by Louise Voss
‘No! Nightmare,’ I say, waving away her smoke.
‘He saw what you and me have been up to.’
‘Ri-ight …? You mean …’ The cold air seemed to penetrate my body and I shivered. ‘He knows about the Internet dating?’
She pulls a face.
‘Oh, no – Kath! What … he knows all of it?’
She sucks on her fag, her cheeks hollowing. ‘Yeah, and … I’m sorry, Becks, but I copped out. I should’ve told him that it was because I just don’t want to be with him any more, but instead I … I—’
‘What?’
‘I told him it was all your idea.’ She says it in a rush, without looking me in the face.
‘Kath! That’s like the opposite of how it happened – it was your idea.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. But I thought it would be less hurtful to him and his male ego if he thought I was coerced into it.’
‘Coerced?’
‘Um … persuaded, anyway. I don’t want to hurt him, you know. I’m not a complete bitch.’
I don’t say anything to that.
‘Plus, he might be less likely to shop me to the Inland Revenue … Sorry, Becks,’ she adds.
‘So what’s going on now?’ I ask. ‘Are you still together?’
She lights another cigarette, not caring that there are more kids from the school around and that she’s setting a bad example. If the principal walked past now, he’d be spitting blood.
‘Just about. We had one of those nights – you know, where you’re up all night, talking and crying – well, he was crying – and then you have really intense sex, the best sex we’ve had for years, actually. Shame it’s not always like that. And he’s said he’s going to change, be more spontaneous, spend less time rehearsing with his stupid band. And that I can pay him back in instalments, no rush.’
‘So you’re going to give it a go?’
She smirks. ‘That’s what he thinks.’
I make an exasperated sound. ‘Kath, you are a bitch.’
She shrugs. ‘I’m just looking out for number one. And yeah, it’s gonna hurt him. But it’s not like what we’re doing is hurting anyone else, is it? Well, not really.’ She grins dirtily. ‘I’d keep away from Clive, if I were you, though. He’s really mad with you. He was threatening all sorts.’
I’m horrified all over again. ‘What do you mean, threatening?’
She waves a hand. ‘Oh, don’t worry. He won’t do anything. He’s a pussy cat.’
15
Amy
Tuesday, 23 July
Amy rang Katherine’s doorbell and waited. When no reply came, she knocked, then knocked louder. Arms folded, she stood back, looked up at the windows, hoping for a sign of life. She had to know why Clive had called Becky a bitch so vehemently.
Clive had refused to speak to her, his bandmates forming a protective circle around him. What had Becky done? He’d said she was a bitch – not a thief, or a liar, or any of the other accusations he could have made against her. Calling her a bitch might imply that Clive somehow blamed Becky for his break-up with his girlfriend. But why? And in the answer, was there a clue that would lead her closer to Becky? By dissecting her sister’s life in the weeks before her disappearance, Amy hoped to think herself into Becky’s head, to walk in her shoes. Discovering why the mild-mannered Clive loathed her so much was, it seemed to Amy, an important part of the puzzle.
Katherine didn’t appear to be at home. Amy walked over to the solid wooden gate, just over six feet high, that blocked the passageway running down the side of the cottage to the garden. She put one foot on the low wall that edged the front garden and pulled herself up on it so she could just peek over the top.
‘Katherine! Kath!’ she called.
Fuck. She was assuming she’d just have to come back later, but then she thought she heard a noise in the garden. She called out again and heard another odd noise. A murmuring voice.
Before she could chicken out, she hauled herself up onto the gate, so it pressed hard against her belly, and leaned over so she could reach the bolt. She slid it back then dropped back onto the balls of her feet. I really shouldn’t be doing this, she thought, but it was too late now. She went through the gate into the garden.
‘Who the hell are you?’ A man’s voice.
An old man in a stained tank top gawped at her over the low garden fence. He was leaning over, holding a piece of cooked meat in his hand, and it took Amy a couple of seconds to realize he was trying to coax Katherine’s cat out from behind a tree. The cat eyed the meat hungrily but appeared equally wary of the old man, who reminded Amy of a taller version of Gollum. She half expected him to hiss ‘My preciousssss’ at the cat and, thinking this, she giggled to herself.
‘Who are you and what’s so bloody funny? Do you want me to call the police?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ She felt slightly hysterical. ‘I’m a friend of Katherine’s. The gate was open. Have you seen her? Mister, um—’
‘Williams.’ The old man threw the scrap of ham to the cat, who pounced on it and began eating. ‘I haven’t seen her since Sunday night. This poor little flower is starving – look at her.’
It was Tuesday now. Three days since she’d woken up to find Becky gone.
‘Do you normally see her every day?’ Amy asked. It occurred to her that she too had last seen Katherine on Sunday.
Mr Williams nodded. ‘See her – and hear her.’ He licked his lips, somehow conveying both disgust and hunger, and Amy took a step back, repulsed. ‘Hear her late at night getting up to all sorts with her visitors.’
That was exactly what Gary had said about Becky last night. Two women who had, it seemed, a lot of sex. Becky had never mentioned this, and had recently been so vague when Amy had asked her if she had any men in her life that she’d assumed that, like her, Becky wasn’t getting any. Were these men Becky had met Internet dating? From the paltry number of dates Becky had arranged through CupidsWeb, this seemed unlikely. So who were they? What were she and Katherine up to?
Amy felt uneasy discussing Katherine’s sex life with this guy. But she could tell he was starved of company and was a potential goldmine of information about his young, sexy neighbour. ‘So … you saw her on Sunday?’
‘Yeah. Saw her heading out around, hmm, six o’clock, I think. She was all dolled up, looked like she was going to meet someone. Nothing unusual there, though. She goes out like that most nights. I never knew it was possible for a woman to have so many different clothes. My Mary, God rest her soul, liked clothes, but she was happy with the few outfits she could afford.’
Amy felt a stab of pity, nodding for Mr Williams to carry on.
‘I usually hear her come home, either late at night – usually with company, if you know what I mean – or the next morning, on her own. But I haven’t seen her.’ He looked down at the cat, which was staring at him, hoping for more meat. ‘I’ve gotta tell you, I’m worried about this little ’un. She’s been meowing at the back door for the last two days.’
Mr Williams fixed his gaze on Amy, and an expression of genuine concern creased his face. ‘I’ve never known her not come home to feed the cat before. I hope nothing’s happened to her.’
Amy rode her bike straight to the police station in Camberwell. She found a space to park, turned off the engine and kicked down the stand, but remained straddling the bike, needing to gather her thoughts for a moment. She took off her helmet, and noticed that her leathers were attracting admiring and disapproving glances from pedestrians walking past. A pair of businessmen gave her a lustful once-over, before the filthy look she shot at them made them avert their gaze. She felt like sticking her foot out towards them and saying, ‘See these? They’re not fuck-me boots. They’re fuck-off boots.’
Becky would have said that. She wasn’t frightened of what people thought of her. Amy remembered Becky’s face when she had bought the bike and the leathers and the boots, turning up outside Becky’s flat and trying to act nonchalant. It was in th
e first days after Nathan, and Becky had looked her up and down and said, ‘You got yourself a suit of armour. Nice.’
Amy took her phone out and opened the Facebook app, navigating her way to Katherine’s page.
The most recent status update was on Sunday, at 19.29:
Got a big date tonight. V excited. Soho here I come!
A number of Katherine’s friends had left comments, asking for more details, or saying things like: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do ;)
But Katherine hadn’t responded or left any other updates – furthermore, there were a number of posts on her wall from friends saying they’d tried to contact her and was she OK? Looking back through Kath’s Timeline, Amy could see that Kath was one of those people who updated their status at least two or three times a day, compelled to tell everyone even her most mundane thoughts and actions. But since her announcement of her date, Katherine hadn’t updated her status at all.
Amy had seen enough. She swung her leg over the bike and marched straight up to the front desk of the police station, crash helmet in hand. A drunk woman with greasy blonde hair sat on a bench by the door, fumes coming off her that made Amy’s stomach churn.
‘How can I help you?’ said the constable behind the desk.
‘I want to talk to somebody who deals with missing persons.’ As she spoke, a small part of her brain noted how she had been trained by the media to say ‘persons’ not ‘people’.
‘You can talk to me.’
She took a deep breath and leaned forward, determined to make this police officer take her seriously.
‘A few days ago, I called you to report that my sister was missing. No one took me seriously. But now her best friend has gone missing too.’
The PC opened a notepad and started to ask her questions, the same ones she’d been asked the first time she’d called about Becky. The names and addresses of everyone involved, details of what she knew, was there any sign that either of the young women involved intended to do themselves harm? The facts.
‘So what are you going to do?’ she asked.
There was a queue building up behind her, a woman shouting that someone had stolen her son’s bike, the teenage boy standing beside her looking mortified at both his mother’s behaviour and having to deal with the ‘Feds’. The PC at the desk kept looking over Amy’s shoulder at the shouting woman, who was by now issuing a litany of threats about what she was going to do if the police didn’t arrest the bike thieves.
‘Sorry?’ The PC looked back at Amy as if he’d forgotten she was there.
‘I said, “What are you going to do?”’
‘Did you say someone has already been out to see you about your sister, Miss … Coltman?’
‘Yes. But now Katherine’s missing too. The neighbour told me she’d never failed to come home to feed her cat before.’
‘OK. Well, this is what will happen. This’ll be allocated to a Neighbourhood Response Team and they’ll go and take a look, talk to the neighbour, see what they can find out.’
‘Is that it?’
The woman was still yelling in the background and Amy could feel herself growing increasingly irritated. Why couldn’t anyone else see how serious this was? Why wouldn’t that stupid woman shut up? She closed her eyes in a long blink, breathing out to dispel the anger.
‘That’s all we can do for the moment,’ the constable said. ‘If we believe the level of concern is sufficiently high, we’ll pursue it further.’
‘And what about Becky?’
He looked at his notes. ‘That’s your sister?’
‘Er – yes.’ Idiot, she fumed silently. She’d only mentioned Becky’s name about six times already.
He sighed. ‘I’ll have a word with the MISPER coordinator. The missing persons coordinator.’
‘Can I have his or her name and number?’
‘I’ll ask her to contact you.’
The woman whose son’s bike had been stolen was huffing and puffing very close to Amy’s ear. She wasn’t going to get any further here – she had been well and truly stonewalled – so Amy said a quiet, ‘OK, thank you,’ and turned around, exiting the building.
But the second she got outside, she thought, No. That wasn’t good enough. That wasn’t fucking acceptable.
She swung round, shouldered open the door to the station and burst back into the front office. She barged past the woman who was still shouting about the bike, jerking her hand upwards to shush her as she opened her mouth to protest. The PC stared at her from behind the desk.
‘I am not …’ Amy began, and it all came rushing out, the scenario she most feared pushing its way to the front of her mind. ‘I am not going to be fobbed off like this. My sister has gone missing and so has her best friend and I think … I think somebody’s got them. Or has killed them. Murdered them. Because Becky would never have written that email, and what about the messages on Twitter, and why has Katherine been acting so weird, and Becky would never, ever go off like that, she wouldn’t, she just, oh, God, somebody’s hurt her, something awful has happened to her, you have to do something …’
The bike woman and her son were gawping at her, the drunk by the door had stirred and lifted her eyes to stare, and several other police officers had appeared behind the desk.
A policewoman with curly black hair took her gently by the elbow and handed her a tissue.
‘Why don’t you come with me, madam,’ she said, and she steered Amy into the recesses of the police station. Amy’s heart was banging so hard and fast that she thought it might escape from her chest.
The policewoman told Amy her name was DC Amristy and sat her down in a small room that Amy assumed was an interrogation room.
‘Why don’t you tell me all about it?’ DC Amristy said kindly.
Amy began to tell her, the whole story, and when she got to the end, Amristy stood up. ‘Let me just go and talk to our MISPER, see what she says.’
‘OK.’
As soon as the policewoman had left the room, Amy’s phone chirruped. She opened it to find a Facebook status update on her screen.
Becky Coltman has added a new photo.
16
Declan
Wednesday, 17 July
‘Glorious day.’
‘Hmm?’ DI Declan Adams looked up from the screen of his PC and rubbed his eyes. Bob Clewley stood in the doorway of Declan’s office, a sweating Starbucks Frappuccino in his hand. He sucked some down and crossed to the window.
‘You can’t see from here, what with the view being of a multi-storey car park, but it’s beautiful outside. I’m going to take the kids down to the beach after my shift.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Yeah, thought we might go down to Hastings, visit the nudist beach at Fairlight. I love to feel the evening sun on my knob.’
‘Right.’
‘You’re not actually listening to me, are you?’ Bob smiled.
Declan sighed. ‘I’m waiting for the forensic anthropologist to call.’
Bob turned away from the window and crossed to Declan’s desk, standing annoyingly close. It irritated him that Bob was able to concentrate on anything else when they were working on a case. Although, as Bob would point out, it was barely even a case yet. ‘Melinda Moore, this time, is it?’
‘Yes.’ Neither of them had dealt directly with Moore before, but she had been involved in a case they were familiar with, when a body had been found buried beneath the pier.
After Declan had emerged from the cesspit, he had hung around while the Home Office pathologist came to take the body. The nearest morgue was in Tunbridge Wells but that was in Kent, and they were Sussex Police. That meant the remains were taken to Eastbourne morgue, just a couple of miles from the Major Incident Suite.
Watching while the remains were removed from the hole in the ground, Declan had examined the scene more closely, trying to absorb the atmosphere of the place. There was nothing for miles but farmland, just like the lifeless place where he’d gr
own up. But this was an affluent area, the countryside all around dotted with million-pound properties, and he wondered why this farm had been left deserted for so long.
The project manager, Fiona Phillips, had told him that the grass above the cesspit was lush and overgrown, unmown for years, the whole place returned to nature. The construction team had had to cut the grass in order to gain access to the cesspit entrance.
‘It was sealed?’ Declan asked.
Fiona had nodded. ‘That was the first thing I wondered too. Did she fall or was she pushed? But the lid was on, firmly in place.’
‘Why did you say she?’
Fiona looked towards the hole. ‘They’re always women, aren’t they?’
Now, Bob crossed back to the window. Declan knew that he cared, that he took his work seriously, but he also knew the job didn’t consume Bob as it did him. Bob didn’t spend his nights with the faces of the victims of crime flickering inside his head, with murder victims talking to him, with dead children crying in his dreams. Declan appreciated that Bob was the normal one, the healthy one, and it wasn’t just because he’d seen more than the younger man. It was in his nature. The therapist he’d seen after he’d left the Met had told Declan he suffered from exaggerated empathy. He felt too much of other people’s pain. It was both a blessing and curse for a policeman.
With the body they’d found in the cesspit – and Declan felt sure that Fiona was right, that it was a woman – it was pure imagination. But last night, as he tried to sleep in a bedroom that was as hot and airless as … well, as a cesspit, Declan had been visited by a ghost. Not literally – he didn’t believe in that hokum – but in his mind. The dead girl had talked to him, pleaded with him to seek justice on his behalf.
But when Declan’s dream-self said, ‘Who are you?’ the girl faded from view.
‘So what do we know about the farmhouse?’ Bob asked now.
Declan stabbed at a couple of keys on the keyboard and brought up his notes: ‘Robertson Farm. The farmhouse was built in around 1830 … Not much of this is very useful. Between the Second World War and the 1980s, a lot of the land around the farm was sold off to surrounding farms. Seems like Robertson Farm wasn’t very successful. By 1990, there was just one guy living there, a farmer called Derek Jenkins. Right before he died he sold the farm to a property-development company called JWF, which wanted to build a hotel on the site.’