by A J McDine
‘He told you?’
I crossed my arms. ‘He did.’
‘The boy in question was very upset. Nate needs to understand that his behaviour was unacceptable.’
‘Did Nate also mention Fergus told him Immy was probably dead?’
I could tell by the way Miss Henderson’s eyes flickered towards the door that he hadn’t.
‘Didn’t think so. If that’s it, I have more important things to deal with than a playground spat, like trying to find my missing daughter. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll be off.’ I pushed the tiny chair back and marched out of the room, leaving Miss Henderson gaping like a coy carp in my wake.
My phone rang as I strode out of the school, still seething from the exchange. It was Stuart.
‘DI Jones is here, with Sam Bennett,’ he said.
My stomach lurched. ‘Has something happened?’
‘They won’t tell me anything until you get here.’
‘I’ll be home in five,’ I said, and started running towards the car. Four minutes later I was pulling up outside the house. I let myself in and banged my keys on the console table.
‘We’re in here,’ Stuart called from the front room.
I burst in and DI Jones heaved himself to his feet. ‘Mrs Cooper,’ he said, nodding in my direction.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked, looking at Sam for clues, but she was giving nothing away.
‘Officers were called to a potential break-in at a warehouse last night,’ the DI said. ‘A neighbour was walking his dog shortly before ten and saw a suspicious vehicle parked outside.’
‘And this is relevant how?’ I asked.
‘The warehouse has been empty for some months, which is why our dog walker deemed the vehicle suspicious.’
‘I still don’t know what this has to do with Immy.’
DI Jones pulled a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket and flicked through it. ‘It’s on a small industrial estate just up the road from Littlebourne Church. I believe you may know it?’
‘That’s where your old warehouse is, isn’t it?’ Stuart said, frowning.
‘Yes, but it’s been empty for almost two years.’
‘But it’s owned by FoodWrapped?’ Sam said.
‘It’s on the market. Has been since we moved operations to Hersden.’
The DI scribbled something in his notebook. ‘A patrol attended the location and found that someone had jemmied open the fire door, although the vehicle had long gone.’
‘I’m the keyholder. Why wasn’t I told?’ I asked.
‘I’m telling you now,’ DI Jones said. ‘The officers carried out a quick search of the warehouse and couldn’t find any evidence that anything had been stolen.’
‘That’s because there’s nothing there to nick.’
‘But they did find items of clothing, some personal possessions and a sleeping bag.’
I took a deep breath, trying to hide my impatience. ‘A rough sleeper has been bedding down in our old warehouse. So what? I don’t see why it’s relevant to Immy’s disappearance.’
‘That’s exactly what I thought when I got a call from the duty inspector at one o’clock this morning,’ DI Jones said. ‘Especially when trespass isn’t even a criminal offence. And then he told me what his officers found among the personal possessions, and it became very relevant indeed.’
‘What did they find?’ Stuart asked.
‘This.’ DI Jones pulled a plastic evidence bag from his briefcase and handed it to Stuart, who gasped, ‘It’s Niamh!’
‘Let me see.’ I snatched the bag from him, the plastic slippery between my fingers. Inside was a dog-eared photo of Niamh pushing Nate on a swing at the play area near our old house in Bridge.
‘We’ve circulated her photograph on local intel briefings as being someone of interest to the investigation. Luckily one of the officers recognised her straight away,’ DI Jones said. ‘Have you seen the photo before?’
‘I took it,’ I said. ‘It was such a lovely photo Niamh asked me to send it to her, but I didn’t know she’d printed it out and kept it. She was very fond of Nate.’
‘You think she’s the rough sleeper?’ Stuart asked.
DI Jones rested his elbows on his knees. ‘So it would seem. And before you ask, we had the search dogs up there first thing. They drew a blank. There is nothing to suggest Immy has spent any time in the warehouse.’
Stuart’s shoulders slumped, and I handed the evidence bag back to DI Jones.
‘I take it Niamh would have known about the warehouse?’ Sam asked.
‘She’d been a handful of times when we were still operating out of there. She wouldn’t have known it was empty,’ I said.
‘But it would have been easy to find out.’ DI Jones reached in his pocket for his phone and held his thumb over the home button. ‘I did a quick search of commercial property sites in the Canterbury area earlier and found it listed for sale with vacant possession on at least three.’
‘Do you think she holed up there before she snatched Immy on Sunday?’ I asked.
‘Cleo!’ Stuart exploded.
‘Of course she took Immy,’ I hissed. ‘First she tells Tracey she has unfinished business to see to, and then she camps out at my old warehouse less than ten minutes from our house. You’re deluded if you think she didn’t.’
The DI held up a hand. ‘Mr Cooper’s right. Just because we believe she may have been staying in the area doesn’t mean she’s guilty of anything. Until we have evidence to the contrary, we’ll keep an open mind.’
I jumped to my feet and began pacing the room. ‘So where is she now?’
‘One theory is that she went off in the car our dog walker saw last night. Unfortunately, he couldn’t be certain of the colour or make, only that it was tall, like a four-wheel drive or an SUV.’
‘Are you staking the place out in case she comes back?’
‘A stakeout’s an overstatement, but I’ve tasked a couple of PCSOs to lie low there until their shift finishes.’
I stopped and raked my hands through my hair. ‘What use is that?’
DI Jones dropped the photo of Niamh and Nate in his briefcase and snapped it shut, making it clear the conversation was over. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have the resources to keep officers there around the clock, Mrs Cooper. It’s the best we can do.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The two officers had barely closed the front door behind them before Stuart picked up his phone and car keys and announced he was going out.
I looked up. ‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. Just out.’ He sighed. ‘I need some space.’
‘Suit yourself. I’ll stay here in case the police ring with news of our daughter, shall I?’ I was spoiling for a fight, but Stuart wasn’t playing ball. Instead, he stomped down the hallway and slammed the front door behind him so fiercely the entire house quivered.
I gazed out of the kitchen window into the garden, wondering if he was driving straight round to Melanie’s converted barn on the outskirts of Wingham. Why hadn’t I confronted him about his affair? Was I too frightened to hear the truth? Or was it because, compared to losing Immy, it was of no consequence?
I splashed water on my face, dried it with a square of kitchen towel and did what I always did when I needed to centre myself - opened my MacBook and dived into my work emails. To my surprise, over a dozen sat unanswered in the main FoodWrapped inbox. I checked the time. It was a quarter past ten. Normally Sheila, the height of efficiency, would have dealt with them by now. I called Bill.
‘Is everything OK?’ I asked.
‘Yes, why shouldn’t it be?’ Bill said.
‘Sheila’s behind with the emails.’
‘I thought you were taking some compassionate leave?’ He sounded more annoyed than concerned.
‘Yeah, well, you know me. I can’t just switch off.’
‘She rang in sick this morning. Some stomach bug her mother’s given her, apparently.’
&n
bsp; ‘I’ll come in,’ I said.
‘No, there’s no need. I’m on top of everything.’
‘But -’
‘No, Cleo,’ he said. ‘You need to be at home. Listen, I’ve got to go, there’s another call waiting. I’ll speak to you later, OK?’
I scrolled half-heartedly through the emails, only stopping when I found one from our accountant with the heading, ‘Annual accounts’. I scanned the contents.
Hi Cleo and Bill,
I have uploaded copies of FoodWrapped’s accounts/returns into IRIS OpenSpace for you to e-approve when convenient, following which I’ll submit to HMRC. All looks in order, but if you have any queries, give me a shout.
Best,
Peter
IRIS OpenSpace was the software our accountant used to share documents with clients. I logged on, typed in my username and password, and opened the annual accounts. They were as I remembered, and I was about to hit approve, when I saw the inflated cost of sales in the profit-and-loss statement. Something about the £18,000 we’d paid to Blackberry Organics jarred, although I couldn’t have said why. I opened a new tab, googling ‘Blackberry Organics Kent’, keen to see why Bill thought we were better off with them and not RP Produce, the family-run company that had been supplying our produce for years.
The one and only hit was the company’s website, so I clicked on that and waited for the page to load. After an age, a dark blue webpage appeared with a message in the centre that was short and to the point: This site is currently under construction. Please come back soon.
It was frustrating, but fair enough. Our own website was constantly being reviewed and updated. In fact, we’d held a major relaunch the previous autumn ahead of our winter marketing push. I shook my head, wondering if Immy going missing had made me paranoid, and went back into IRIS OpenSpace, clicking on the approve button before I changed my mind.
I was sitting at the kitchen island with an untouched sandwich in front of me when the doorbell chimed. The usual jolt of adrenalin sent my heart racing, and I jogged down the hallway to the front door, expecting to see Sam Bennett on the doorstep.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ I said.
Melanie handed me an enormous bunch of roses. They were yellow, Immy’s favourite colour, and for a fleeting moment I wondered if she’d chosen them on purpose.
‘I thought you might like some company,’ she said.
‘How did you know I was on my own?’
‘Stuart dropped by on his way to check the nesting boxes.’
‘Funny how he gives me hell if I dare go into work, yet it’s fine for him to swan off counting bloody dormice.’
Melanie smiled brightly. ‘I could murder a coffee. Shall I stick the kettle on? It’s such a lovely day I thought we could sit outside.’
Melanie made coffee while I found a vase and a pair of kitchen scissors. As I cut an inch off the stems and popped the roses in the vase, I recalled asking Immy once why she loved yellow so much.
‘Because it’s warm like summer,’ she said, before climbing into my lap and pulling my head down for a kiss. The memory blindsided me, and to hide my distress I held the roses to my face and breathed in deeply. But they’d been cultivated for their appearance and vase life and didn’t smell of anything.
We took our drinks into the courtyard. The bees were still buzzing around the wisteria’s pea-like purple flowers and the river was still burbling as it snaked its way to the sea, yet everything else had changed beyond recognition. In a parallel universe, Immy was still with Nate in the den, playing with her Peppa Pig. In the real world, she’d been missing for three days. Most three-year-olds turned up within an hour of being reported missing. That’s what the search sergeant had confidently informed me. I did the calculation in my head. It was almost seventy-two hours since Immy disappeared.
A lifetime.
For three days we’d been in hideous limbo, not knowing whether she was alive or dead. I was already struggling to picture her face, and it terrified me. Yet I could remember every horrific second of the last three days. How brutal the brain was, forcing you to relive events you’d do anything to forget, while treasured memories slipped out of your grasp.
‘Tell me, Cleo,’ Melanie said, squeezing my hand then letting it go. ‘How are you doing?’
You’d never guess from her furrowed brow and her sympathy-laden voice that she was screwing my husband.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Considering. Did Stuart tell you Niamh’s been sleeping rough at the old warehouse?’
An emotion I couldn’t pinpoint crossed her face. ‘He mentioned it, yes.’
‘I know the police are still searching the river, but it’s been three days now and they haven’t found her. I think Niamh took Immy.’
She glanced around the garden as if she was looking for someone to rescue her. Why are you so flustered, Melanie?
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ she said at last. She was quiet for a while and we sipped our coffees. Then, out of the blue, she said, ‘Have the police considered that Immy’s real father could have taken her?’
My eyes widened. ‘What makes you say that?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s another possibility, isn’t it?’
‘But he was just some random from the beach party. She never even knew his name.’
‘That’s what she told you. But you only have her word for it.’
‘What d’you remember about that night?’ I asked, keen to know.
‘You and Bill were both pissed as farts. You staggered off to bed while Stuart helped me clear up, and at about half past ten he walked Niamh down to the beach.’
‘Did you see him come back?’
She frowned. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘He never came to bed. He said he slept in Nate’s room. Did you see him come back?’ I repeated.
A dark flush stained her throat. ‘What are you saying?’
I paused for a beat. Once the words left my lips, there was no taking them back. And then I thought, fuck it, I have nothing to lose. ‘Sometimes I wonder if Stuart is Immy’s dad.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t deny Niamh was infatuated with him. Perhaps on the way down to the beach they, you know…’
Melanie shook her head.
‘It would explain why he was so quick to agree to adopting Immy. And he was the one who suggested putting his name on Immy’s birth certificate.’
The theory ran roughshod over Niamh’s claims she’d been raped. I now knew my husband was capable of infidelity, but I couldn’t believe he would rape someone. I only had Niamh’s word that someone had attacked her. Perhaps it was a lie to throw me off the scent, to cover up the fact that she’d slept with my husband. That would explain her reluctance to go to the police, and the ease with which she seemed to bounce back from the rape. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. ‘Well?’ I said.
‘He can’t be,’ Melanie said.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because he was with me.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘What?’
She stared at the clouds drifting above our heads. ‘Bill and I had a massive row that night, not long after you went to bed. I had a go at him about his drinking. I told him it was getting out of control and he needed help. He hit the roof.’ She lowered her gaze to mine. ‘I’ve never seen him so angry. I was frightened, Cleo.’
I breathed out through my nose. ‘Bill would never lay a finger on you.’
‘Then you don’t know him as well as you think. He’s a mean drunk.’ She wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head, as if chasing a memory away. ‘Anyway, he stormed off, muttering about finding a bar that was still open. I was about to go after him, but then Stuart came back from walking Niamh to the party, and asked why I was so upset, and…’ she tailed off.
‘And what?’
‘I told him how worried I was about Bill. We stayed up talking until the early hours. I heard Niamh let herself into the villa, and at some st
age Bill staggered back in and fell asleep on the sofa. So Stuart couldn’t possibly be Immy’s dad, because he was with me.’ She glanced at me. ‘He promised he would talk to Bill once we were home.’
‘And did he?’
She nodded. ‘Don’t you remember Bill going on that health kick? He cut out all booze and sugar and signed up for the Canterbury Half Marathon.’
I did remember. He’d preached about the health benefits of abstinence with all the fervour of the newly converted. His self-restraint hadn’t lasted longer than a couple of months, to my relief. Drinking was an intrinsic part of Bill, and it had been unnerving to see him without his habitual glass of red in his hand.
It was the perfect moment to ask Melanie if she was having an affair with my husband, and I was working out how to frame the words when my phone rang. I snatched it up.
‘Mrs Cooper? It’s DI Jones. I have some news about Immy.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CORFU
FOUR YEARS EARLIER
A knock at the door made us both stiffen.
‘Who’s that?’ I said.
‘Me,’ Stuart said. ‘Just checking everything’s OK.’
At the sound of his voice Niamh paled, and she jammed her hands into her armpits and curled up like an autumn leaf. I caught her eye and raised my eyebrow, and she shook her head vigorously.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘Niamh’s got an upset tummy, that’s all. Bill’s dodgy barbecuing skills, if you ask me.’ I took her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Who’s with Nate?’
‘Bill’s watching him. Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, you’re all right, thanks.’
‘We should have some Imodium somewhere.’
I rolled my eyes. Couldn’t the man take a hint? ‘She’s taken some. You’d better check Nate’s OK. I can’t believe you left Bill in charge. He’s the least responsible adult I know.’
Stuart grumbled something I couldn’t catch, and his footsteps disappeared down the landing. I sensed Niamh relax a fraction. It was no wonder the mere sound of a man’s voice terrified her after what she’d been through. But it was something she was going to have to overcome, because we needed to call the police, the sooner the better. There would be physical evidence to collect, the crime scene to examine. Witnesses to question.