by Roz Watkins
‘It’s a flimsy desk, Meg – British workmanship. I wouldn’t risk it.’
I tried not to smile. Clearly Jai and I were getting back on track, but I vowed to avoid mentioning his girlfriend and her conflicted attitude to his children. ‘Sit on the bloody chair, with your legs reasonably close together, and shut up.’
Jai hoicked himself off the table and sat unwillingly in my guest chair.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘These comments on Violet’s videos – loads have appeared today saying she’s been killed, but we’re obviously more interested in the ones from before her disappearance was made public. Even the ones who like her turn potentially homicidal if she doesn’t respond to their pitiful observations.’
‘Yeah, and it’s not like they even start subtle. But whether they’d harm her in real life, I don’t know.’
‘Rejected men do have that tendency, Jai. Although I agree, the online ones usually stay there, where nobody can see how pathetic they are.’
‘I’m not sure why the pro-animal ones hate her so much. What has she actually done? She’s not drowning puppies.’
‘She’s making meat look sexy,’ I said.
‘But it’s not enough for someone to harm her, surely?’
‘Izzy said she deliberately winds people up, and there are so many people at the moment who are permanently furious, maybe she pushed one of them over the edge and they came to the abattoir to confront her. Anything on the biological father yet?’
‘No,’ Jai said. ‘But we’re carrying on with the house-to-house. Hoping someone in the village had told Violet her dad’s name. Or maybe we’ll find a lead on her laptop. You reckon she might be with him?’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Kids can be remarkably forgiving of some bloke that shot his load two decades ago, as opposed to the poor sods who slaved to bring them up.’
‘But why leave the car and go missing in the middle of the night? Why not contact Izzy?’
Fiona poked her head around the door. ‘I think we’ve found out where Violet was between eight and ten last night. Results from the house-to-house. Someone saw a car that matches Violet’s.’
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Where?’
‘Visiting a man called Tony Nightingale. He’s the father of Kirsty the pig farmer – you know, the one who’s on the Great Meat Debate website with Violet and co. He’s a pig farmer as well – with a farm at the edge of Gritton. I’ve spoken to him and he’s confirmed Violet did visit, and apparently she was saying strange things. He’s happy for someone to call on him.’
I groaned and looked at my watch. ‘Oh God. Why did I arrange for Hannah to come this evening? I’ll have to feed her from the freezer.’
‘Hannah will be devastated,’ Jai said. ‘She’ll be expecting eight courses of cordon bleu cuisine, based on your past performances.’
‘Sod off, Jai. Those chips I got you from George’s were a perfectly nice supper. And as I recall, I offered you cereal for pudding.’
‘I rest my case.’
‘I suppose the lovely Suki whips up fresh and fragrant curries every night?’ Damn it, I’d gone there.
Jai looked down. ‘She’s away at the moment. She’ll be glad to miss the kids at least.’
‘Right. Okay.’ There was a pause while my brain searched for something non-inflammatory to say about Suki and the kids, while contemplating Violet’s visit to this pig farmer. ‘Listen, Jai … You’re only round the corner now. Why don’t you come over tonight after we’ve visited the pig farmer? You could meet Hannah. I can’t believe I’ve never introduced you. You’ll like her.’ And I’d make sure I didn’t mention Jai’s girlfriend, and we could go back to being normal with each other again.
‘Ah, no, I couldn’t crash your party,’ he said.
‘You may as well. Witness the rare event of me providing food, albeit from the freezer?’
He hesitated, then said, ‘Yeah. Okay, I will. Thanks.’
‘Good. First, let’s see what Violet was doing visiting a pig farmer last night.’
6
Jai and I pulled onto the road out of Buxton. The sun was a vivid orange, and smoke from the wildfire was drifting up from the hills, leaving a hint of bitterness in the air.
‘Did you get any more info on him?’ Jai asked.
‘Tony Nightingale? Pig farmer and all-round country gent, from a long line of similar. Rolling around in cash, by all accounts – and owns a lot of the land around here. Violet turned up at his house around eight, saying she was related to him. Could be a good lead. Maybe it’s all a bit Thomas Hardy and he’s her biological father?’
We drove through Winnats Pass, a spectacular, steep-sided limestone valley with cliffs on all sides, formed from a long-ago collapsed cave system. It had once been the main route between Sheffield and Manchester, famous for its bad weather and bandits. We went another mile or so in silence, and then ground to a halt in the traffic of Castleton. Tiredness was catching up with me, and I wished again that I hadn’t invited Hannah over.
We chugged onwards, leaving Castleton and heading through the Hope Valley and up through Bamford, before reaching the outskirts of Gritton.
A red-brick farmhouse sat by the road, a tree-lined lane curling round behind it. A fence corralled a small garden, and an old path overgrown with weeds led to what looked like the original front door. A sign proclaimed Mulberry Farm – Rare Breed Pork. It was a decent-sized house, set apart from the neighbours, but wasn’t that grand for a supposed country gent.
I drove round to a yard at the rear, passing a field inhabited by pigs wallowing in mud. I regarded them with envy.
‘Nice,’ Jai said. ‘Shame they’re going to end up on someone’s breakfast plate.’
‘You could always go veggie,’ I said, ‘if you’re feeling bad.’
‘But bacon tastes so good …’
I remembered what Violet apparently said. That using the taste of bacon as an excuse for eating it was like saying it was okay to rape someone if you enjoyed it. Definitely an odd thing for our bikini-wearing sausage-sizzler to come out with.
We knocked on a solid, newly-painted door at the back of the house. To the side was a rose garden, overgrown and knotty, with long grasses growing between thorned stems.
The door was opened by a man with the corduroyed, bespectacled look of a university professor. He didn’t fit my image of a pig farmer, although I told myself there was no rational reason why a pig farmer should look like a pig. Then I noticed he had a thin covering of light, fair hair, almost like the hair on a pig’s back, and I felt strangely reassured.
We showed the man our ID and he nodded calmly, confirmed he was Tony Nightingale, and ushered us inside. The door led into an unmodernised farmhouse kitchen, complete with Aga, non-fitted wooden units, and pungent, aged black Labrador. We sat at a Formica table while Tony Nightingale made tea. The Labrador lay on its side, only raising an eyebrow in greeting.
‘Violet Armstrong came here last night?’ I said.
‘Yes.’ Tony placed a teapot, cups, and a milk jug in front of us, and lowered himself into a chair. ‘I’m sorry. It’s all such a shock. She said some rather strange things.’
‘What did she say?’ I asked.
Jai fished out a notebook and pen.
‘I didn’t know who she was. I don’t know about blogging and videos or whatever it is she does. But she told me not to tell anyone she’d come because she didn’t want any publicity. And then …’ He put his cup down with a trembling hand. ‘Sorry. She said she was my granddaughter. She said her mother was dead and she wanted to find her relatives. And to find out who her father was.’
‘Did you get to the bottom of it?’
He folded his arms. ‘She’d been told that her mother was called Rebecca Smith. My daughter is Rebecca and she took my sister’s name, Smith, when she went to live with her. But my daughter, Bex, isn’t dead.’
‘Did your daughter have a baby?’
Tony looked out into the garden. The ev
ening sun was glistening on a climbing rose. A flash of anguish passed across his face. ‘If she did, she never told me.’
‘How old would Bex have been eighteen years ago?’
‘Only sixteen.’
‘Was she living with you at that time?’
Tony looked down. ‘She lived with her aunt. My sister, Janet.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. It was … hard. My other daughter, Kirsty, lived with me.’
‘What was the reason for Rebecca – Bex – living with her aunt and not with you?’
Tony jumped up. ‘I forgot the biscuits.’ He opened a wall-mounted cupboard and fished out a biscuit tin which he placed on the table with a flourish. ‘Only Rich Tea, I’m afraid.’
‘Thanks.’ Jai was straight in there, as was the aged Labrador, who’d done a Lazarus-like manoeuvre and was now sitting staring dolefully at Jai while he rummaged in the tin.
‘Ignore him,’ Tony said. ‘Burglars could maraud through the house unimpeded as far as he’s concerned, as long as they didn’t open any food containers.’
‘Aw,’ Jai said. ‘He’s hard to resist.’
I smiled. He was indeed hard to resist. I blamed those hypnotic eyes. ‘So, Bex went to live with your sister?’ I said.
‘Yes. My wife, Nina, and I split up. Nina was from the Ukraine and she returned there when Bex was only three. I found it difficult to cope with two children.’
‘Nina left the children with you?’
He nodded. ‘I suppose she thought they’d have a better life here. I was terribly upset with her at the time, but now I think she was suffering from depression. I should have given her more support.’
I spoke gently. ‘If Bex didn’t live with you, is there a chance she could have had a baby eighteen years ago?’
‘She was only sixteen. And Violet was sure her mother was dead. I tried to call Bex, but she hasn’t got back to me. Then I phoned Kirsty, to see if she knew anything about it, but she didn’t. I can’t ask my sister – she died of breast cancer two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry about that. We will need to speak to Bex. You say she took your sister’s surname when she went to live with her?’
‘Yes. Smith. For all intents and purposes, my sister adopted her. It was much easier with schools and things if she took her name.’
‘Okay. We’ll take her contact details from you.’
‘Oh Lord.’
‘Before we go, we’d like to clarify – the missing girl, Violet, was born in May 2000. When did you last see your daughter before and after that date?’
A look of shame crossed his face. ‘She stayed here for a month the summer before that. I haven’t seen her since 1999.’
‘Is there a reason you haven’t seen her?’
He swallowed. ‘She doesn’t like coming to Gritton, and it’s hard for me to get away, what with the animals.’
‘Why doesn’t she like coming to Gritton?’
He looked out of the window at the old rose garden. ‘I think she just has a very busy life. She’s a dog trainer.’
I knew all about fathers who didn’t see their daughters, but a ‘busy life’ didn’t explain what was going on here. I was very keen to meet Bex.
‘I love my daughter,’ Tony said. ‘It’s just … shocking the way the years slip by.’ He pointed to a framed photograph on an old dresser. ‘That’s her. That’s my Bex.’
The photo was small and I had to stand and take a step closer to see it clearly. A slim, dark-haired girl of about sixteen stood next to a huge, spotty pig, smiling with exactly the same radiance as Violet.
‘Do you think this Violet might be my granddaughter?’ Tony said.
Looking at the photograph, he must have suspected as much. ‘We’re investigating that possibility.’
Tony nodded slowly. ‘Right.’
‘What time did Violet leave your house last night?’ I asked.
‘About nine thirty. She said she had a job at the abattoir. She had white overalls on, so I suppose she planned to go straight there. But she was agitated when she left.’
‘Violet didn’t react well to your conversation?’
‘She was upset. Kept asking me who her father might be. I said I had no idea and she didn’t like that at all. I’m afraid she left here in a terrible state.’
7
Bex – August 1999
Bex sat in the back of the taxi twisting her fingers and praying the driver wouldn’t start talking again. The closer they got to Gritton, the more her stomach climbed towards her mouth. It took all her energy to clamp her lips shut instead of shouting to the driver, No! Turn round! Take me back to the station so I can go home!
The driver lifted his chin. ‘Visiting relatives?’
She didn’t want to talk. She had no idea what might spew out. His previous comments had required no answer. Everyone thinks taxi drivers are racist, don’t they, love? But I don’t mind immigrants. We had a Polish bloke do our bathroom. She’d been able to sit and smile and nod, while her own private mental battle raged on.
If she tried to speak, would her insides erupt? She risked it. ‘I’m visiting my dad.’
‘Do you live with your mum then, love?’
‘My mum’s dead.’ The casual lie slipped out. Easier to say than, My mum left when I was three, and went back to the Ukraine. Because what kind of mother would do that?
‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. When did she die?’
‘Thirteen years ago.’ Bex touched the pelican brooch she wore on a chain around her neck. ‘It’s okay. I live with Aunt Janet in Southampton. She’s nice.’
That seemed to satisfy him. He didn’t ask the obvious question. Why don’t you live with your dad? She didn’t want to answer that one, even in her own mind. There was only one possible answer: Because he blames me for what happened. And she couldn’t handle that.
She needed the driver to shut up so she could prepare herself. She knew her dad didn’t want her to visit him at all, never mind for a month. Why on earth had she forced herself on him? Her aunt had been against it too – begging Bex not to go to Gritton. But Bex felt a sick desperation to be closer to her dad and Kirsty. A hollowness inside her that she was sure would go away if only she knew them properly. When you’ve already lost your mum, you need to hang on to the rest of your family. When they’d done The Importance of Being Earnest at school, she’d been the only one in her class not to laugh at the joke about losing both parents.
Her dad and Kirsty had visited a few times – she’d last seen them a couple of years ago – but it had always felt unreal, like her dad wasn’t really her dad, her sister just a stranger. Surely a month together in Gritton would fix that? So why was the prospect so terrifying?
She’d written instructions to herself in her diary that morning, which now seemed childish and pathetic.
1. Pretend your dad wanted you to visit.
2. Get on well with Dad and Kirsty.
3. Make a friend in Gritton.
She smoothed her dress over her legs. She’d tried to look nice, so they’d be glad to see her. A new yellow coat, a dress instead of jeans, girly shoes. She peered out of the window. It was dark ahead, despite only being early evening.
‘Looks like a storm,’ the driver said, and the rain came pouring down, pounding the taxi’s roof. ‘You’re unlucky – it’s been dry for weeks.’
The taxi splashed through a puddle and the driver turned the wipers up to maximum. Bex saw the sign, Welcome to Gritton, but the surroundings were hidden by the sudden downpour. She closed her eyes. She had a picture of Gritton in her mind. The dark woods behind her dad’s farm, the rocks standing on the hill like prison guards, the reservoir that drew the light from the sky deep into itself. It must have come from photographs. She couldn’t possibly remember it from when she was three, and she hadn’t been back since.
The driver interrupted her thoughts. ‘You want me to take you right into the village?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Some people get dropped here.’
‘Could you take me to Mulberry Farm please, on the Bamford road?’ Why would he not want to take her into the village, when rain was coming out of the sky like bathwater down a plug? When Bex didn’t have a raincoat, and had a large case?
The storm had darkened the sky to graphite. A fork of lightning danced over the gritstone edge above the village, and Bex cringed, waiting for the thunderclap. It came a second later, making her jump even though she was expecting it.
The lane that led to her dad’s farm had turned to a stream, and the taxi churned up a wave of water on each side as they cruised down. The driver clenched his hands around the steering wheel. ‘This village,’ he muttered.
Bex told herself it was just the weather. The black skies, pounding rain and cascades of water gushing over the hillside. But she felt it. Something ominous about Gritton.
It would be okay. She pictured herself in her dad’s kitchen. He’d be delighted to see her, Kirsty would too. They’d drink mugs of tea and maybe have cake. There would be a reason he’d not wanted her to live at the farm with them. A reason she’d been too young to understand. A reason other than that he blamed her.
The taxi driver finally pulled up at the front of the house, by an old gate overgrown with brambles. He shouted over the noise of the rain against the windscreen. ‘Here okay?’
The front door of her dad’s house was covered in chipped green paint, edged with moss. The sight of it made Bex want to be sick. The old garden gate was rusting, and the paving slabs were cracked, dandelions thrusting through.
The driver jumped out of the car and darted round to open her door. She sat a moment. ‘All right, love?’ he said, a hint of nervousness in his voice, maybe wondering if she was going to sit there and refuse to move, rain hammering the roof of the car above her. He moved away, popped the boot open, took out her case and dumped it on the ground.
She dragged herself out and grabbed her case.
‘Do you need a hand?’ the driver said, already climbing back into the car.