"If you think there's a reason to do that despite everything I've said I can't stop you, can I? It's your phone in your house."
Leslie rested her fingertips on the phone and knew at once there was a better reason to use it. "We aren't thinking, are we? There's only one place she'll be."
"Where?" Roger said, and she saw Ian swallow the same question.
"On her way to her mother's, of course."
"Didn't I just tell you she hasn't got a penny on her? What are you saying would make her try to go all that way on foot?"
"She might have called Hilene to pick her up, do you think? Called her and reversed the charges. Should you check?"
"If there's any need," Roger said, and strode to the gate and then to the end of Jericho Close. Having stood in the middle of the junction and used one hand as an eyeshade, he set off in the direction of the park. He was out of sight for so long that dismay tugged at Leslie's mouth when he reappeared without Charlotte. He trudged back along Jericho Close, rubbing his forehead with his knuckles and glancing over his shoulder more than once, to halt by his car. "Do you want to drive and see if you can find her?" Leslie suggested.
"And what would the rest of us be doing?"
"Someone could walk and look for her while the other stays here in case she comes back."
Roger pushed himself away from the car and tramped up the path. "Hilene was going to do the garden. That's how she calms herself down," he said, and less dolefully "If she's out that'll mean Charlotte called."
"If you say so."
"You're right, she'll be fetching Charlotte," he said, though Leslie was unaware of having made any such claim. "I remember now, she told her once how to reverse the charges if she ever needed to."
He used three fingers on the keypad to demonstrate his skill or to get the task finished. His head began to tilt to one side as though the receiver were weighing it down, but when enough time had passed he raised both. He was allowing a look of relief to emerge onto his face when his eyes switched toward the receiver. "Oh, hello," he said.
Leslie experienced a wrench of the disappointment he hadn't managed to keep out of his voice. She glanced along the hall at Ian, who was concentrating on his feet or on the kitchen floor. "Sorry if I brought you in," Roger murmured. "Having a productive time? We'll be seeing more flowers soon, will we?" All this said, and Hilene's answer listened to, it was clear he wished he could say something other than "You won't, I don't suppose you'll have heard from Charlotte?"
Leslie saw expressions she remembered from the beginning of the end of their marriage accompany his words and the pauses when his mouth got ready for another try. "I'm afraid she seems to have toddled off on her own... A bit of a tiff with Ian... No more than, not much more than half an hour... The park, and I shouldn't be at all surprised if that's where she is now on a day like this... I only thought she might have rung you. She isn't likely to ring here the way she feels... I will. Of course I will... I will, of course... That's what I'll do now, and you could keep an ear out just in case."
He planted the receiver on its stand and sent a look of disfavour along the hall. "I don't know when you'll be coming to visit again, Ian," he said, and to Leslie without bothering to change his tone "I'm going to drive and look for her. You'd better both stay here in case she comes looking for me."
Did he think Charlotte would bolt if she saw Ian by himself? Would she have any reason? Leslie tried to think not, but found she didn't want to speak to Ian. She sat on the front doorstep and leafed through her Sunday paper, which contained too much about children in peril all over the world. Dozens if not hundreds of glances away from it kept showing her how deserted the road was. Far too eventually the Peugeot reappeared, containing only Roger, who gave her an interrogative stare that didn't want to own up to being a plea. She was wondering what she could offer him except her empty hands when the phone shrilled.
He was even faster than she was. By the time she lifted the receiver he was almost in the house. Before she could speak she heard "Is Roger there?"
"He is, Hilene, but I'm afraid—"
"May I have him, please."
"All yours," Leslie said briskly as he stepped over the strewn newspaper.
"She hasn't turned up here, Hilene. I've been—" Though the blood didn't drain from his face, the expression did. "Are you sure? You don't think—No, of course I wouldn't want—All right, please go ahead... I appreciate you don't need my permission... I'll wait, shall I?... I'll wait, then."
His fingers appeared not to be working too well as he fumbled the receiver into place. "I'll stay for a little longer if you don't mind," he said, so unsurely and apologetically that Leslie might have thought he was asking for refuge. "I think she's being premature, but if it puts her mind at rest..." He raised his voice for Ian to hear, and Leslie wished it didn't sound so much like an accusation. "Hilene is calling the police."
THIRTY-THREE
"Are you looking for someone?" Melinda said.
Leslie turned from watching a man in an elegant summer suit walk past all the offices of film companies he might have dressed up for and vanish along Wardour Street into Soho, perhaps for another kind of meeting. "I was just remembering," she said.
"Poor Leslie."
"Not so poor. I was only thinking about the day Jack Lamb appeared."
"That's what I said, poor Leslie."
"Well, don't keep saying it. I don't feel anything like you think I'm feeling. It's gone. Deleted. No longer in demand. All I'm remembering is how I had the notion somebody had followed me from the house."
"You told me. So now you think..."
"It was him. He already knew about the house. He was pretending he didn't when he saw my notice about the room. That was something else he managed to fool me about for as long as I had him on the premises."
"You wonder how it's possible to be so wrong about somebody you're close to. I don't mean just you, Leslie. Everyone is sometimes."
"Thanks, Mel, but I think I wish you hadn't said that. Maybe I shouldn't have come into work today. It isn't taking my mind off much."
"Leslie, I'm sorry. Come here."
Despite the invitation, Melinda didn't wait for her, instead bustling along the space behind the counter and taking Leslie in her arms. She pressed her cheek against Leslie's and stroked her back just below her shoulders. Leslie felt surrounded by perfume and warmth, and though she was a little uncomfortable with the closeness of both, she returned the hug. She was wondering how long she ought to keep it up when she and Melinda grew aware of being ogled through the window by three wiry youths dressed in singlets and football shorts, who were making sounds and gestures they might have used to encourage a live sex show. "Piss off," the women chorused, and held each other until the youths wandered off, at which point Leslie intensified her hug before letting go. "I feel better for that," she was able to say without lying.
"I'm glad," Melinda said, but held her at arm's length to read her eyes. "Don't you dare start feeling guilty when you've done everything you could."
"Which wasn't much."
"You'd have told the police more if you could."
"More than just about nothing, you mean."
"It wasn't your fault if that was all you knew. I'm sure Ian did his best to help them."
"He told them more of the truth than he'd told me."
Melinda took time to peel the adhesive tape off a carton of compact discs with as little noise as possible, and then she said "What did he say?"
"Apparently after he'd had enough of her, not that he told the police he had but he didn't need to tell me, he was taking her to play with one of his friends' sisters, one of the friends I was hoping he'd grown out of, and Charlotte started prattling on about how bad, let's call him Jack because that's the way I can't stop thinking of him, how bad Jack must be to write his books, so Ian told her who he was."
"You would though, wouldn't you? So..."
"According to Ian she refused to believe him at first, and when he m
ade her she panicked and ran off."
"Made her how?"
"Told her. What else could it have been? They were on a street full of people."
"That has to be right, that's right. If it had been anything else someone would have remembered and come forward by now."
"Why can't we notice things when it's important to? Two of the neighbours say they heard Ian and Charlotte arguing in the park, and another one saw him coming back by himself. For once I wish she'd made a bit more noise, drawn more attention to herself. She's not the kind to go unnoticed when she's upset, and if nobody's seen she is by now, what's keeping her quiet?"
"Maybe nothing you have to worry about."
"You mustn't think that, Mel. It doesn't matter whose child she is, she's a child and I care what happens to her."
"You wouldn't be you if you didn't. I just meant she might be feeling guilty about running off when she was meant to stay with Ian, so guilty she's afraid to go home."
"So afraid she'd stay out overnight?"
"It was pretty sultry, wasn't it? A good night for sleeping in the open if she found somewhere. Kids have done stranger things, I believe. Or couldn't she have stayed with a friend?"
"Not without Roger and Hilene hearing."
"And he'd have called you if she'd turned up."
"Even Hilene would."
"At least there's one thing to be thankful for."
Leslie could only hope not to be able to see through this latest reason for optimism. "What's that?"
"You don't need to worry about the Woollie man." Apparently feeling this might be ambiguous, Melinda added "The father."
"No, but we don't know how many others there may be like him."
"None that bad, surely."
"I wish I could think so."
"Then think about her probably making her way home right now if she isn't already there and they haven't got round to phoning you. And remember the police are looking for her. They'll have ways to trace people we wouldn't think of."
"Thanks, Mel. Don't say any more, thanks."
Just then a businessman came in, loosening his tie as a preamble to deploring the existence of Birtwistle and Maxwell Davies and seeking tuneful British composers he hadn't heard of. Leslie played him examples of Finzi and Dyson and was able to sell him discs by both, after which the task of locating distributors for a pageful of obscure Eastern European symphonies listed by a customer helped her get through the rest of the afternoon. "You head off home to Ian," Melinda said as the hands of the clock met on the way to closing time. "I'll lock up."
"See you tomorrow, unless—I can't think why I wouldn't see you tomorrow."
"And you know I'm as close as the end of your phone if you need to talk."
Leslie gave her a smile she hoped was only grateful, not expressive of the doubts their conversation had raised, and struggled through the crowds to Oxford Circus. She had to stand and sway and be bumped into nearly all the way to Stonebridge Park, and when she escaped the heat that was coagulating on the train the spacious suburban evening offered little relief. She kept hearing cries of children in the streets—children at play—but that didn't render the sounds less capable of troubling her; they made her retreat from imagining what kind of cry Charlotte might have, or want, to utter.
As soon as she opened the front door she saw Ian beyond the house. The sight of him behind the table at the end of the garden seemed to transform the hall into an optical instrument with the kitchen window for a lens. The unreality passed as she strode toward him. She was at the back door when he looked up from writing. He screwed up his face and shook his head to tell her there was no news of Charlotte, and Leslie wished his wordless answer had been intended for the other question she had to ask. She felt as if the question were driving her forward, off the unyielding concrete onto the soft springy grass. She was halfway along the lawn when his face began to dull in readiness for the interrogation he must have seen bearing down on him, but she didn't speak until she was seated opposite him. "Is there anything else you haven't told me?" she said.
THIRTY-FOUR
"Hush now, Charlotte," Hector said, and began to sing under his breath.
THIRTY-FIVE
"Mr. Woollie?"
"He wants you, Mr. Woollie."
"Mr. Woollie, I'm Terence, remember."
"And I'm Hughie, remember too."
"Are you here to get some help, Mr. Woollie?"
Each of them paused before speaking, and left quite a few gaps between words too, presumably as a result of the medication they were on. Their intent faces were waiting for Jack's answer, Terence repeating a smile of encouragement that jerked his oval face and pressed lips high, Hughie maintaining a wide-eyed frown that sent its ridges up his broad balding pinkish skull. Jack glanced around the lounge of the Haven Care Home, but there was little hope of an interruption: several of the residents sitting in assorted chairs around the room bright with nursery colours seemed to want him to respond, and his mother was conversing with a small inaccurately dressed old woman in a voice whose increasing quietness was meant to persuade the listener to reduce her volume to an indoor level. "What kind of help?" Jack said.
"With your book, Mr. Woollie," Terence told him. "Aren't you writing a book?"
"I may be. I may have to."
"About Mr. Woollie?"
"I wish I could," Hughie said. "Write a book. I wish I could put things out of my head like that."
"About Mr. Woollie?"
"That's what I figured. Seemed like I might know stuff about him other writers wouldn't know."
"We do too. That's how we'll help."
"I'm Terence, remember."
"And I'm—"
"I got that. You introduced yourselves when I came in."
"No, what he means is, and me too, what we both mean is he's Terence and I'm Hughie that used to help Mr. Woollie. And Vern did, and Chas, and Arthur and the other Arthur, but what we mean is we saw the little finger, didn't we, Terence."
"And then Mr. Woollie took me to the sea because he saw I'd seen. He made out it was a treat for being his best worker, but really and truly he wanted to drown me, only he got drowned himself instead."
"Don't upset Mr. Woollie telling him about Mr. Woollie. Are you upset, Mr. Woollie?"
"I guess so if that's how I look. Just let me say you don't need to call—"
"I've finished about how he got drowned, except how the police asked me about it and when I was telling them about him I said about the finger. Then I had to take them where it was, the house some man gave to a woman and a boy. I don't suppose they liked it so much when they knew he'd given them a little girl under the floor, what do you think, Mr. Woollie?"
"Watch, Terence. Watch out, I mean. Mr. Woollie looks upset again."
"I'm not saying about Mr. Woollie being drowned any more, Mr. Woollie."
"That's okay. No need to watch out for me, I can take the truth. Only if you could stop—"
"Everyone shipshape here? Having a nice chat?"
Jack's mother had succeeded in toning down the rowdy oldster and was standing behind him. The way he felt, he thought at first her concern was all for him. "Sure," he said, mostly to get rid of the questions.
"It's good to chat," said Terence.
"Best to laugh," Hughie said.
"And if you can't laugh—"
Either Terence forgot the rest or Jack's panic at the echo of his father's catchphrase communicated itself to him. He looked confused until Jack's mother said "It's kind of John to come and see us, isn't it?"
"Has he come all the way from America?"
"He's living here now, Terence."
"Here like us?"
"Not here in the Haven. He's staying at my flat till he finds somewhere else if that's what he insists on doing, though he knows he's welcome to stay with me as long as he wants."
"Did you go away to get away from Mr. Woollie, Mr. Woollie?" Hughie said.
"You went to make something of yourself,
didn't you, John?"
Jack sensed his mother craved more reassurance than she was admitting. "That's me," he said.
"I'll leave you three to get on, then, while I see that everybody is fit. Just shout me or one of my carers, John, if there's anything you need."
There was plenty, but Jack was growing less and less convinced that he would find it at the Haven. His mother moved away to talk to a crouched man whose face was turning purple over the task of inverting every second page of a large newspaper, and as Jack struggled to dredge more conversation out of himself, Terence said "Did Mr. Woollie ever try to bury you when you were little, Mr. Woollie?"
"Christ, no. Don't you think Mrs., my mother would have gone to the police? And listen, can you call me Jack."
"Mrs. Woollie says you're John."
"Yes, well, I was when I was living with her and my father. Now it's Jack."
"You're living with her again," Hughie objected, "so you ought to be John."
"My father called me that. It was the name of his brother that died when he was little, only my father had a nickname for him. I'd have thought she'd want me to be Jack."
"Maybe she wants you to be you again," Terence said.
"That me is gone. Gone like my father."
"Don't you want to keep any of him, Mr..?"
The way Hughie's question trailed off, he might have been asking all over again what Jack's real name was. "Keep what?" Jack said, he hoped not too harshly. "Keep it how?"
"In you."
"That's where it's got to be," Terence assured him.
Jack shoved himself out of the armchair so violently that both men flinched away from him, a reaction that dismayed him. "Good talking to you," he made himself say.
"We can tell you more about him if you like," Hughie said.
"Maybe another time."
"He gave us work when nobody else would."
"And he gave us treats except the time he wanted to drown me."
It was the way Terence said that, as if it weren't worthy of more than a casual remark, that troubled Jack most of all. He crossed the large room, gaining himself a loose askew smile from one woman and an obscure body movement from another, then stooped to his mother, who was on one knee beside the rearranger of the newspaper, retrieving pages he'd decided were best on the linoleum. "Can I use the phone in the office?" Jack said.
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