I lower myself onto the bench, giving a sympathetic smile to our temporary neighbours, but not warm enough to invite the woman to include me in the conversation.
‘The other little dog died yesterday,’ Lauren says, offering support.
‘A terrible accident.’ The woman casts me an uncertain glance. She sniffs and blows her nose in one of the napkins. A piece sticks to her bottom lip making it look like one of her front teeth is sticking out. ‘Very sad.’
‘Hm.’
A seagull hovers over our heads, scrutinizing the plates on the tables for a snippet of left-over food. The woman’s plate is still full of chips, garnish and half a sandwich. The surviving dog is small enough to be mistaken for a chicken-wing.
‘What’s so funny?’ Lauren asks, suspiciously.
‘Nothing.’
‘You rarely smile.’
Although she didn’t mean it like that, I feel a stab of pain. ‘Sorry.’
A waiter arrives just a split second before the seagull dives for the woman’s plate, muttering a curse. ‘Are you finished, Ma’am?’
‘Yes thank you.’ The woman looks embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t have much of an appetite. It’s because of Lillie you see, her little sister Ellie was run over by a car yesterday and I can’t …’
‘Maureen!’ A single word is enough to silence her. ‘I can’t think why this man would be interested in your story.’
‘Oh.’ Her face grows pale.
‘You’re making too much of a drama of it. As usual,’ he continues.
‘Oh.’ The woman looks like she’s going to burst into tears again and Lauren is already reaching for more napkins.
The husband isn’t finished. ‘Besides, it was the little creature’s own fault, running across the busy road like that,’ he blurts out coldly. I can tell what Lauren is thinking by the look on her face: inconsiderate bastard, can't you have more sympathy for your distressed wife?
‘I know you blame the driver, but he couldn’t do anything to avoid the little monster.’
Comparing the nervous, trembling little dog with a monster is not helping.
‘I don’t blame the driver,’ the woman whispers miserably.
‘No?’ he raises his bushy eyebrows. ‘Well, if anyone was to blame, it’s you! You let that lead slip out of your hands!’
Lauren’s eyes are wide open, her lips tight in disgust. She’s about to reply in the poor woman’s defence, when the waiter reappears, placing plates in front of us.
‘Anyway, Maureen, leave these people alone. They’re not interested in a story about a pathetic little creature that was unlucky enough to be driven over by at least three cars.’
He thrusts his mobile phone into the breast pocket of his shirt and rises, looking at us with a mixture of disgust and apology. Before he can add any more to his wife's misery, his mobile rings and he turns away to bark a ‘hello!’ into it. His wife holds her breath, keeping it in her lungs for a while before she lets it out in a sigh laden with self-pity.
‘That was unnecessarily rude of him,’ Lauren says as soon as the couple has gone out of earshot as they walk towards a grass area where visitors are playing traditional games.
‘Hm.’
‘He’s a bully,’ Lauren observes, following the couple with anger in her eyes. ‘It’s obvious. I saw the fear on her face. Men like that just enjoy bullying their wives. Humiliating them in front of other people. Making them feel small and unworthy.’
We watch the pair disappear around the corner, the man with fury on his face, his wife, little Lillie in her arms, with eyes wide open trying not to allow more tears to fall.
‘This is such a lovely place.’ Lauren scoops coleslaw onto her garnish changing the subject to something less upsetting. We clink our glasses and make small talk and the atmosphere relaxes into a more natural conversation. The sun sparkles on her red hair, lighting up the space between us. As a result, I start feeling warm and dozy, as if I’ve drunk several glasses of wine or beer and the alcohol has just reached a comfortable level in my blood. I find myself staring at her lips, the gentle spot behind her ear, the curve of her neck. A warm feeling settles in my lower abdomen I wonder if it will go beyond that. I feel like taking her in my arms and caressing her until she’s out of breath, clinging onto me, begging me.
One can only hope and dream.
‘Andy?’ Her face is flustered and shy. She’s read my thoughts and is now trying to find an excuse to go home as quickly as she can. I wish I could tell her she needn’t worry, that the wounds of my operation are still fresh, and that the one bit that used to make me a man in every meaning of the word, hasn’t had time for a full recovery. Yet, I hope.
Slowly turning her glass between her fingertips, Lauren is watching some children running along the hedgerow and a sad smile flutters on her lips.
‘You miss them.’
She chews thoughtfully. ‘I know I should be enjoying myself today, but I feel like … like I’ve forgotten something important. Like I forgot to get dressed.’
‘I can assure you that you haven’t forgotten that.’
Her eyes jump to me, her cheeks burning. The moment of longing for her children is over and I have her full attention. Perhaps more than I should wish for.
‘In your dreams,’ she says, after a pause.
‘You can read my thoughts.’
We sit in silence for a while. Every so often her brows lift in a tiny frown, she sips her wine and turns her gaze towards the children, yet this time with as much interest as anyone who is a parent.
‘It was very kind of you to bring me here.’
‘No problem.’
‘This’ – she motions at the Manor house behind me – ‘and that’ – she points to the clear blue sky with only a whisper of clouds in the distance – ‘makes me feel like I’m on a surprise holiday.’
‘You deserve it.’
‘But I have so many things to do at home that I feel guilty sitting here.’
‘The likes of Henry can wait.’
‘I’ve hoovered the house already this morning. I’m thinking more about a huge pile of laundry waiting to be ironed.’
I reach across the table and take her hand in mine. ‘Lauren, stop it. You sound like my mother, and believe me, not a single man taking you out for lunch wants to talk about ironing boards or washing machines.’
She smiles. ‘I’m sorry.’ She doesn’t pull back her hand and we sit in silence for a while, perhaps both a bit confused by the sudden change in the atmosphere between us.
It isn't long when the cosy warmth between us is interrupted. My phone is vibrating. I retrieve it from my pocket with regret and glance at the screen. Bee Robson. I decide to ignore the call. Somehow she’s managed to get hold of my number. She called me earlier this morning, suggesting to meet at lunchtime, claiming she had news for me.
The banker’s wife slips on her sunglasses and turns her head in our direction. I can’t see her eyes but I know they are fixed on our hands; her husband doesn’t seem to be the type who will ever ignore a phone call.
‘Shouldn’t you answer?’ asks Lauren.
‘She can wait.’
I stare in her eyes, realising what I just said. Gently, she releases her hand from my grip. My phone is vibrating again. Same name on the screen. Feeling Laurens eyes scrutinizing my face, waiting, I consider briefly to apologise, explain, but for lack of words, I choose the only other option.
’Mrs Robson.’
‘Bee.’
‘Can I call you back? I’m in …’
‘No.’
‘It’s just that I’m in the middle …’
‘You’re busy. Yes, of course. I get the message, Andy, but it won’t do. I know you won’t call me back because you don’t want to talk to me. You think I want something from you which you’re not prepared to offer.’
‘You’re a mind-reader.’
I don’t need to see her to understand that she’s annoyed by my sarcasm.
‘Should I be?’
‘Of course not. And you aren’t. It’s just that you give me that impression.’ I’m glad she can’t see the satisfaction on my face.
There is an outburst of laughter at the table behind us. The banker, astonishingly, has made a joke.
‘Where are you?’ Bee Robson snaps.
I stare at Lauren’s face. It has no expression but I sense she is regretting she accepted my invitation.
‘Out.’
One of the men near us slams his fists on the table and glasses jump, one rattling against the other. ‘Where are you, Andy?’
Lauren has lowered her eyes, fixing her attention on a stray ant finding its way across our table.
‘How can I help you, Mrs Robson?’
‘I won’t tell you unless you call me Bee.’
‘Bee.’
A knife or fork tingles when it falls on the tarmac. ‘Are you with someone?’
‘Yes. That’s why I’m busy.’
‘A woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pretty?’
Somehow, I am trapped on a treadmill of questions I don’t want to answer.
‘Pretty and attractive?’ She sounds as though I’m now supposed to reply something like ‘not as pretty and charming as you’. It would be a lie.
‘Yes,’ I say earnestly. And she cuts off the connection.
‘Business?’ Lauren asks in a casual tone.
‘I think so, but she seems to believe otherwise.’ We continue to eat but the conversation isn’t as easy as it was before. I want to tell her about Bee Robson, almost reassure her that she means nothing to me, but that would make the woman more important than I would like her to be. Yet, it feels like Bee Robson is taking hold of my life, dropping little markers because she wants me to follow her trail. Some are like bread-crumbs randomly snatched by birds or insects, some are like small pebbles. White and bright. Not to be missed.
‘Pud? Or coffee?’ I ask, when one of the student waiters has taken our plates, mine empty, Lauren’s not.
‘Perhaps we should go,’ she says, but she doesn’t move. I stare at her as the sun catches her red curly hair, setting it almost on fire.
‘Lauren, I would like to invite you to a birthday party.’
‘Yours?’
‘No. Becca’s.’
‘But …?’
‘I know. The nurses want to do something special for her. Fill her room with bunting and balloons, get her a birthday cake.’
‘And you’re going?’
‘I dismissed the idea when they first asked my opinion, but now … I'm still in limbo.’
‘Will she be aware of anything?’
‘No change in her condition whatsoever.’ I hesitate. ‘They are talking about moving her to a care home now.’
‘That’ll be probably for the best,’ she says, her eyes soft.
‘I know you’re right, but it makes it so … definite. In hospital, you still have the feeling that someone might be able to do something for her. A miraculous cure, if you like. Moving her to a care home will mean accepting that she will never recover.’
‘I’m sure they’ve tried everything.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think there’ll be a small chance that … something will happen on her birthday?’
‘I hope not.’
Her eyes widen in surprise. ‘Why?’
‘There is another complication,’ I say slowly, knowing deep down that this is information I should not share with anyone else. ‘Her mother has requested to be present on her birthday and the request has been granted.’
29
Clearly, Gerald Davey enjoys the sense of conspiracy and secrecy. He unlocks a small office room between the PE halls and indicates towards a seat behind the desk, pulling down the yellowed blinds.
I called him earlier, half hoping that he had obtained some useful information through his own private channels. When he hadn’t, I moaned more about the attitude of Siobhan Carter’s father than anything else. He listened to my rant and suggested that if I still had something nagging at me about the case, and I wanted to speak to Siobhan without involving her father, I’d better come to the school again. Swiftly dismissing my concern about the school’s rules and the school director’s reaction if he found out, he repeated the offer, which I accepted more out of curiosity than expectation of getting anything useful out of Siobhan. I’m more intrigued by Davey’s reason to allow me to continue with what is really an already closed case.
‘Leanne’s not here today,’ he says.
‘Any special reason?’
He shrugs. Not worried. ‘Her mother left a message to say she was sick. The receptionist made the effort to return the call. Just in case …’ His voice trails of, expecting me to fill in the rest. ‘It seemed to be true.’
‘Not another secret trip?’
‘No. let’s hope it’s taught them something.’ He frowns. ‘Not that it’s likely to happen again. Siobhan is being watched almost every moment of the day. One of her father’s men takes her to school and more or less waits until it is time to bring her home again. I can’t see the point, but he seems frantic that something will happen to his princess.’
‘He only has one daughter.’
‘All the same. What is the point in keeping her in a gilded cage? Poor girl. That trip to Plymouth has cost her dearly.’
Gesturing towards the window, he tells me matter-of-factly that he will tell the PE teacher that there is a phone call for Siobhan.
‘I’ll bring her in. Don’t show your face. Siobhan’s body-guard knows she’s got PE lessons. He might be smart enough to walk round the school building.’
He grins sadly and makes his way towards the sports field. Through the slats in the blinds, I can see a shed with open doors. Nets with balls in different shapes and colours spill out along with all sorts of poles and sticks. Young girls in shorts, shirts and trainers, hair tied up with elastic bands, gathered at the edge of a field that is equipped for a hockey match.
I watch Davey approaching a woman in a black tracksuit and a red baseball cap. They talk briefly, after which Siobhan Carter breaks away the circle and walks alongside him with a sullen expression on her face, reluctance increasing with every step.
Wondering if I’m wasting my time here, I offer a friendly nod when the girl appears on the doorstep. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Siobhan.’
Her face is pale and her eyes are as scared as Bambi’s. She smiles faintly, automatically looking round, but Gerald Davey is already assuring her that her bodyguard can’t see us here.
‘Why is that man waiting for you?’ I ask casually, gesturing towards the chair opposite the desk. I perch on the corner.
Her surprise overtakes her cautiousness. ‘He works for my father.’
‘I am aware of that. But why? Does he have reason to believe that you and Leanne are planning another trip to a pop concert?’
‘No!’ Her face turns from pale to red then slightly purplish. ‘Of course not.’
‘Doesn’t your father trust you?’
She shrugs, hiding her eyes behind her long lashes. ‘I guess.’
Gerald Davey is hovering near the open door. Blinking, keeping his face down. I can sense his curiosity and glance over to him.
‘Sorry, I’ll leave you two to it.’ He disappears, leaving the door open. I suppose it is best from his point of view. If someone catches me in a closed room with a thirteen-year-old girl, questions will be asked.
‘Siobhan, I’ll be honest with you. I have been trying to speak to you but your father won’t let me.’
She nods seriously.
‘Are you willing to answer my questions?’
‘Depends.’
‘Okay, I appreciate that. I only need some last dots on the i’s.’
Her eyes drift towards the doorway. ‘I thought Leanne ...’
I nod, interrupting her. ‘Leanne’s not at
school today. That’s why I asked Mr Davey to fetch you.’
She stares at me, scrutinising my face, unsure if I can be trusted.
‘You two went to Plymouth to see that new pop star perform. Sammii. Was he good?’
She shrugs. ‘Leanne wanted to go. She just loves Sammii.’
‘But you were not so impressed.’
‘Not really, no. I don’t like … his type.’
I’ve seen and heard some of his videos on YouTube. A lot of senseless noise from an arrogant little bastard. Just like so many others, except for his baby blue eyes, which may well attract girls like Leanne.
‘Was it your first concert?’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes shine and I can guess what she doesn’t say: she will go to other concerts and gigs as often as possible.
‘So the concert was over and you got back to reality.’ I smile encouragingly. ‘What happened? You missed the bus?’
‘Yes. It finished later than we thought and we couldn’t find the bus station. When we got there, the bus had already gone.’
‘Did you panic?’
‘Yes, of course we did. We were supposed to get back to Newquay. We had to be back at school the next day.’
‘What did you do?’
Uncertainty paints her face. ‘Didn’t Leanne tell you?’
‘She did, but I’d like to hear your version.’
‘We didn’t know what to do. We waited for a while. I looked on my phone to check my bank account, but there wasn’t enough to pay for a taxi. And my father checks my balance all the time.’
‘Your father is a wise man.’
‘I’m no longer a child,’ she snaps, lips trembling with anger. ‘I am almost fourteen!’
‘Okay. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But go on please. You didn’t have enough money to have a taxi. What did you do?’
She looks down at her hands, frenetically turning a small silver ring round her finger. ‘Ehm … Leanne suggested we go back to the club. She thought she’d heard one of the barmen say that he lived in Newquay. We were hoping to get a lift if that barman was still there.’
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