Little Face

by Sophie Hannah

  So far, the visitors to the house have been easy to process and send on their way. On Monday, somebody came to read the gas meter. Yesterday the postman delivered a parcel that needed to be signed for. If Little Face and I are in the house alone, I do not answer the door, and, since nobody knows I am here, no-one expects me to. The redecoration ruse has succeeded, so far, in keeping friends and family away.

  I press my ear against the door and listen.

  ‘Detective Constable Waterhouse. This is a surprise.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Looks like you just have. Don’t mind me, will you?’

  Simon is here. At the front door, just as he was exactly a fortnight ago, except this is a different house. I am not as frightened as I thought I might be. Of course, I have imagined this situation, exactly as it is happening now, many times. I knew he would find me eventually. When a mother goes missing with a tiny baby, people are interviewed more than once. It is appropriate procedure, no more and no less. I will not panic until I have to. Simon cannot come into the kitchen, not unless he has a search warrant.

  I wonder how much time I have left, how long before I will have to leave by the back door and make my way, with Little Face, to the car, which is parked on the next street. The agreed emergency procedure.

  I don’t want to leave. This house feels more welcoming than The Elms has for a long time. Little Face and I have a bedroom at the back which is not overlooked. The walls are a pale yellow, with jagged white patches here and there where the paint has come off. I suspect it used to be a teenager’s bedroom and the white marks on the walls are where posters of favourite bands were torn down before the house’s previous owners moved out. The carpet is dark green, and there is a burn mark in one corner, near the window – an illicit cigarette dropped by mistake.

  Despite these traces of a previous tenant, I already think of the room as belonging to me and Little Face. It is packed full of everything we need. Bottles, clothes, blankets, nappies, muslin squares, boxes of formula milk, both the powder and the ready-made variety, a steam steriliser, a travel cot – everything on my list was here when we arrived. We don’t have much space, certainly not compared with our extravagant accommodation at The Elms, but it’s warm and homely. A kind, innocent air pervades the whole house.

  I think I was always aware, deep down, that The Elms had a dark, stultifying atmosphere, long before I was personally unhappy there. Perhaps I sensed the presence of unspeakable things, or perhaps it is merely hindsight, but I feel as if I must always have known that it was a house with an ulterior motive. I remember vividly the conversation David and I had when he suggested that we move in to his childhood home, his mother’s childhood home. We were in the conservatory. Vivienne had left us alone while she made coffee.

  I laughed at first. ‘Don’t be silly. We can’t live with your mum.’

  ‘Silly?’ I heard an edge in his voice and saw a look in his eyes that alarmed me, as if in that instant the David I knew and loved had vanished and been replaced by an entirely different person. I wanted that person to go away, and for David to come back, so I quickly backtracked, pretended that he had misunderstood me.

  ‘I just meant, surely she wouldn’t want us here. Would she?’

  ‘Of course,’ said David. ‘She’d love to have us. She’s said so lots of times.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, well . . . great!’ I said, as enthusiastically as I could. David beamed at me, and I was so happy and relieved that I told myself it didn’t matter where we lived, as long as we were together. I never again suggested that anything David said was silly. It’s funny, I’ve never thought about this incident until now. Were there other warning signs that I ignored, ones that will come back to me over time, in flashes of horror?

  ‘Not at work today?’

  ‘I never am, on a Friday.’

  The words grow fainter. I tiptoe over to the radio and turn it off.

  ‘So. How can I help you?’

  ‘Don’t talk to me as if I’m a fucking idiot. If you’d wanted to help me you could have done so a while ago. Couldn’t you?’

  My legs go weak, as if my bones have suddenly dissolved. I wrap my arms around myself to stop my body from shaking.

  ‘What? Are you accusing me of withholding some information? What exactly am I supposed to know?’

  ‘Spare me the bullshit. No wonder you didn’t seem all that worried about Alice, when I told you she was missing. You know damn well where she is. I should have known last Saturday, as soon as you said, “You know what Alice is like.” Fucked up there, didn’t you? You had no way of knowing I’d ever met her, unless you’d seen her since last week. You were also the first person who mentioned Vivienne Fancourt to me in a negative context. Very keen to get that point across, weren’t you?’

  ‘Vivienne? What’s she got to do with this?’

  ‘You know the answer to that as well as I do. Has it occurred to you that we might both be on the same side?’

  I should be on my way out of the door with Little Face. I have heard enough to convince me that Simon knows if not everything then at least enough. Any minute now he might ask to look round the house. I can’t understand why I am not sticking to the agreed policy. Just because Simon says that we are all on the same side does not make it true. Haven’t I learned, even now, that words can be used to create illusions, to set traps?

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You want to protect Alice from Vivienne. So do I. And Florence. You didn’t seem worried about Alice on Saturday, but you were certainly worried about Florence, weren’t you? Because when Alice ran away, she came here. She told you Florence was missing, that someone had taken her and left another baby in her place. She probably also told you the police didn’t believe her, weren’t making any attempt to find her daughter. Did Alice bring the other baby with her, when she came here?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yeah, you do. Why do you think she brought her, this baby who wasn’t her daughter? Why didn’t she leave her at The Elms?’

  ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘Because she was scared of what David or Vivienne would do to her? Would either of them harm a defenceless baby? I don’t think so. Do you? Or perhaps it was because, once that baby was missing, we’d have to look for Florence. Why do you think it was?’

  There is silence. She doesn’t know. Neither does Simon. I am the only person who knows the answer to that question. I am taut, rigid with apprehension, barely able to believe this conversation is taking place.

  ‘Where are Alice and the baby?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I’ll be back with a search warrant. Sure, they can sneak off in the meantime, but where will they go? It’s been all over the news, this case. Everyone’s on the lookout for a woman with a young baby.’

  He is right. It has also been suggested on the news that my appearance might have changed.

  ‘Stubborn, aren’t you? Look, I’m pissed off that you lied to me, but like I said, we’re on the same side. So here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll tell you what I know, even though by doing so I’ll be risking my job.’

  Oh, thank you, thank you!

  ‘Not for the first time, I suspect.’

  ‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I can imagine you always thinking you know best, no matter what anyone else says.’

  ‘Yeah, well. What everyone else says is overrated.’

  ‘So you’re going to tell me what you know? Even though it’s against the rules? I’m honoured.’

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, all right?’

  No, don’t, I agree silently. Now is the time to co-operate. It’s my only hope, mine and Florence’s. That is becoming increasingly apparent.

  ‘In return, I hope – I really fucking hope – that you’ll start making my life easier instead of harder. Think about what Alice would want you to do at this point. She’s needed my help for
a while, and yours, to nail Vivienne Fancourt.’

  ‘Nail? Sorry?’

  ‘Fuck it! We think . . . I think Vivienne Fancourt killed Laura Cryer. Darryl Beer – he’s the one who’s in prison, who confessed to the murder—he used to spend time in a health club called Waterfront. Vivienne Fancourt’s a member. We think she framed Beer by planting physical evidence at the scene, evidence she got from a towel Beer had used at the club.’

  ‘Right. Right.’

  I nod, although no-one can see me. The words, the details, are new to me, but I recognise this as the story I have wanted Simon to tell, ever since I first saw him. I couldn’t tell it on my own.

  ‘Since Alice went missing, we’ve found what we believe to be the murder weapon, a kitchen knife. It was in the crèche at Waterfront, in the baby changing unit. Beer and a mate of his, Vinny Lowe, used the unit as a store, mainly for drugs. We have good reason to suspect that Vivienne Fancourt knew this. Lowe admitted he and Beer had talked about it in front of her several times. They deliberately boasted about their shitty exploits when she was listening. Beer could have put the knife in the changing unit, but so could Vivienne Fancourt, to make it look like Beer had done it. We can’t prove anything. Beer’s still claiming he did it.’

  My eyes widen. Felix spent nearly as much time in the Cheeky Chimps crèche as he did at home, before he got too old to go there. I shudder, imagining him and all the other children playing in the same room as a knife that had been used for what was effectively an execution.

  ‘If Alice has got anything else, any concrete proof that Vivienne killed Laura, we could do with knowing what it is. Urgently. Like, now.’

  ‘Proof? What sort of proof?’

  ‘Laura’s handbag. Has Alice seen it, at The Elms? It’s a long shot, but . . . maybe she found it somewhere she shouldn’t have been looking. Was that what first made her suspect Vivienne? I need to know. The bag was never found. We could search The Elms but I wouldn’t hold out much hope. People as clever as Vivienne Fancourt don’t keep incriminating evidence lying around.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Sorry, I’m playing detective now. Whoever killed Laura, why didn’t they hide the handbag with the knife, in the crèche? Or throw both away?’

  ‘Vivienne wanted the knife to be found, eventually, in a place that was linked to Beer. A knife can be wiped clean and used again. Why would Beer keep the handbag, once he’d nicked the cash from it? He wouldn’t. And so neither would anyone who wanted to make it look like Beer was guilty.’

  I shake my head. No, that’s not it. But I can’t think and listen at the same time.

  ‘So . . . are you going to search The Elms?’

  ‘No. The boss has said no. Anyway, there’s no point. I’m fairly certain Cryer’s bag’s long gone. We’ll never find it.’

  Again, I shake my head. I think of my own handbag, on the kitchen work-surface at The Elms. I picture everything inside it: my notebook full of lists of baby names, my coconut lip balm, the photograph of me with my parents, the one David threatened to tear up. If you take a woman’s handbag away from her, you have power over her. What better trophy, what better symbol of an execution successfully and justly carried out, than the victim’s handbag?

  Vivienne would have kept it, and not only for sentimental reasons. She wouldn’t allow a piece of evidence linking her to a murder to escape from her domain. She would keep it somewhere where she could check on it regularly to make sure it was still there, that no-one had found it or disturbed it in any way. She only feels secure if everything that matters to her is well within reach. Where, how, could she have disposed of the bag and been totally certain, as certain as she would need to be, that no trace of it would fall into somebody else’s hands, that no-one had seen her?

  In that instant, I know. I know where it is. I open my mouth, then close it again before any loud exclamations have a chance to escape. I would love to push open the door, run to Simon and tell him everything, but I can’t. The first thing he will do, if I reveal myself, is take Little Face away. He believes me now, and I’m not yet ready to let go of her. I have to prepare myself, mentally.

  I tiptoe over to the kitchen table, pick up a biro and write a short note on the dog-eared pad. Then I take the car keys that are dangling from a hook on the wall and put them in my pocket. I lift Little Face out of her bouncy chair as gently as I can, taking care not to wake her. It occurs to me that I will need to take some milk with me and there is none made up. I can’t make any without washing up a bottle, which will involve turning on the hot tap. I can’t risk it. The boiler here is so noisy, Simon would hear me.

  I lower Little Face into the Moses basket on the floor. She is still sleeping soundly. I cannot take her with me. She’s better off here. Even if Simon were to leave now, or soon, it would surely take him hours to get a search warrant, and he won’t come back until he’s got one. I can be back before him with the proof he needs, with Laura’s bag. And I’ll have had time to think, by then, of what I am going to say to him, how I am going to explain my actions.

  ‘So why don’t you tell me about the detective work you’ve been doing? Or should I say the acting? Pretending to be a detective.’

  It is nearly impossible to drag myself away, but I must. I have to know if I am right about the handbag.

  I kiss Little Face on the cheek and she rubs her lips together in her sleep, as if she is having a leisurely chew on something tasty. I hate to leave her. ‘I’ll be back very soon,’ I whisper in her ear. Then I unlock the back door, slip out, and lock it again behind me. I walk down the path at the side of the house and out on to the road. The wind and light assault my senses. So this is what outside smells and tastes like. I do not hurry. I know I should, but I want to savour the experience of walking down a normal residential street like an ordinary person. I feel giddy, unreal.

  No-one watches me climb into the black VW Golf and pull away from the kerb. My whole body buzzes with fear, impatience, adrenaline. It is my turn to do a bit of detective work.

  40

  10/10/03, 11.10 am

  ‘What’s that?’ Simon grimaced as a shrill, mechanical, juddering noise assaulted his ears. The whole room seemed to vibrate.

  ‘The sodding boiler!’ Briony Morris raised her eyebrows and sighed heavily. ‘Apparently there’s some sludge trapped in the pipes somewhere. Every time the heating comes on, this is what happens. It’s never been as bad as this before, though. I’ll have to get on to British Gas again. Anyway. You were saying. About me playing detective.’ She crossed and uncrossed her legs.

  ‘You admit it?’

  ‘No point denying it, if you know.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Briony Morris.’

  ‘All right, don’t embarrass me. Who told you? The school secretary, presumably.’

  ‘Sally Hunt. She was surprised I was asking, said she’d had the exact same conversation with a detective sergeant who’d phoned in early July. She remembered your name. It’s not every day they get a call from CID. Or people impersonating CID.’ Simon paused. ‘She was surprised, but I wasn’t. To find out that you’d been in touch.’

  ‘You weren’t?’ Briony looked puzzled, perhaps even a little disappointed.

  ‘I knew Alice knew. About Vivienne. At first I didn’t. At first I thought I was ahead of the game, the only one who’d worked it out.’ Simon’s voice was full of scorn for himself. ‘I just put together something Laura Cryer’s father said about Vivienne starting Felix at Stanley Sidgwick as soon as Laura had died with something Alice had let slip about long waiting lists. Let slip deliberately, as it turned out.’

  It had come to Simon, eventually, why he’d felt uneasy, in that interview with Vinny Lowe, staring at the photograph of Alice, David, Vivienne and Felix in the garden at The Elms. It wasn’t the photo itself that had bothered him, it was where he’d first seen it: in Alice’s desk at work. As soon as he remembered what else had been in the desk, everything clicked; the picture was complete.


  ‘There was a Stanley Sidgwick brochure in Alice’s desk drawer, in her office,’ he told Briony. ‘It had a post-it stuck to it. Alice had written on it, “Find out about F – when name down? How long waiting list?” When I first read that, I assumed F stood for Florence, dickhead that I am. Alice had told me exactly what she thought of Stanley Sidgwick Ladies’ College. It was Vivienne who wanted Florence to go there, not Alice. No, F stood for Felix. Alice and David only chose the name Florence once she was born, anyway. I checked with Cheryl Dixon, Alice’s midwife. And Alice hadn’t been back into work since the birth, so F had to be Felix. That’s when I realised: that note was a message for me, for the police. Alice knew Vivienne had killed Laura, and she wanted us to know too.’

  Simon had expected resistance, but Briony nodded. ‘It was Alice’s idea to ring the school,’ she said. ‘I just did the acting because she was too shy. During her pregnancy – seeing the way Vivienne’s behaviour changed towards her, her obsession with getting control over the grandchild – she became convinced that Vivienne had murdered Laura. I thought she was just being hormonal at first, even though I’d always hated Vivienne. And Alice had always loved her – what an irony! Anyway, I just took the piss. And then one day Alice said, “Vivienne’s always talking about the years-long waiting lists at Stanley Sidgwick. How come Felix was able to start the minute Laura died?” That’s when I rang up, and . . .’ Briony shook her head. ‘It’s pretty scary to realise someone you’ve met is a cold-blooded murderer. I tried to persuade Alice to go to the police, but she wouldn’t. She said Vivienne’d just lie her way out of it, say she’d put Felix’s name down to start when he started with Laura’s full knowledge and permission. And with Laura dead, who could prove otherwise?’

  Simon nodded miserably. ‘The case against Vivienne Fancourt is going to be almost impossible to prove. Darryl Beer’s still saying he did it, and there’s the DNA evidence. We can’t prove Vivienne Fancourt framed him. It’s all circumstantial.’

  ‘Alice was terrified of Vivienne knowing she knew. She said Vivienne’d kill her. Otherwise I think she’d have risked going to the police. But she didn’t dare, in case Vivienne was questioned and someone revealed where this suspicion had come from.’