who had such unmitigated contempt for everyone but themselves that they were prepared to stand there and tell the feeblest lies, straight-faced, without even bothering to make them plausible. It’s a shitty, pathetic lie, but it’s good enough for the likes of you: that was the attitude.
‘Shall we go back to the abduction?’ said Proust coldly. Charlie wondered what he was thinking.
‘Indirectly, I was the cause of Laura’s death, that I will concede,’ said Vivienne. ‘On the night of her murder, I collected Felix from nursery. Without Laura’s permission. She would never have given her permission, and I was sick to the back teeth of never seeing my grandson properly or alone. So I kidnapped him. It was breathtakingly easy. The teenagers at his nursery handed him over without a murmur. Wretched place,’ she muttered. ‘I am aware that what I did is probably against the law, and that if I hadn’t done it, Laura wouldn’t have come here on the night she was killed. She’d be alive today. She came to recover her son from his wicked grandmother – that was what she thought of me. I wouldn’t let her take him, wouldn’t let her in. She didn’t even come into the house that night, sergeant. So, arrest me for lying to the police, arrest me for taking Felix by all means, but I refuse to accept moral responsibility for Laura’s murder. It was her own unreasonable behaviour that drove me to act as I did.’ She stuck out her chin in defiance, proud of her speech, the principled stand she had taken.
‘Where are Alice and Florence?’ asked Proust. ‘You know where they are, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘May we search your property?’ asked Charlie.
‘Yes. Am I allowed to ask why you feel the need to?’ Her voice hardened into sarcasm. ‘I still have Felix, if it’s he you’re looking for. He lives here now. Legally. Legitimately.’ She smoothed down
her skirt. ‘If that’s all, I’ll leave you to show yourselves out. I’m due at my health club for a manicure in fifteen minutes. I advise you to stop inventing preposterous theories and get on with finding my granddaughter,’ she said quietly on her way out of the room.
Charlie clamped her jaw shut. Why did she always end up feeling like a naughty schoolgirl whenever she spoke to this woman? And she could do without the look Proust was giving her, the one that told her how spectacularly he thought she’d fucked up. ‘What now, sergeant?’ he said.
It was a bloody good question.
39
Friday October 10, 2003
The doorbell rings. Little Face and I are in the kitchen. It is the room in which we are least likely to be seen. There is a door with a frosted glass panel and only one window which is on the side of the house, facing a path, a fence and some trees. I am sitting in an armchair, facing away from the window.
My appearance has changed considerably since I left The Elms. My hair is not long and blonde any more, it is dark brown and short. I now wear glasses I don’t need and the sort of obtrusive make-up I haven’t worn since I was a teenager. I look a little like Simon’s heartless sergeant. It is probably an unnecessary precaution, but it makes me feel safer. There is always a chance that a window-cleaner or passer-by might catch a glimpse of me. By now my picture has been all over the news for days.
Little Face sits in a bouncy chair beside me, asleep. The sound of the bell, so loud and significant to me, doesn’t disturb her. She doesn’t stir.
Automatically, I get up and close the door between the kitchen and the hall. I listen as footsteps descend the stairs. This routine has been practised many times. We call it our ‘fire drill’.
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