‘Looking for Zara, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what do you think?’
It’s fair to say I am my father’s daughter, present me with a challenge and I will be the proverbial terrier, not letting go until it’s sorted. On more than one occasion as I grew up he’d discovered that to tell me not to do something was a sure-fire way to make sure I did it.
‘She was my friend, dad. I owe it to her to help her out.’
‘You helped her a lot, she lived with you both for a year, that would be above and beyond in some people’s eyes.’
I told dad about Owen and Mr Peters. When I explained about Owen’s violence, dad shook his head.
‘That’s not good, not good at all,’ he said.
‘It’s a month now since the police announced their new lead and as far as I can see they are doing absolutely nothing. What if Zara is scared? Owen has been living in Brighton. That’s where she was living before she met Joel. Maybe Owen was stalking her. It could be he frightened her so much she’s hiding from him.’
‘Do you think he’s the kind of man who could really hurt her?’
‘Well he hit her, didn’t he?’
‘But really hurt her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you know?’
‘Well, Zara and I were at school together, weren’t we?’
‘Do you know what I think?’ he said. ‘Take it back to basics. Blank out anything you know about her and start again. Be thorough, make lists.’
‘Are you teasing me now?’ Dad and Greg were forever teasing me about my inability to follow a system. Like I say, I am the least likely person to be chosen to be a librarian, or an amateur detective, come to that.
‘There’s something else you can do.’
I waited.
‘Make use of all those Agatha Christie novels you’ve read and re-read since you were a little‘un.’
‘What do you mean ‘make use’?’
‘Search for patterns, clues, that’s what Poirot does.’
‘Nice idea, but that’s fiction. This is real.’
‘It won’t hurt to try.’
Dad’s advice for me to start from scratch inspired me to get organised. His suggestion about Agatha’s Poirot made me smile, but when I thought about it a bit more I realised it might just help. A few weeks earlier I’d started re-reading The Mysterious Affair at Styles, so I decided to scour the book to see if I could glean any tips from the wonderful Poirot and his sidekick, Hastings.
I wanted to approach this investigation in a professional manner, to forget that this was a search for a close friend. I bought a large notebook and started making lists. Much of what I wrote down were the avenues we explored straight after Zara’s disappearance. We’d already spoken to everyone we thought might know her, but our enquiries got us nowhere.
We also visited her sister.
Until I met Zara and Gabrielle I didn’t realise it was possible for identical twins to be so dissimilar. For every inward-looking aspect of Zara’s character, Gabrielle was the polar opposite. It was as though together they made up the classic Jekyll and Hyde split personality. Perhaps if they’d been born as one child instead of two, this is how it would have been.
Zara and I first became friends when she joined Grosvenor Grammar in the fourth year. The twins arrived at the beginning of the summer term. Zara was put into my class and Gabrielle went into Miss Bone’s class. It seemed a little odd to me that they were separated, but I just assumed they liked it that way. Zara and I hung around together during lunchbreaks, seeking out quiet parts of the school grounds. Gabrielle never joined us. She had her own circle of friends who had just one topic of conversation - boys. They would hang around outside Pam’s Coffee Bar in the town centre on a Saturday morning. A few times Zara and I would walk into town together to listen to the latest hit singles. We’d stroll up Queens Road and there Gabrielle would be, with her two closest friends, Milly and Rose. Zara would link her arm through mine and walk briskly past them, calling out a brief hello. I thought it odd, but when I asked Zara once why it was they weren’t close, she didn’t reply.
After Zara and I met up again and throughout the year she spent living with us, we had nothing to do with Gabrielle. Zara mentioned that her sister had moved back to the area at the same time and I sensed that she wished she hadn’t. I asked her whether they’d shared a flat when she lived in Brighton, but she just shook her head. It seemed they were as distant as they always had been.
So, when Zara disappeared we were certain Gabrielle’s flat was the last place she would go, but it was still worth checking. Greg came with me and when I rang the bell for Flat 3C I heard a shout from above. Looking up, there was Gabrielle’s face leaning out of the front window.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘what is it?’ with her haughty manner she would have made an excellent hospital matron, although I couldn’t imagine her wanting to get her hands dirty.
‘It’s Zara,’ I shouted up to her. ‘She’s gone missing. We wondered if she’d come here, if she’d been in touch?’
‘Here? Why should she come here?’
‘We’re worried about her,’ Greg said.
‘Well, she’s not here,’ she said and pulled the sash window down and that was that.
But now it looked as though another visit to Gabrielle was needed. As much as I didn’t like the thought of being given short shrift again, I couldn’t ignore the fact that Gabrielle was the only person who could tell me about Zara. I had no choice but to brave it, but this time I planned to go alone.
Chapter 15
‘Tell me – you’re drawn to something? Everyone is – usually something absurd.’
‘You’ll laugh at me.’ She smiled.
‘Perhaps.’
‘Well, I’ve always had a secret hankering to be a detective!’
The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie
My home town of Tamarisk Bay lies to the west of Tidehaven and could be described as its smaller neighbour. It’s strange to imagine it was originally set out as a new town, back in the nineteenth century, with elegant properties designed for the well-to-do. The geography of the place sees it rising from the sea front, sharply at first and then more steadily, as it winds up into gentle slopes, with a scattering of parks and gardens and wide roads.
Gabrielle’s flat was in Sutherland Road, a trendy part of town, favoured by arty types and musicians. The architect who set out the original plan for the area also worked on some of the properties in Bloomsbury, around the end of the eighteen hundreds.
The road was lined with large Edwardian houses that were now divided into three or four spacious flats. The frontage of each was dramatic, with cornices and decorative stonework around the large sash window frames. I’d never been inside any of the flats, but I guessed the interiors would be just as glamorous. I liked to imagine the families who would have lived in one of these grand houses in their heyday. Perhaps they had servants, a drawing room with a grand piano, velvet-covered sofas and a dining room that could provide a feast for twenty.
I walked up the stone steps and rang the bell for Flat 3C. The last time I attempted to speak to Gabrielle she’d shouted at me from a window and hadn’t had the courtesy to let me in. This time I was more determined.
There was a padding of feet and a crunch as she drew back the lock and opened the door.
‘Hello, Gabrielle. Can I come in?’
‘I’m just off out,’ she said.
‘I’m sure you are, but before you dash can I have a quick chat?’ I looked directly at her, challenging her to turn me away. ‘Doesn’t your sister deserve just five minutes? I won’t keep you long, I promise.’ Maybe it was a mistake mentioning Zara before being allowed inside, but the words were out and I couldn’t retract them.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said, looking at my expanding midriff. She may have been taking pity on a poor pregnant woman, but whatever the reason I didn’t need to
be asked twice. I followed her up three flights of stairs and in through a heavy wooden door to the hallway of her flat.
Her home was as beautiful as I had imagined, perhaps even more so. We walked down the long hallway into a large sitting room where Chinese rugs covered the polished wooden floor. The high ceilings with deep architraves gave a sense of light and space. The walls on all sides displayed an eclectic range of photographs and paintings, as well as colourful wall hangings. She gestured to me to take a seat on one of the three armchairs. I sat gingerly on the edge of the chair, not wanting to lean back for fear of creasing the silk cushions.
‘Drink?’ she asked and, without waiting for a reply, she turned and went back out into the hallway. Her departure gave me a chance to examine her art and photographic display in a little more detail. I know little about art - modern or classical - but from what I could see Gabrielle had more than a passing interest. In the main it was French impressionism that featured, which was not surprising, given her family background, with a scattering of modern pieces as well. I didn’t recognise the modern paintings, but then when it came to art I wasn’t even a beginner, more of a non-starter. Some of the prints were framed, others were large posters. Then in-between them sat black and white photographs, providing a perfect contrast to their more colourful neighbours. Zara had inherited her mother’s flair for style and fashion, whereas the pictures on display suggested that Gabrielle explored art in its more traditional sense.
As I studied the photographs in more detail I noticed that none of them showed faces. Most depicted people, rather than landscapes or still life, but each person or group was shown at a distance or from behind. A few expensive-looking ornaments were set out on the mantelpiece, but there was no evidence of any family photos, certainly not of Zara, but not even her parents. It was as though she had carefully created a world inside her flat where she had no need to relate to people.
I was looking at one of the Monet posters when Gabrielle came back into the room with a tray.
‘Stunning, isn’t it?’ she said, putting the tray down onto the glass-topped coffee table. ‘His attitude to light and shade is masterful.’
I couldn’t think of a reply, so forced a weak smile and sat back down on the edge of the armchair.
‘Milk or lemon?’ she said, with the teapot poised over a delicate china cup.
‘Um, lemon, thanks.’ I was reluctant to explain my difficulties with tea and hoped Bean would behave and let me drink just one cup in peace, without forcing me to run to the bathroom. I was also anxious that my hiccups would start, now that I was face-to-face with Gabrielle. She had a way about her that belied her age and yet she was the same age as me.
‘When did you develop your interest in art?’ I asked. ‘We didn’t get to know each other at school, is it something you took up back then?’
‘No, you were Zara’s friend. Very pally the two of you. I’m surprised you didn’t keep in touch when we moved.’
‘I’m hopeless at writing letters, I can never think of anything exciting to say.’
‘What is it you want?’ she said, handing me the cup and saucer.
‘Nothing, I don’t want anything, except perhaps a chance to talk about Zara. I’m sure it would help me to find out more about her.’
‘Why would it help you?’
I could see this was going to be an arduous conversation and likely one that would bear no fruit. I thought about walking out, which would at least get me out of drinking the tea.
‘Gabrielle, I’ll be straight with you. I care about Zara. I may not have been involved in her life for long, but that year she lived with us, with Greg and me, I formed a bond with her. And now I want to do everything I can to find her, to make sure she’s okay. You’re her twin sister, so you’re her closest link. I just thought maybe you could tell me a bit about the kind of person she was, I mean is. Those years between us leaving school and me bumping into her again. What was she doing? Where was she living? Did she have a job? Who was she hanging out with?’ I paused, hoping my rambling would be persuasive enough to get her to open up.
‘I have no idea,’ she said.
‘She’s your sister, for goodness sake. Surely you must have known something about her life?’
‘You need to understand something fundamental about my sister and me. We have no relationship. Yes, we are related by blood, but that’s it. She’s always made it clear she wants to live her own life. I respect that and I live my own life too. So, there you have it. You probably know her better than I do.’
‘I doubt that,’ I said, with irritation building up inside me. ‘What about when you were children, weren’t you even friends then?’
‘That was a lifetime ago,’ she said and looked away from me. ‘I don’t know what I can tell you that might help. I’ll share with you what I told the police when they interviewed me if you like, if you think it will be useful.’
‘Yes, anything at all. No matter how vague.’
‘Well, Zara liked a cause.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She liked to champion the underdog, protest against the evils in the world. She went on marches, waved banners. I’ve never seen the point myself. The world is messed up and no amount of marching will save us from ourselves. The human being will ultimately be responsible for its own demise. I concentrate on things of beauty, as you can see,’ she gestured towards the paintings and photos.
‘Was she a member of a protest group, a political party?’
‘I have no idea. That’s all I know and now I must ask you to leave or I’ll be late for an appointment.’ She stood up, indicating that was the end of our conversation.
As she stood, the shawl she’d wrapped around her shoulders fell away and for a moment there was Zara standing in front of me. At school, the teachers had struggled to tell the sisters apart, but for the fact that Zara maintained a short haircut and Gabrielle’s long locks were usually plaited and wound tightly around her head. But as Zara’s friend I was aware there was another distinguishing feature that marked her apart from her twin. She had a small, cherry-sized birthmark at the nape of her neck. I was reminded of this now when Gabrielle’s shawl fell away, exposing her olive skin, with no sign of a birth mark.
‘Will you let me know if you hear anything from her?’ I said, as she ushered me towards the front door.
‘I won’t.’
‘You won’t let me know?’
‘I won’t hear from her. Trust me, I know my sister. She’s probably gone to join a commune somewhere. I wouldn’t worry about her. You’ve got other things to focus on anyway, haven’t you?’ she said, pointing at my midriff.
‘Like I said, she’s my friend and I want to know she’s alright.’
‘Well, you’ve come to the wrong person. Goodbye, Janie. See yourself out.’
Despite her antipathy towards me and her sister, Gabrielle had helped to confirm what Owen had suggested. Zara was passionate about inequality of any kind. She worried about the way the strong overpower the weak and felt sad to see peace and harmony destroyed by acrimony and bitterness. During the conversations we’d had as adults she often dropped hints that I should have picked up on. There was so much I could have learned from my friend if only I had been more aware, not least that it pays to be a good listener.
As I walked back down the stairs I was fuming and more grateful than ever to be an only child.
Chapter 16
‘I say, what was the end of that message? Say it over again, will you?’
The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie
Waking early would appear to be a part of impending motherhood. Nature’s way of getting you used to the sleepless nights and dawn feeds. As I swung my legs out of bed and into my slippers I had a fleeting thought that my next lie-in would be eighteen years away when Bean leaves home.
Greg muttered something under his breath about wanting to sleep, as I padded out to the bathroom. It was still dark. When I bought the clock
beside my bed the advert promised ‘luminous numbers’. It didn’t take long to realise the promise was empty, but I couldn’t be bothered to take it back to Woolworths and decided that time would soon be irrelevant. If my baby cries I’ll need to get up.
Greg is a brilliant window cleaner but less than confident with all things plumbing. As a result, the noise from the toilet cistern when we pulled the chain was enough to wake the dead. I decided to wait until I’d checked the time on the kitchen clock before disturbing my husband further. Tiptoeing downstairs, carefully avoiding the squeaky floorboard, I turned on the kitchen light and discovered it was just 5.30. An hour at least before Greg needed to get up. A quiet hour for me to arrange my thoughts and make a few more plans.
I removed the whistle from the kettle before putting it on the gas and got my notebook from my bag. As I opened the notebook a photo of Zara fell out onto the table and I stared at it long and hard, willing it to give me some answers.
‘Oh Zara, where are you?’ I whispered, aware that even my dad would think me crazy if he heard me talking to a photograph. The kettle spewed a stream of steam, I made my hot lemon drink and sat down, holding the photo in my hand, remembering my conversation with Gabrielle. It wasn’t just Gabrielle who seemed disinterested in her sister’s wellbeing. Zara’s parents appeared to be just as nonchalant.
I’d only ever met Zara’s parents once. It was in our final year at school and she’d been chosen for the lead in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I was on the door checking tickets and taking coats. The parents of the main characters were to be shown into the front row, so I had to ask everyone for their name and tick them off a list. I guessed the couple who approached me were Zara’s folks before they spoke, because her mother had the same almond-shaped eyes and olive skin. She could have been a model, perhaps she was.
‘Mr and Mrs…?’ I asked, as I took their tickets.
‘Carpenter,’ they said simultaneously. He smiled as he handed his ticket over, but she remained expressionless, as though a smile would be tiring for her.
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