by Kerena Swan
‘Love you too. Bye.’
For God’s sake! Mum must have called or e-mailed Grandad straight away to check up on her. As if Tilly would be talking to a complete stranger in a chat room, and on her grandad’s laptop of all places. She’s not that stupid. Hopefully Grandad didn’t mention the council website to Mum. She’d know what Tilly was looking for.
Tilly shoves Welly off her lap then grabs the scrap of paper and keys the numbers into her phone. Her finger hesitates over the call button. What will she say to him? ‘Hi, I’m your long-lost daughter, Tilly. Remember me?’ Or ‘Did you once know Sophie Matthews? The one you got up the duff then abandoned?’ Or ‘Are you the tosser who didn’t want me?’
With a sigh she presses the call button then holds her breath. Her stomach flutters as it rings and a man answers.
‘Hello, is that Harry Bryant? My name’s Tilly. I’m your daughter.’
A stunned silence follows, broken by, ‘How did you get my number?’
‘The lady at Youff gave it to me.’
‘She’s not supposed to give my number to strangers.’
Strangers? That’s his fault. ‘I told her I’m your daughter.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m being rude. I’m just shocked. How old are you now?’
Doesn’t he know, for Christ’s sake! Tilly can feel tears building. ‘I’m fifteen. I’ll be sixteen soon. How old is Megan?’
‘She’s twelve. How do you know about her?’
Tilly doesn’t explain. She doesn’t want to get the woman at Youff into more trouble. ‘Can I meet you? I really want to see what you look like.’
Harry hesitates and Tilly’s heart drops to her stomach. Mum was right. She shouldn’t have sought him out.
‘OK,’ he says slowly. ‘Are you still living near Bedford? Perhaps we can meet there.’
They arrange to meet the following weekend. Wow! Tilly feels proud of herself for tracking him down and making the call. But what if she doesn’t like him? What’s her new sister like and will Tilly get to meet her sometime? And what sort of life has Megan had with a father who’s actually stuck around? She bets she’s got a decent phone. The front door banging against the wall downstairs snaps Tilly out of her thoughts.
‘Careful, Mia. You’ll dent the wall.’ Mum says.
Mia always likes to announce her presence. Tilly hears her running into the kitchen then back out and up the stairs.
‘Tilly? Where are you? I’ve drawn you a picture.’
Tilly stuffs the phone number under her pillow and pulls Welly onto her lap again. She’s admiring Mia’s picture and is tactfully trying to guess what it is when Sophie appears, grimacing at the state of Tilly’s bedroom. The carpet is barely visible under a sea of tangled clothing. Her ‘floordrobe’, as Tilly likes to call it.
‘How was your hot date?’ Tilly asks before Mum somehow divines what Tilly’s been up to or starts talking about the state of her room, Internet searches, or lodgers.
‘Lovely. Max is such a kind man. He’s even offered to come around and fix some security stuff on the house – window locks etc.’
‘You hardly know him and you’re letting him in our house?’
Mum sighs as though expecting this reaction. ‘I do know him. I’ve met his nan and he’s lovely with her.’
21
The ticking of the cooling engine marks the passing of time as well as any clock. Max really must get on with it. He reaches for the door handle, climbs out of the car and opens the boot. How’s he going to move her with speed and minimum effort? It was easier at the beginning of her journey. He’d used a sack trolley to shift her, fixing her to it with elastic bungee hooks.
Slipping his arms under her, he pulls her towards him; then, grunting with effort, he lifts her onto the sill of the boot. He’s about to pick her up when he freezes in shock. Headlights are flickering through the trees in the lane. He throws her back in the boot and shuts the lid then hides round the side of the car. His breathing is loud in his ears. He’s parked the vehicle around a bend in the drive so hopefully anyone driving past won’t see it. The sound of music thudding through oversized speakers thrums in his ears and grows increasingly louder. ‘Bloody kids!’ No doubt they’re in the lane to get up to no good – smoking pot or groping their girlfriends.
The car slows as it reaches Peacock House. Oh Jesus, no. It’s turning into the gate. Max feels his palms sweating and his heart racing. What excuse can he give for being here? Maybe he could say there’s been a security alarm going off or something. But what if the body is discovered later and the teenagers report seeing him? Panic rises at the thought of prison. He’d lose his mind if he were shut in.
Thank God. He lets out a long breath and rests his head on his clenched fist. The car is reversing out of the drive again. Looking at its receding tail lights, Max wonders how he can’t see it vibrating with the racket emanating from it. Maybe the driver was lost or maybe a girlfriend has lost her nerve. It is quite creepy out here.
As the lights recede into the distance, Max looks around for a wheelie bin. There must be one somewhere. He could kick himself for not checking this out sooner. He’s losing focus. Sophie has taken over his functioning brain and replaced it with mush. He smiles at the thought of going to her house to fix her security locks. His obsession is like a starving animal that needs constant feeding.
Circling the side of the property, Max discovers a small wood and willow construction, built to obscure the unsightly bins. He grabs the green lidded one and checks inside. Empty. He trundles it back to the car over the gravel, avoiding the soft grass. He can’t afford to leave any evidence of his presence here. This time he uses all his strength to remove the girl quickly. He’ll have to unwrap her as he can’t fit her into the bin like this. He slides her in head first.
As he approaches the edge of the lawn, Max realises his error. He can’t wheel the bin across the grass without leaving tracks. He’ll have to carry her. Why hasn’t he thought this through properly? Tipping the bin on its side, he grasps her feet and hauls her out then throws her over his shoulder. Her long, black hair spills down his back and her hands dangle towards the ground and brush the backs of his knees. She probably looks as though she’s performing a Pilates exercise.
His calf muscles burn as he walks on tiptoe to distort his footprints. He reaches the caravan and drags the tarpaulin aside. As he enters, it tilts and rocks like an overfilled washing machine. For fuck’s sake. He’s forgotten to check the legs are down properly to stabilise it. It smells worse than last time.
Avoiding the storage box with the nesting mice, Max throws off a long cushion and lifts another lid. This one has a couple of pillows inside. Without warning a wave of guilt comes from nowhere. He steps back and pauses for a moment. He kneels, then lays the girl gently down, resting her head on the pillow. She looks almost peaceful and he smiles. At least he’s given her a comfortable final resting place. The only feature spoiling the illusion is the knot of blood encrusted in her hair. Reaching down to rearrange her clothing, he notices a small tattoo of a bird on her thigh. He slams the lid down in distaste.
Putting his hand into his pocket, he feels for the mobile phone. He needs to find somewhere else to dispose of it. He glances at the screen out of habit but knows it’s dead because he removed the battery and sim last night after he’d sent the message. It had been easy to unlock her passcode – 1234 was so predictable – and it took seconds to find Sophie’s number and text her saying Lydia was off to look after her sick grandad. Hopefully it will be a few days before she’s missed, and by then any possible trail leading to him will have weakened. Lydia had prattled on during her first visit to his nan about her boyfriend and the aborted trip to Cornwall. With any luck, Sophie will think Lydia has let her down and won’t check up on her whereabouts.
Grateful to be back in the open air, he’s walking back to the car when he treads on something squashy. He shines his torch, exposing a soft black leather ballet shoe in the l
ong grass. Shit! He picks it up and examines it. It can’t have been here long. It isn’t damp or mildewy. It must have fallen off Lydia’s foot when he carried her. Oh God, please let her be wearing the other one. He rushes back to the caravan.
He lifts the lid of the wooden box again and shines the torch at her feet. Black socks but no shoes. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He searches the van and the route he took through the garden. Nothing. Near the car, then? It isn’t here. He rests his hands on the car roof and takes deep breaths. He drives away, his blood pressure rising. There’s no way he can go to bed despite his exhaustion; he has a shoe to find.
22
I spend my lunchbreak at my desk, surfing the Internet as I eat my sandwich. When I’m certain no one is going to look over my shoulder, I type in Max’s name. Maybe Tilly is right, and I should find out more about him. I’m overwhelmed with an array of social media sites professing to know Max; Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and Instagram. I start with Facebook as I have an account with them under a pseudonym.
I don’t publish information about myself, but it is handy sometimes to check what my team have been up to in their spare time. We had to issue a written warning to a worker recently who claimed to be off sick but whose Facebook posts showed she was just hungover. Since then I’ve made a habit of checking new applicants and employees who let us down. I must check Lydia’s to see if she’s posted pictures of her and her boyfriend surfing in Cornwall.
I can’t find Max on there. I can’t trace him on Instagram either. I don’t use Twitter or LinkedIn so look at his work’s website instead. I find it quickly and click on ‘Meet the Team’. Immediately a photo of Max appears with the title ‘Senior Negotiator’ underneath. He looks handsome and self-assured, and I feel a twinge of pride that he’s interested in me. I don’t know what else I can do to reassure Tilly. I’ve verified where he works, and I’ve met his grandmother, who thinks he’s wonderful. I just hope meeting him will allay Tilly’s fears.
Next, I look on Facebook for Lydia. There are no new public postings. I’m still not convinced about this grandad story, and maybe she’s being careful.
The afternoon passes quickly, and I can’t wait for the weekend. Max is coming around tomorrow afternoon. I’ll tidy the house in the morning and warn the girls to be on their best behaviour. But before I go home I have to call in to Ivy’s to make sure she’s had her medication and has something to eat.
As I park the car outside Ivy’s modest semi-detached bungalow a streak of ginger fur bolts across the road, just missing my front wheel. Daft cat. It’ll get itself killed. I reach Ivy’s gate and the cat leaps up on the wall next door, dipping its head to nuzzle the rough brick. I reach out and stroke it and it jumps up, pushing its head into my hand.
‘Friendly little chap, isn’t he?’ a voice says, and then an elderly man appears from behind a large bush on the front lawn.
‘Very. Is he yours?’
The man shuffles forward and I notice he’s wearing one black shoe and one brown slipper. His cardigan is buttoned up crookedly and he has a drip of egg yolk on his bristly chin. ‘He most certainly is. Are you going in there?’ he gestures towards Ivy’s house.
I nod.
‘You need to be careful,’ he whispers grabbing at my arm. ‘I’ve seen things.’
‘Like what?’ I’m not sure this man is totally lucid.
‘I saw her grandson last night. He put a dead body in his boot.’
‘What makes you think it was a dead body?’
‘It looked heavy.’
‘Right.’ Now I’m sure he isn’t OK. I wonder if anyone supports him. He doesn’t seem to be looking after himself too well. He has the aroma of old biscuits about him, probably from his unwashed clothes. ‘Do you live here on your own?’ I ask.
‘No, my wife will be back soon to make my tea. She’s just popped to the shops.’
Relieved he has someone to care for him, I wish him a good evening, give the cat one last stroke and go to Ivy’s door.
Once she’s had her medication and I’ve heated a ready meal, I mention the neighbour.
‘That’s Mr Brentwood,’ Ivy tells me. ‘His wife died ten years ago. He’s sixpence short of a shilling. It’s a shame but he’s such a nuisance. He’s always making up stories about my Max. He doesn’t like him for some reason. I bet he came out with something outrageous when you spoke to him.’
I don’t want to exacerbate an already difficult relationship, but Ivy and Max should know what he’s saying.
‘He says he saw Max putting a body in the car.’
‘Silly bugger! Max was probably taking some old clothes to the charity shop for me. I’ve been having a clear out and he’s been helping me.’
‘Does Mr Brentwood have anyone to support him?’
‘Yes, those other care people, what are they called? Prime? Principle? No, that’s it – Premier Care. It’s on the side of the car sometimes. Do you know them?’
‘I know of them. Perhaps I’ll give them a call.’ I glance out of the window and he’s still in the front garden. He must be getting quite chilly now that any warmth from the sun has gone.
As I head back to my car I stop for a quick word with him.
‘I’ve had a message from your wife. She said she’s been a bit delayed at the shops and she wants you to wait indoors.’
He gives me a beatific smile, nods appreciatively then turns and shambles back towards his bungalow. ‘I’ll get the kettle on for her,’ he says happily.
I watch him go with a lump in my throat.
23
Max stands in front of the display of goods. If he didn’t know anything about DIY this would be overwhelming. Who would have thought there could be so many different types of window locks? He quickly scans the aisle then places some locks in his basket. He pauses then adds another. Max knows exactly how many windows Sophie has but he doesn’t want her to realise how closely he’s been studying her and her home. Next, he selects a solid brass door chain and proceeds to the tills.
It’s five o’clock. He’s been out far too long. He needs to go back to the office to close everything down before he finishes for the night. Switching on the car radio to catch the news, he listens carefully. Has anyone reported the girl in the well as missing yet? Hopefully not. With any luck her backpack and Australian accent were an indication that she was travelling alone, and her journey might be difficult to track. Someone will miss her eventually though.
Lydia, too. His life feels like a roller coaster ride where the bolts haven’t been tightened properly. He’d spent ages looking for her bloody shoe. In the end, he found it in the shed where he’d first wrapped her in tarpaulin. He must be more careful.
Thank God the Poultons didn’t like Peacock House. Hopefully the inflated price will put most people off.
The news on the radio is reassuringly about politics, droughts, and, ironically, a policeman jailed over sexual image charges. Max switches to a music channel and feels some of the tension leave his shoulders.
As he accelerates along a straight road, a cyclist swerves to miss a drain. Max pulls on the wheel and swings the car away from him, ice cold fear running through his veins. Hell, that was close. His heart is beating uncomfortably fast and his top lip is damp as he pulls into the car park.
Surprisingly, Joyce is still at her desk. She usually finishes at half four on Fridays.
‘Max, I’m glad I caught you. Mr and Mrs Poulton want to view Peacock House again. Can you call them? They’d like to go tomorrow if possible. I know you sometimes do viewings at weekends, so I said it might be all right.’
Max’s mouth has gone dry. The caravan wasn’t such a good idea after all. Perhaps he should move Lydia somewhere else. Where, though? He’ll have to go through all the house details to see if they yield anywhere better. He thanks Joyce and ushers her out of the door, solicitously saying it’s time she went home. She beams at him and gives him a little wave as she turns the corner.
Once he’s alone, Max dr
ags open the cabinets and pulls out files. He skims through them, scattering them across his spotlessly tidy desk then stops at a farmhouse that is up for rent. It has fifty acres of empty grassland and a small wooded area. The owner has retired to a practical bungalow and finding a suitable tenant is taking longer than anticipated – probably due to the antiquated plumbing and lack of heating. It would be easier to sell for refurbishment, but the owner is still emotionally attached to it. Give it a few months to fall into further disrepair and he’ll soon change his mind.
There’s no other option available. He’ll have to find a patch of ground in a secluded spot where there aren’t too many tree roots and dig a very deep hole. He picks up the phone and calls Mr Poulton to arrange to meet in the morning. Max can deflect them away from the old caravan for the time being but if they buy the place, he’ll have to think again.
∞∞∞∞
Max lies on his back staring up at the dark ceiling, disturbing thoughts circling in his brain like vultures. He can’t carry on like this. He needs sleep. Something has to change.
Troubled dreams wake him earlier than usual for a Saturday. He decides against meeting with the Poultons today. They’ll be mad and so will Max’s boss but it’s better to face their anger than risk an inspection of the caravan. He calls Mr Poulton, and after a hurried apology and promise to rearrange the viewing, ends the call before Mr Poulton can make a complaint.
With six hours to go before he can knock on Sophie’s door, Max considers cleaning the house, a task he enjoys, but he’s too distracted today. Max likes his house neat and clean but the ultra-modern, minimalist environment he has created in tones of grey, white and navy isn’t soothing his frayed nerves today.
Wanting to burn off his anxiety, he walks to the local newsagents to buy a couple of papers. The news stand juts onto the pavement and Max sees the headline from several yards away. MISSING GIRL FOUND.