‘You couldn’t carry an adult like that,’ I say. ‘How big was the bundle?’
‘More like a child size,’ she says.
‘And you thought it might be Ruby?’
I don’t know!’ she explodes. ‘I know it sounds stupid. That’s why I didn’t want – but I can’t stop thinking about it.’
‘Well,’ I say, taking the bundle from her, ‘I don’t think anyone would carry a dead body like that, not hugged close like that.’
‘So how would you carry it?’
‘Like this, I think.’ I hold out my arms with the rug laid across them. ‘I’m not an expert but I have carried a dead cat. One of ours got run over and I wrapped her in a towel and carried her home like this, I think.’
‘But he might have been carrying a live person, you think?’
‘A small live person, yes, he could.’
A small, live, drugged person? I think, and then give myself a shake.
‘So should we do anything?’ she asks, and I can tell from that ‘we’ that she has shed her burden – this is my problem now.
I am about to say that I will talk to Dumitru, but now I think I understand the look he was giving Freda earlier. Of course, my first instinct might be right – perhaps, in spite of his denial, he does like little girls. But he could have been assessing, wondering who she might tell about what she had seen. Was he worried about her talking to Milo? If I challenge him about what he was doing last night, he will know that Freda is suspicious. Could I be putting her in danger?
‘There’s probably a perfectly innocent explanation,’ I say. ‘Don’t talk to anyone else about it – we don’t want to start rumours if there’s nothing wrong. Leave it with me and don’t worry.’ I give her a kiss. ‘Enjoy your holiday. You’re having a good time apart from this, aren’t you?’
‘It’s fun,’ she says. ‘The gang are really nice.’ She gives me a smile and I think I can actually see the burden of worry rise from her shoulders before landing with a thump on mine.
When Freda has been to the bathroom and retired to her room, I pick up my phone, considering a trip to the car park, but it is dark now and this isn’t a call to make under adverse conditions, so I listen at Freda’s door to check that she has music playing and then I lie down on the bed, pick up the room phone and dial for an outside line. My call is answered exactly as I expect.
‘Scott,’ the voice says, with that mixture of briskness and slight irritation which is so familiar.
‘Not too late for you, I hope,’ I say.
‘Gina?’
‘Still remembered after all this time,’ I say.
For those who are not familiar with the twelve-year epic that is my relationship with Detective Superintendent David Scott of the Metropolitan Police, I should perhaps give a brief précis, avoiding, as far as possible, the more unsavoury elements and episodes of embarrassing stupidity that have marred it along the way. Actually, strictly speaking, our relationship started more than twelve years ago. It dates back more than thirty years, to when I was an idealistic young teacher and David Scott was an unremarkable seventeen-year-old starting on an A level English course. Nothing inappropriate there, just Macbeth, The Mayor of Casterbridge and Sylvia Plath’s Ariel, I think. He got a B and went off to study archaeology, and I pursued my chequered teaching career until I ended up teaching English language at Marlbury University and twelve years ago one of my students was murdered. Enter a newly minted DI, David Scott, to lead the investigation. Our relationship, as the word is currently understood, with its aura of sex, took a while to develop and there have been many stumbles along the way, not to mention several dead bodies by way of David’s work, but we had settled down to something quite comfortable for the past two and a half years. We have separate homes – my charming little house in Bloomsbury, his characterless pigeonhole in Pimlico. We both have demanding work but we were managing fairly regular theatre visits, meals out, trips to exhibitions, and occasional nights in one another’s beds when we were both in the mood. Until four months ago, when David suggested an Easter holiday on the Amalfi coast, where he wanted to look at some new finds in Pompeii (he goes on taking an amateur interest in archaeology) and I declined on the grounds that I was busy helping to organise a conference (I now teach English language and linguistics at the School of Oriental and African Studies). We didn’t exactly have a row, but we agreed vaguely that we would get in touch when we were both less busy and neither of us has picked up the phone since. So you can see that asking for David’s help at this point is a delicate business.
‘All this time,’ he says. ‘Do you know how long it is exactly?’
‘Well, it’s a few months, I know, but you—’
‘One hundred and thirty-nine days.’
‘You’ve been counting?’
‘I thought I would keep a record.’
‘Why didn’t you just ring me?’
‘You were going to ring me, remember? As soon as you were less busy.’
‘You could have rung me.’
‘But I know how you don’t like to be distracted when you’re busy.’
This is ridiculous. We sound like a couple of teenagers.
‘Well, I’m ringing now,’ I say, ‘so can we just—’
‘Let me make a wild guess here,’ he interrupts. ‘You’re ringing because you want my help?’
‘What makes you think… how do you know?’
‘Because I work for the police service and a lot of information comes my way. Colin Fletcher, aka Colin Flynn, is in the frame for the abduction/murder of Ruby Buxton in Carnmere and you are desperate to make amends for what you see as an old betrayal by getting him off the hook.’
I want to shout at him that there was no betrayal but instead I find myself asking, ‘How did you guess?’
‘Because I know you. As you frequently point out, there is no appropriate label for our rather odd relationship, but it has been a long one, and you’re not actually that hard to read.’
I ought to resent this but instead I feel oddly reassured.
‘So will you help?’ I ask.
‘You want us to go up to Carnmere?’
‘I’m here already.’
‘Oh God. Charging around, making all sorts of evidence inadmissible.’
‘Not at all. I’m being very discreet.’
‘You don’t know the meaning of the word.’
‘Will you come?’
‘Possibly I could. The local police might think I can be useful, I suppose, because I made the arrest in the Marlbury case.’
‘Right away?’ I press.
‘Well, I’m not driving through the night. I’ll start early tomorrow. I’ll let you know what I’m doing. I can stay for the weekend, but no longer.’
‘Just one other thing,’ I say. ‘I’ve got Freda with me and she’s got sort of involved.’
‘Jesus, Gina!’ He hears me draw breath to say more but he stops me. ‘Don’t say anything else or my resolve will weaken. I’ll face the rest when I get there.’
‘There may be an issue about sleeping arrangements and mobiles don’t work here,’ I say quickly, but I am speaking into a dead phone.
Chapter Eight
ALLIANCE
Saturday
This was shaping up to be the weirdest day. She had woken up feeling good. True, Granny had made that cringe-making scene on the jetty last night (she could still hear her, yelling, ‘She’s only just thirteen!’ and it made her feel as though her whole body was blushing) but Milo had been so nice and told her not to have a row over it, and he had been right because she had been able to tell Granny about Dumitru, and now it was her problem to deal with and Freda could look forward to just an ordinary day. She was in such a good mood that when she and Granny were at the breakfast table she had been about to suggest that they did a bit of bonding, s
pending the morning together, going down into the town in search of a bookshop. And then Venetia suddenly appeared at their table, looking as though she was bursting with a secret.
Venetia did have terribly good manners, so she apologised to Granny for interrupting, but then she fixed Freda with a really intense look and said, ‘Milo has something he needs to do in town, and he’d like us all there. Can you come? On the 9.30 ferry?’
Freda could see her grandmother start to muster objections. She had picked up on Venetia’s excitement, of course – she was super sharp about that sort of thing – and she was suspicious.
‘I’m not sure, Freda,’ she started to say. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much, but without a reliable phone signal—’
But Venetia broke in, as smooth as you like, saying, ‘Oh, I should have said, Milo’s grandmother is going to be there too.’
‘Eve will be there?’ Granny sounded pretty unconvinced.
‘Yes. It was her idea, actually. There’s something she and Milo need to do. And he thought we would like to come too.’
‘So what is the something they’re going to do? What delights does the town have to offer?’
Granny said this all casually, buttering her toast, but Freda was not deceived. Venetia gave a little laugh. ‘Well, it won’t be a visit to the pencil museum,’ she said, ‘but I can’t say, I’m afraid, because it’s a sort of surprise.’
Freda watched as her grandmother chewed a mouthful of toast.
‘I think,’ she said when she had swallowed it, ‘I might come down into town too. I won’t muscle in on your surprise, but I can have a word with Eve and do some exploring myself.’
Venetia shot Freda a worried look, but there was nothing she could do. Granny put down her napkin and stood up. ‘On the jetty in twenty minutes, then,’ she said to Venetia. ‘Coming, Freda?’
There was nothing for it but to follow. Freda gave one helpless glance at Venetia and trailed off in her grandmother’s wake.
At the jetty Freda watched Venetia walking along the lakeside from her family’s house, which nestled in the trees just a little way from the hotel. She saw that Letty was not being included in this expedition. When she commented on this, Venetia said breezily, ‘Too young,’ which made Freda even more impatient to know what was going on. She hoped that Eve really was going to be there because there was going to be an awful row if it turned out that Venetia hadn’t been telling the truth. Venetia seemed quite comfortable, though, and when they got onto the ferry and found Micky there helping, she asked Barry, his father, in a very sweetie-pie way whether she and Freda could stand with them in the wheelhouse for a bit. Once they were there, Venetia took hold of Freda’s arm and whispered, ‘Milo’s granny is taking him to the police station. There’s something he’s got to tell the police.’
Freda’s immediate thought was that Milo had told Eve about her seeing Dumitru, and that meant she, Freda, would be questioned too. And what would Granny do when she found that out? There would be a scene, but if she was going to be questioned she would be quite glad to have Granny there.
‘Do you know what it is?’ she asked. ‘What he’s got to tell?’
Venetia looked at her assessingly, as though she was deciding how much information she could be trusted with. Then she said, ‘It’s something to do with Ruby’s phone. That’s all I can say.’
But not all you know, Freda thought, though she said nothing. She was relieved enough that it wasn’t to do with Dumitru.
The town turned out to be a ramble of winding streets except for a pedestrian square at its centre with a clock tower at one end and a church at the other. The police station was in the main square, but not very obvious, tucked in between two hotels which looked more impressive. That wouldn’t stop it from being scary, though, if you were going in to be interrogated, she thought.
Milo was sitting on a bench outside with Fergus and Eve, who was obviously not particularly pleased to see Granny, but the two of them walked away together for a bit and when they came back Granny said she would go off and take a look round, then go back to the hotel. And then, as if there had not been enough bombshells for one morning, she said to Freda, ‘I need to be back by lunchtime. David is coming up.’
David? she thought. Policeman David? David, who Mum thought Granny wasn’t seeing any more?
She was formulating a question when Granny said, ‘Phones work in the town, apparently, so keep in touch. All right?’ and then she marched off.
Eve watched her go and then turned to Milo. ‘All right?’ she asked. ‘Shall we get this over?’
Freda took in Milo’s appearance for the first time. He didn’t look like himself at all. She guessed that Eve had told him what to wear and he looked as though he was wearing a costume. In place of his jeans, t-shirt and trainers he was wearing what she guessed were bits of his school uniform – a white shirt, grey trousers and black shoes. She couldn’t think why he would have brought those clothes with him on a holiday, but their family was Irish, after all, so maybe they were for going to church. He hadn’t, at least, been made to wear a tie, but his hair was slicked back instead of flopping forward in the way she liked, and he looked somehow as though he had got smaller.
‘OK,’ he said, and then Venetia gave him a hug and they all followed suit, and he looked more like himself when he said, ‘Wait for me here, OK, guys? If they arrest me, Gran will come and tell you.’
The four of them, Venetia, Micky, Fergus and Freda, watched them go and then sat down on the bench.
‘So,’ Venetia said, ‘we’d better tell you what’s going on. I know because I talked to Milo this morning, but Fergus probably knows more, so come on Ferg, spill the beans.’
Fergus looked uncomfortable being put on the spot, and he was obviously upset. Freda thought that he had been crying.
‘There’s not much to tell. Gran found Ruby’s phone in Milo’s pocket and she went apeshit about it. It was in his tracksuit top and she was putting it in the wash. That night Ruby went missing, she gave Milo her phone to look after. She’d taken it to the theatre by mistake and there was nowhere safe to leave it. He put it in his pocket and he says he forgot all about it.’
Freda found her voice. ‘If the police are looking for Ruby why haven’t they traced it? They can trace phones, can’t they?’
‘Not if it’s switched off,’ Micky said. He was sitting on the end of the bench and looked along at the others. ‘So what do we think will happen?’ he asked.
‘The police ought to be pleased,’ Venetia said, ‘because they’ll have the phone and they’ll be able to look at her texts and things and see if she was being like groomed or anything.’
‘But they’ll want to know why he didn’t give it to them before,’ Freda objected.
‘He forgot. He was upset. In shock. And it’s not as if he was hiding it, is it? It was just in a tracksuit pocket. That’s not a criminal offence, is it?’
They didn’t say much after that. Freda got out her phone and checked for messages. There was nothing but it occurred to her that there was plenty of signal here and she could ring her mum, only that felt a bit childish. Mum would be interested to hear about David, though, so she sent a text:
‘David is still Granny’s boyfriend!
Arriving today
All good here
loads of love
xxxxxx ☺
It was only as she pressed Send that she really thought about what David was coming for. Was he coming just to see Granny, or was he coming as a policeman to help to find out what had happened to Ruby? And, more to the point, was he coming as Granny’s boyfriend and where was he going to be sleeping? Because if he was going to be in Granny’s bed that would be just gross. It was weird enough having a grandmother with a boyfriend (you couldn’t use that word in front of Granny because she got mad, but what else was he?). Now was she going to have the two of them
there together right outside her bedroom door?
She looked at Venetia, sitting beside her, wondering if she could confide her problem, and saw that she was busy with her phone too, and then she looked along the bench and saw that they all had their phones out, scrolling intently. It was quite a funny sight really and she wished there was someone else there to take a photo. Micky seemed to sense her looking and put his phone away.
‘Anyone want an ice cream?’ he asked. ‘I’m going down to the kiosk. Wanna come, Ferg? The lasses can keep the bench. What do you want, girls? Magnums all round?’
When they had gone, Venetia put her phone away and turned to Freda with a very bright-eyed look.
‘So who is David?’ she asked.
‘He’s a policeman,’ Freda said. Could she get away with not saying the words ‘my grandmother’s boyfriend’? ‘Actually, I think he’s a chief inspector or something – in London.’
‘Really!’ Venetia scanned her face. ‘And what’s he going to be doing here?’
Freda shrugged. ‘I suppose he’s just come to see my gran,’ she said, and when Venetia was clearly expecting more she added, ‘They’ve known each other for years.’
‘So they’re an item?’
‘I don’t think…’ Freda said, because Granny would have hated that expression as much as ‘boyfriend’.
‘So friends with privileges?’ Venetia suggested.
Freda wasn’t sure what that meant, and she was feeling squirmily uncomfortable about this conversation, so she said as firmly as she could, ‘I really don’t know, Venetia. Nobody knows. My mum doesn’t know.’ And then, in a bid to distract Venetia, she said in what she hoped was a creepy sort of voice, ‘It’s a mystery.’
But Venetia was not letting go. ‘Milo says your granny is the reason why the police keep questioning his grandfather about Ruby. And I’ve seen some of the stuff on Facebook. Was her boyfriend involved in that too?’
Freda stood up. ‘He’s not her boyfriend, and Granny doesn’t talk about it, and Milo shouldn’t either, and nor should you. It’s all fake news stuff, and it’s horrible.’
Where Everything Seems Double Page 8