“I would like to go home,” he said.
Lisa almost laughed; she set a hand on his shoulder, patting kindly. “I don’t think so,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The lunch hour was brief but furious: Janine had her in the kitchen making sandwiches for most of it, because there was no sign of Craig.
Coming back into the bar Janine barely gave her a glance. She could have told punters no food, what with being short-staffed, but Nat had the distinct impression Janine didn’t want to meet her eye. She’d been dumped before and Nat had been there to see it, but this was different. It had been on the tip of her tongue to say something like, He’s just taking some time out, but she stopped herself.
The bag he’d slung over his shoulder hadn’t been much more than a holdall, though. He had suits, upstairs in the wardrobe. He had cowboy boots, for Christ’s sake, even if Janine had bought them for him and he’d never worn them. He’d be back. She couldn’t say any of it to Janine, though—a single warning flash from her eyes when she walked back through had been enough to tell her that.
It was at the back of her mind that she hadn’t seen Bill the cameraman in a couple of days now. Not since the message that she still hadn’t answered. It nagged at her, wouldn’t it be only polite to say, Thanks but no thanks, you’re a nice guy, that kind of thing? She’d already said that. And the truth was, she didn’t know what she wanted to say to him. He was keeping his distance, which was good.
The crew weren’t far away, though. The three fangirls from the caravan site had breezed in at the height of the lunch hour, rum and Coke and making a big thing out of producing their ID before shoving their way onto a shared table and getting out their mobiles, showing each other photographs.
Craig came in.
Their heads all turned. He had a motorcycle helmet slung over his arm and he looked unkempt, older by the day, a kind of new glamour hanging over him. His face was dark and grim. Janine jerked her head toward the kitchen and he stalked past them and disappeared. The girls were still looking at where he’d gone when Nat came over to collect their empties; they barely registered her as she leaned in for the glasses and she caught the flash of something on the nearest illuminated screen, a little gallery of shots.
“Hold on,” she said, and without thinking put out her hand to grab it. The girl holding the phone—the leggy one from the caravan site, long painted nails with diamanté on them—squealed and tugged it away.
“What d’you think yer doing?” she said, indignant.
Janine looked over sharply. “Sorry,” said Nat, tucking the glasses under her arm, holding out a hand. “It’s just that … that’s … I think that’s—” The girl turned the screen so she couldn’t see it, protective. “I thought I saw my friend in one of those pictures,” said Nat, trying to sound calm, trying to smile. “Could I … would you mind if I had a look?”
The girl stared up at her, trying to read her. “F’you wash yer hands first,” she said eventually.
“What?” said Janine as Nat leaned around the bar to stick her hands under the tap: behind her she could hear the girls whispering.
“Beth,” said Nat. “She’s got a picture of Beth on her phone.”
From behind Janine she saw Craig lean back to see through the kitchen door, just at the sound of the name.
Janine stared. “You what?” she began, but Nat dodged back to the table, rubbing her hands dry on her jeans. Craig was standing in the doorway, and when she glanced at him she saw he wasn’t quite steady on his feet. Grudgingly the girl handed the phone over: she and her friends sat there, arms folded, staring at Nat as if she was another species.
“You ain’t looking too far back, mind,” said the girl sharply, and they tittered in unison. It was a fancy phone and the photo galleries were grouped according to times and places. Where did they get their money, these girls? was the stupid thought that went around in her head, or was it knockoff? The photos were indiscriminate, badly framed, the backs of people’s heads, a big piece of camera hardware blocking one shot. She didn’t see Bill, but she wasn’t looking for him, there’d been a church spire—and there it was. There she was.
The pale oval of her face and the arched brows, the long straight dark hair with a sheen of something, the purplish color she’d experimented with still not grown out, but it was the pose as much as anything that tugged at Nat, that made her unmistakable, one elbow up on a tree and leaning, nonchalant, the sheet of hair hanging sideways. Beth. She looked as though she was on her own. The real Beth.
A village green, church spire in the background, a girl with a clipboard and a man she didn’t know in a baseball cap holding his hand up for quiet. Cars parked farther back up the street.
The girl nudged her side. “Oi,” she said. “You finished?”
Nat looked down, keeping the phone out of reach, then slowly she lowered it to show her the screen. “Do you know her?” she asked. “That girl?”
The girl made a face, shrugged.
“On the set?” Nat persisted. “When was this?” Another shrug.
“You see her there a lot?” Wanting to slap her, Nat tried to sound reasonable.
“Don’t remember seeing her at all,” the girl retorted, and plucked the phone out of Nat’s hand, held the screen out for the other two to gawp at. Nat had to resist grabbing it back.
“How old is she?” said the plumper girl, incredulous, and the third shoved her, laughing and putting a hand up to her mouth. “Too old. Too old for them.”
“Can I just have one more look?” said Nat, trying not to plead, smiling, and crossly the girl held it out, clasped in the diamanté-studded nails, not letting it go. Nat tried to see where Beth was looking, but it was hard to tell; at the actors was all she could see, a bare-chested man, a girl in a bonnet, a cluster of equipment.
Then she spotted him: Bill. Leaning on his camera, big hands, in the far corner of the shot, concentrating on his job. Handsome: it took Nat by surprise how handsome, and not even looking at Beth. Nat put her forefinger to the screen to enlarge it—but the girl snatched the phone away, losing patience.
“Thassit,” she said, her chin sticking out defiantly. “Mind if we get on with our dinner now?” On the table was a bag of chips, split open.
Nat retreated, her stomach churning at the sight of Beth, large as life on that little screen. She’d been so real.
They clattered out half an hour later, leaving the room almost empty, their table a litter of peanuts and dirty glasses, a single false nail with glitter in the ashtray. In the Bird they went on setting out ashtrays, though no one smoked anymore. Janine was in the kitchen giving Craig a piece of her mind about something in an undertone, and then suddenly he was storming out, through the bar, staggering as he ducked to get outside.
Janine was in the doorway, shrugging, her face blank and obstinate. “Pissed,” she said. “Can’t have him here like that.”
Nat held her breath, then let it out. “Back in a minute,” she said.
She found him in the car park, fumbling for the bike’s keys. “You’re not getting on that thing,” she said.
He swayed. “I—I—I miss her too, y’know,” he said. Mumbling.
“You slept with her,” she said.
Silence.
“Did Ollie know?” she asked quietly. His face looked flushed with booze in the golden afternoon light.
He shook his head. “I wasn’t going to tell him, was I?” he said. “It was just a couple of times, then she said no.” His eyes were dark. “My DNA,” he said dully. “Gonna be all over, isn’t it? All over her place.”
“She wouldn’t have told him.” She was quite certain about that.
“He’d have found out, wouldn’t he?” said Craig. “Nosy little bastard, I told him, you don’t want to know who else a girl’s been with. Drive you nuts, that will.”
“He knew who she’d been seeing?”
“Following her on—whatever. Facebook.”
“She hardly did Facebook,” said Nat, unhesitating. They’d had conversations about it. Beth posted once in a blue moon; she thought it attracted the creeps.
“Whatever, whatever…” He shrugged and she took hold of his arm. “I told him,” shaking her off, “I tol’ him, what you don’t know won’t hurt you.”
“What did he find out?” she said urgently. “What? Didn’t he tell you?”
He took a step toward her and she smelled the beer on his breath. He shook his head, slack-jawed, side to side. “Didn’ get a chance, did he?”
“Look,” she said urgently, “this matters because he’s out there. Whoever it was killed Ollie, even if Beth turns up safe and sound—” She broke off, feeling her throat close, knowing it would never happen. “You know what? You know old Victor? In the hospital, scared to death. He saw someone. He saw someone coming up from the river with blood on him weeks back, around the time Beth disappeared, saw the man again, last week. He’s … blanked it out, the man’s face. He’s frightened to death of remembering. What if it’s the same man?” And as she shook Craig’s arm she thought, Did the man with blood on him know Beth wanted a baby? Was that why … She faltered. “What if he comes after Victor?”
He’s already after me.
But it was Victor’s name that shifted something, behind Craig’s eyes. “Victor,” he repeated, and he focused briefly, looking at her then away. “Someone,” he said, uncertain, “Ollie—he—it wasn’t Facebook where he saw it then?”
“I don’t know, do I?” She shook him, harder. He stumbled away.
“I—I’m trying to think, aren’t I?” he said, swaying, irritable, reaching for the bike.
“You’re pissed, Craig. You’ll kill yourself, or someone else.”
He hunched his shoulders, refusing to look at her. “Mind y’own fucking business,” he said.
A wild, pointless fury rose in her then, but before she could grab him and shout in his face, he aimed a kick at the bike and wandered off, the helmet swinging from his arm. Nat forced herself to let him go.
Coming around the side of the pub with her fists still clenched she could hear Janine’s voice, a low murmur at the end of the narrow garden. Her blond-streaked head was visible moving to and fro beyond the straggle of the unpruned rose arch. Nat didn’t want to creep up on her, so she walked straight on.
At the sound of her footsteps Janine’s head jerked around, she looked shocked. She looked guilty. Her hand went straight to the receiver, covering it. “Yes?” she said sharply, then spoke softly into the phone. “Hang on a bit, will you, Steve?” A murmur answered her and she said, submissive, “No, but … no, all right, no. Sure.” She hung up, grim-faced when she turned, but Nat saw her trying to soften it.
“Look,” Janine said cautiously, “you look shagged out, all this … going on. I can manage the evening shift. There’s a new girl came in yesterday, asking if there was any work going. I could give her a call.” Avoiding Nat’s eye and her clenched fists.
“A new girl?” Nat stared, trying to process this information. “Just like that? You’re replacing me, because of this … this…”
“Nothing to do with that,” said Janine stiffly. “I’m not replacing you. It’s a trial day.” Evasive, though. “Just be grateful, all right? You need a break, take it from me. See you in the morning bright and early.” And she frowned down again at her mobile, conversation over.
Nat tried not to think of the money. Another shift gone. There was stuff she needed to do, though. An opportunity presented itself.
“All right then,” she said, fighting the anger, and the fear. “Bright and early.”
* * *
In a home, Victor supposed—by home meaning not really a home at all, but he couldn’t even frame the words “care home” to himself, especially not at this point in his life, the words had become terrifying to him—supper would be served at this time every night. Six o’clock, with the sun still warm on the windows, the day still bright.
Warily he looked along the row: only he of all the patients in his bay was capable of sitting up and watching for the meal trolley’s arrival.
Was it a promising sign? When he had been wheeled in here, he had not cared about mealtimes or anything else, so grimly had he been hanging on. When he had first been parked in this bay, flat on his back and incapable, he had clung to things more basic, more primitive, as primitive as totem poles or Easter Island statues, the face of his beloved Joy, long dead. The feel of Sophie’s hand in his, from long ago. He eased himself upright in the bed.
The tray was set in front of him: a sandwich, a bowl of soup, a yogurt. That at least comforted him: the clean cutlery folded in a paper napkin, the neatness of the tray, someone’s careful hand and a welfare state he recognized from his youth paying for it all, looking after him. As long as he could get back to his own little kitchen that tilted when he stepped from the refrigerator to the hot plate, his own elderly kettle.
Pulling the tray toward him a little, carefully Victor began to eat. He was on the alert from now on, and he needed to stay as sharp as he was capable of being. He would have to manage another night.
Lisa had been quite firm, the consultant had to sign off on him, and consultants only came around in the morning. Mornings during the week, elaborated Victor in his head; no one was discharged at weekends. Tomorrow was Friday.
“Then we’ll organize everything: medication, a follow-up appointment, a taxi home. Like royalty,” she said. Victor didn’t want to be ungrateful.
“You’re so kind,” he said, and she turned to go, giving him that last pat, where the bones of his knee raised the cellular blanket.
“And…” He hesitated. He took courage. “The police? Did you…?”
Lisa turned back; he saw her pained look.
“Oh, Victor,” she said tiredly. “Mr. Powell. What is all this about?”
“I think I have evidence,” Victor said stoutly, wounded. “I’ve seen someone I recognized who may be connected with that boy’s death—”
“Here?” she said, incredulous.
“Well I … no … yes … outside, in fact…” He felt himself getting anxious, flustered, why?
Lisa held up a hand. “Don’t get upset, Victor,” she said. “That’s the last thing any of us needs. I’m about to go off shift, but I’ll try them again.”
He didn’t see her again, though. She didn’t come in with her coat on to say goodbye as she had before. The next person he saw was a porter he didn’t recognize, a middle-aged man with stubble and baggy eyes. They were moving him into a side room.
“These ward beds are for ’igh dependency patients, they need yours back, incoming heart patient,” said the porter, whose belly bulged under a uniform polo shirt. “It’s good news. It means you’re going home soon.” The words came out a little too cheery for Victor: he let them settle in his head, listening to their echo.
The side room was cooler than the ward. It was quiet, the lights could be turned off completely. The nurse who settled him—he hadn’t seen her before—was encouraging, bustling around, showing him light switches, pushing the water jug within reach. There was no window.
The significance of his being moved ticked away at Victor as he moved slowly around the room after she had gone, resting a hand on the cabinet, testing it for stability, shifting the walking frame so he could get to it if he had to. Was it true that they put those about to be discharged in side rooms? Victor’s only knowledge on the subject was that those known to be dying were moved into them, but it would be very stupid indeed to dwell on that: the porter knew, Lisa knew, the consultant knew, he was getting better. He held out a hand and looked at it, the old veins, the pale skin; he made a fist and released it.
Making sure the door was closed, Victor located his shoes, his socks, his trousers neatly folded, a plastic bag with toothbrush. The jersey he had been wearing when he came in. He spread it out on the bed. It was a wonderful peacock blue. Sophie had bought it for his birthday and sen
t it in the post, knowing that he liked to be warm, knowing that he liked color, and when he’d opened it he had felt quite overcome, suddenly. Only a little stab of wishing, for her to have brought it in person, of course. Perhaps— He stopped himself. He thought he might put it on now: he turned carefully and sat on the bed.
Feeding his arms into the sleeves, he then raised them over his head, and inside the blue cocoon he felt himself unbalance, just fractionally, in the dark, but he kept going, stoically pulling the jersey down, his head back out again.
Victor panted. Of such triumphs is victory made. His jumper safely on.
One could never be too warm when one got old—when had that thought come to him before? Many times, but most recently when sitting on the bench near the telephone box in the sunshine, his last morning in the outside world.
* * *
Down by the water the sun was still bright.
Sophie sat on the campsite’s jetty with Rufus, holding on to his hand as he stretched his legs down, toes paddling in the warm brown water and a bucket and crab line beside him. She’d had the same equipment herself, aged three, along with a piece of gristle on the hook, her father patiently attaching it for her. She thought of Richard and the questions Natalie had asked her about him.
Richard would never have gotten his hands greasy wrestling with a piece of fatty bacon just so that Rufus could have a few hours of fun crabbing. How had they met, when had she decided he was the one? At what point had she committed herself? She couldn’t think of the answers, it was all muddled, she could not in that second identify one single moment in which she had been sure Richard loved her. All she could think of was his anger when she had refused to abort Rufus, her turning red when he laughed at the way she held her knife in front of his boss, when he disparaged her cooking. She searched and searched through her memories, increasingly frightened.
Would she know another Richard if he crept in the same way, smiling? Crept in under her skin.
The Day She Disappeared Page 24