by A J McDine
‘Then tell them it’s none of their business, either.’
Her nose wrinkled. ‘It’d be wrong not to share what I know. I don’t want anyone accusing me of withholding vital information.’
‘Oh, please,’ I said, not even bothering to hide my exasperation. ‘Tittle tattle is only going to muddy the waters. Finding Immy is what’s important. So, if the press come knocking on your door, try breaking the habit of a lifetime and keep your mouth shut.’
Phyllis raised herself to her full five foot two inches and spluttered, ‘Well, I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve that.’
Shit, that was the bear well and truly poked. ‘Sorry, Phyllis. I didn’t mean to snap.’ I ran a hand across my forehead. ‘It’s all a bit overwhelming. I’m grateful for your concern and I would love to come and have a cup of tea another day, if the offer’s still there?’
Mollified, she nodded. ‘It is, dear. And don’t you worry. It’s quite understandable that you’re touchy at the moment. Anyone would be in your shoes. If any reporters come knocking on my door, they’ll get short shrift from me.’
‘Thank you, I appreciate it.’ I smiled and waved the posters in her direction. ‘I guess I’d better get these up before I pick Nate up from school.’
She held out a liver-spotted hand. ‘I’ll put one in my window.’
‘Thanks.’ I handed her one and was about to beat a hasty retreat when she darted forwards, checking over her shoulder to make sure no one was in earshot.
‘One thing that occurred to me,’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘Although you know me, I’m not one to gossip.’
Yeah, right. ‘What’s that, Phyllis?’
‘That policeman on the lunchtime news seemed to think a stranger might have snatched Imogen if she hadn’t fallen in the river. Have you ever wondered if he’s looking in the wrong place? Because on the telly the poor kids who disappear without a trace are usually taken by someone they know.’
The old woman’s words rang in my head as I marched along the footpath towards the Westbere Lakes, only stopping to pin posters to the telegraph poles and gateposts I passed. She was a brazen busybody, but in one respect she was right. I took my phone out and stared at it for a minute before finding DC Sam Bennett’s number in my contacts.
She answered on the fourth ring. ‘Cleo. Everything OK?’
‘It’s fine. Well, as fine as it can be. Look, I wanted to ask if DI Jones is considering the possibility that someone we know took Immy?’
A second’s silence, then, ‘Has anything prompted you to ask this?’
‘Something one of my neighbours said. But she’s probably been watching too many daytime dramas.’
‘Not necessarily.’
I shivered, despite the warmth of the afternoon. ‘So, it’s something you’ll be considering?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And that’ll include Niamh O’Sullivan?’
‘Your former au pair?’
I nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see me. ‘I can’t help wondering if she might have come back for Immy.’
‘It’s certainly a line of inquiry. In fact, the officer who’s trying to track her down in Chatham is an old buddy of mine from training school. I spoke to him after he’d been round to the squat to let him know I was your FLO. He’s a solid copper. He’ll do everything he can to find Niamh. He’s already carried out house-to-house inquiries the entire length of Luton Road. And that’s no enviable task, as you can imagine.’
I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I didn’t want to interrupt.
‘He even asked the man who owns the fish and chip shop opposite the squat if he could watch his CCTV footage to see if Niamh had been coming and going in recent days, but the last time she’d been caught on camera was almost a month ago, which corroborated what the woman living there told him. But efforts are ongoing to track her down.’
‘You’ve slipped into police-speak,’ I said.
She laughed. ‘I have, haven’t I? Sorry about that. What I mean to say is that the world is a pretty small place these days. We’ll find her.’
We ended the call, and I retraced my steps back along the footpath towards home. As I passed Phyllis’s cottage I quickened my pace, keeping my eyes down, but to my relief she didn’t reappear. Wondering if Stuart and Melanie were still putting up posters, I turned into The Drove and pushed open the wooden gate to St Mary’s Church.
I heard them first and was about to walk out of the shadows and join them when something stopped me. Something about their murmured voices, the soft cadence of their words. I took two steps forwards, held my breath and strained to hear.
Stuart was speaking. Although I couldn’t make out the words, I recognised his tone, even though I hadn’t heard it for as long as I could remember. Solicitous, tender. The way he used to speak to me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. What the hell was going on?
I crept through the gravestones towards the voices, drawn like a moth to the light.
Melanie’s voice was low and earnest ‘… timing’s all wrong.’
‘What if I can’t wait?’
‘You don’t have a choice, Stu.’
‘Are you sure you’re not getting cold feet again?’
‘I’m sure.’
The soft slapping sound of lips against skin reached me. Stuart groaned and bile rose in my throat. Whatever they were doing, I didn’t want to see it.
The years melted away, and I was transported back to the night Stuart and I met. I’d practically torn his shirt off as he’d lifted my hair and kissed my neck. We’d fitted together like two pieces of a jigsaw. A kaleidoscope of images flashed through my head. Christmases, birthdays, weddings, christenings. Stuart had been by my side at every single one. I’d taken it for granted, because he was my husband, and that’s what happened when you were married. Your husband stood by your side through thick and thin.
Didn’t he?
I began edging away, freezing in horror when a stick snapped under my foot, as loud as a gunshot in the peaceful churchyard.
‘What was that?’ Melanie cried.
‘Nothing,’ Stuart soothed.
‘We should get back. The others will wonder where we are…’
It was my cue to leave, and I turned on my heels and ran out of the churchyard, my heart thumping in my chest.
Chapter Nineteen
I was so desperate to reach home that I didn’t see the man waiting outside our front door until I was almost upon him. It took a second to register that he was one of the reporters from the press conference. The man with the hooded face who’d had the gall to ask if it was reasonable to assume Immy was already dead.
Shit. I tried to sidestep him, but he thrust his phone in my face and said, ‘Mrs Cooper, I wondered if you could spare me a minute of your time.’
‘No,’ I said, pushing past him to the front door.
‘What do you think’s happened to Immy?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m not giving any interviews. You need to go through the police.’ Shit. I’d come out without my key. I rapped on the front door, hoping Bill wasn’t still in the garden.
‘Do you think your daughter’s still alive?’ the reporter pressed.
‘Of course I do! It’s the only thing that’s keeping me going. Now will you please leave?’
‘The thing is, the Mail’s offering ten grand for an exclusive interview with you and hubby. Is that something you’d be interested in?’
‘It is not.’ I rapped on the door again before turning to face him. ‘I don’t want their money, and I have nothing to say to you, do you understand?’
He held his hands up in apology. ‘No need to bite my head off. I get it. But here’s my card if you have a change of heart.’ He pulled a business card out of the top pocket of his scruffy shirt and brandished it under my nose. Harry James, freelance journalist. A mobile phone number, an email address and a Twitter handle. Behind me, there was a click and the front
door swung open.
‘Cleo?’ Bill said, his gaze sliding between me and the reporter. ‘Everything OK?’
‘It’s fine. Mr James was just leaving.’
The reporter handed me the card and gave a little bow. ‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Cooper.’ He turned on his heels and sauntered off down the street.
‘What was all that about?’ Bill stood to one side to let me into the house. As I passed him, he frowned. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What did he say to you?’
‘Nothing. He caught me by surprise, that’s all,’ I said, wondering at what point I should tell Bill that I suspected my husband and his wife were having an affair.
‘Come on,’ he said, taking my elbow. ‘You’ve had a shock. Let’s make you a cup of tea.’
I let him guide me along the hallway and into the kitchen. As he pottered about filling the kettle and finding tea bags, my mind raced. I hadn’t witnessed Stuart and Melanie doing anything they shouldn’t. What if I’d misheard them or misinterpreted their hushed conversation? What if I was wrong?
Empathy may not have been one of my strong suits, but I had always prided myself on being an excellent judge of character. I was intuitive, astute. I watched people, saw how they reacted, listened to subtext, and trusted my judgement. I knew the minute I met Stuart that he was as straight as a die. That’s not to say he was perfect. Far from it. He was as flawed as the rest of us. He was cautious, unambitious, and saw the world in black and white. But for all his faults he was not devious, or deceitful, or disloyal. What you saw was what you got.
Melanie was harder to read. On the surface, she was attentive and thoughtful. She never missed a birthday and was always on the end of the phone if I wanted to chat. She heaped compliments on me. My suppers were always delicious. My outfits perfect. Our garden stunning. Although we mostly socialised as couples, occasionally she and I met in town for coffee, the two of us. To the outside eye we were best friends, had been since university, yet I’d always sensed an undercurrent of disapproval. A shard of ice buried in that warm friendliness. It felt to me as though she found my ambition distasteful, my success hard to accept.
After graduating with a first in French, Melanie had worked in one of Canterbury’s many language schools while Stuart had stayed on at university to complete his MA, and Bill and I had started FoodWrapped.
I was always badgering her to pursue a career as an interpreter with the European Union or in the City of London, but she claimed to enjoy teaching and, when FoodWrapped started making serious money, she left work, happy to be a kept wife. I assumed she and Bill would start a family, but they never had. She never disclosed whether this was because they hadn’t wanted children or couldn’t have them, and I never asked. It was of no interest to me. She and Bill made excellent godparents, having the kids over for sleepovers and spoiling them rotten at Christmas and on their birthdays. As far as I was concerned, that was all that mattered.
Had I missed the clues? The covert looks between Stuart and Melanie, the clandestine meetings, the veiled insinuations that screamed AFFAIR? I wracked my brain but couldn’t think of a single example of suspicious behaviour between the pair of them. Sure, they were close, but I was close to Bill and that didn’t mean I was shagging him. If anything, Stuart always curbed his naturally tactile personality around Melanie. I’d always assumed it was because he knew she was reserved and he was respecting her personal space. Seems I was wrong.
Chapter Twenty
The kettle whistled, and I jumped out of my skin.
‘Bloody hell, that reporter really shook you up. I’ll phone the plod if I see him again,’ Bill said, handing me a mug.
We sipped our tea in silence while Bill scrolled through his phone and I picked at the loose skin around my thumb and wondered whether to tell him that the real reason I was rattled was because my husband - his best friend - was screwing his wife. The words formed on my lips, but as I opened my mouth I paused. I could never take them back. And what if I was wrong? Common sense told me I should confront Stuart first. Better to wreck one marriage, that was, if I was honest, already broken, than to wreck two. And did any of it matter, anyway? I’d sacrifice my marriage and my friendship with Melanie in a heartbeat to have Immy home.
I made up my mind. I wouldn’t tell Bill yet. There was no point. I would find the right time to tackle Stuart and now wasn’t the right time.
Bill’s phone rang, and this time he was the one to start. He frowned at the screen and leapt down from his stool as if it was on fire.
‘Won’t be a sec,’ he said, marching through the back door into the garden. When he returned a couple of minutes later, he was smiling.
‘My insurance company,’ he said, sitting beside me. ‘Cheeky bastards tried to push my premium for Audrey up by thirty percent, even though I told them she does less than a thousand miles a year. I threatened to take my business elsewhere and, guess what, they’ve just knocked fifty quid off last year’s premium.’
‘Nice one,’ I said, automatically.
Audrey - named after Audrey Hepburn - was Bill’s beloved Lotus Elan. I was with him when he discovered her rotting away in a ramshackle lean-to on a farm near Birchington. We were sussing out a potential supplier when Bill spotted a hub cap peeking out from under a green tarpaulin. His eyes lit up when he lifted the tarp to reveal a little yellow sports car.
‘A 1964 Lotus Elan GTS,’ he said reverentially, whipping off the tarpaulin and walking around the car. ‘An iconic British roadster and the first Lotus road car to have a steel backbone chassis with a fibreglass body. Look at the wooden dashboard. Stunning. And in Lotus Yellow, too.’
‘Looks more like Bird’s Custard Yellow,’ I said. ‘There’s no time to get distracted by old bangers, we need to go over these costs.’
‘Philistine,’ Bill grumbled, taking one last hungry look at the car before following me over to the farm office.
The meeting with the producer went well. The vegetables were great quality, and the prices were right, and we were about to shake on a deal when Bill said, ‘There’s one proviso. You sell me the yellow car.’
‘What, that old wreck? You can have it. I was going to scrap it, but the bloody thing’s made of fibreglass.’ The farmer laughed. ‘Take it off my hands. You’ll be doing me a favour.’
‘Then it’s a deal,’ Bill said, holding out his hand. They shook, and a week later Bill arranged for a recovery truck to pick up the Elan and take it to a lock-up he’d found to rent in Preston, a couple of miles from his Wingham home.
Over the next couple of years, Bill dismantled Audrey and rebuilt her from the ground up. He replaced her chassis and sent her engine to a classic car specialist to be reconditioned. He restored the wooden dashboard and the interior trim and paid a lad from a local bodywork garage to give her a complete respray in Lotus Yellow. Audrey, insured for almost seventy grand, was Bill’s pride and joy. Melanie often joked that he loved the car more than her, and I was inclined to agree. Audrey only came out on high days and holidays, and never when it was raining. God forbid she ever got wet.
‘She’s running like a dream,’ Bill said now. ‘I’m taking her to Brands Hatch for a track day at the end of the month. You should all come. Bring a picnic and make a day of it.’ He must have seen my look of disbelief because he winced. ‘Sorry, stupid thing to say. Of course you don’t want to come to a track day. I’m a thoughtless bugger.’
‘You are.’ I smiled to show there were no hard feelings.
‘Did you see Mel and Stuart on your travels?’
I stiffened. ‘Why?’
He patted his pockets. ‘We should get going. I’m meeting a supplier at half three.’
‘What time is it now?’
‘Ten past.’
‘Christ, I need to pick Nate up.’ I grabbed my bag and car keys, locked the back door and gave Bill a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Shut the front door behind you, will you?’
I drove to school in record time, drawing up outsi
de on the dot of a quarter past, as the first children trickled out. I left my car double parked, not caring that I’d get a shitty email from the head, and strode towards the gates, trying to ignore the concerned expressions and sad smiles of the mummy mafia.
Stuart normally did the school run and was on first-name terms with them all, but I only knew the mums of Nate’s two closest friends, who’d both texted when they’d heard about Immy, offering playdates and help with the school run. But I couldn’t see either of them, so I stood on the periphery and waited for Nate to appear.
‘It’s Cleo, isn’t it?’ a plummy voice said, and I turned to see a willowy woman with her blonde hair in a loose topknot staring at me with barely concealed fascination. She held her hand to her heart. ‘I am so sorry about Immy. You must be devastated.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘Octavia Barton.’ She held out a hand. I ignored it.
She tilted her head. ‘Is there any news?’
Something tugged at my memory. This was the woman who’d told her son Immy was dead. I narrowed my eyes. ‘You’re Felix’s mum.’
‘It’s Fergus, actually. But please don’t worry. It’s completely understandable. You have a lot on your mind.’ She drew her eyebrows together as she said this, a parody of concern. ‘How are you coping?’
‘Pardon?’
‘How are you coping with little Immy gone? I can’t imagine the utter hell you and Stu must be going through. I’d be beside myself.’ She shivered, pulling her flimsy cardigan tightly around her bony chest. ‘If there’s anything I can do, absolutely anything, tell Stu to WhatsApp me.’ She must have clocked my raised eyebrows, because she explained, ‘There’s a WhatsApp group for all the mums in Fergus and Nathan’s class, plus Stu, of course. He’s our honorary mum,’ she twinkled. ‘I’m the admin so I can add you, if you like?’
My hands balled into fists by my sides, and I shook my head. ‘No need. But there is something you could do.’