by Jonathan Coe
They made love twice: the first time being slow, and gentle, and deeply satisfying, the second being much more fierce and urgent. Then, just as Rachel was about to reach her second climax, Jamie’s mobile phone rang. To her amazement, he leaned over to answer it.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘it might be important.’
‘Fuck that,’ she said, biting him frantically on the neck. ‘This is important.’
But still, Jamie craned over and glanced even more closely at the name on the screen.
‘I’ll have to get this,’ he said. ‘It’s Laura.’
He picked up the phone and answered the call. Furious, Rachel flopped back on to the bed, panting heavily, more with frustration than anything else. She had been on the very brink of orgasm. She couldn’t believe that he’d abandoned her at that precise moment.
She ran her hands through her hair and then down the side of her neck, feeling the sweat that had gathered there. For a while she was too agitated to take any notice of what he was saying. Then she became aware that Jamie and Laura were making some kind of arrangement to meet tomorrow evening: there was mention of a train journey. Then Jamie was asking her about someone who should, it seemed, have been joining them, but had gone missing. ‘Well, when did anyone last see him …?’ he was saying. Rachel could hear Laura’s voice at the other end of the line and could tell that the conversation was going to continue for some time. That was as much as she could tolerate. She got out of bed, clutching the duvet to hide her nudity, and pulled on her clothes as quickly as possible. By the time Jamie had finished his call, she was fully dressed and standing at the bedroom door.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, looking genuinely surprised.
‘Back to work,’ she said. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Me? I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Tomorrow, I mean.’
‘Oh, that … Laura’s asked me to go up to Scotland with her. Didn’t I mention that?’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘It’s this committee she’s on. They’re going on a jolly to Inverness.’
‘Inverness?’
‘The Scottish Tourist Board have asked them to come up and put a price on the Loch Ness Monster.’
‘How completely ridiculous. And you’re going because …?’
‘She thinks it’ll be good experience for me. You don’t mind, do you?’
Rachel said nothing. Jamie frowned.
‘A strange thing, though,’ he said. ‘Lord Lucrum, the head of the committee … Nobody can find him. He seems to have gone missing.’
At any other time, Rachel might have found this interesting. At the moment, though, she was far too discomposed, both physically and emotionally, to give the subject even cursory thought.
‘’Bye, then,’ she said. ‘And thanks for showing me the film. It was great.’
And before leaving, she gave Jamie another kiss on the mouth: one which already foretold, in its briefness and politeness, the death throes of a relationship which had scarcely begun.
18
The silence had returned. As soon as the girls went to bed, as soon as their television was turned off and their friendly chatter came to an end, that was when the silence entered the house, climbing the stairs and wreathing its way into every room like a trail of mist.
Rachel tried to ignore the silence. Tried to pretend it wasn’t there. She turned on her computer and streamed some music. She Googled the Morecambe Bay cocklepickers and, after reading some old news stories about them, added a final few paragraphs to her memoir. Still she felt horribly apprehensive and uneasy. Every muscle in her body was taut with anxiety.
While she was online, she did some more browsing and read some of today’s newspaper stories:
HELP FIND OUR JOSEPHINE, one headline said.
Thinking that there was a distant, subtle noise outside, out in the garden, Rachel turned off the music and opened the bedroom window. The restless, eternal hum of London was all that she heard. She looked out into the night. She looked down at the pit. There was nothing. No sound. No movement.
The recent death of a seven-year-old girl on the Marshall Islands could have been averted, an expert has claimed.
Chris Baxter, operations director of SafeSpace Ordnance Removal, a small NGO which has been working to raise awareness of the dangers of unexploded WW2 ordnance on the tiny group of islands, said that the area where the girl was playing should have been cleared by now.
‘Our programme of clearing this area was 70% complete,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately our operation was closed down when one of our competitors, Winshaw Clearance, was chosen to complete the contract. As of today, my understanding is that Winshaw have yet to commence any operations in the area.’
The CEO of Winshaw Clearance, Helke Winshaw, was unavailable for comment.
A flapping noise reached her from the garden. It looked like the corner of the tarpaulin had come loose again. How had that happened?
A rustling noise, a scuttling. Like legs on loose gravel.
All in her mind. All imagination.
Fears are growing for the safety of Lord Lucrum, chairman of the Institute for Quality Valuation, who has not been seen for ten days.
The flapping of the tarpaulin was more insistent now. Rachel decided that she would have to go outside and check on it. She tiptoed quickly down the first flight of stairs, not knowing why it felt so important to be quiet. The mirrored door was wedged open, as it had been for the last few days. She slipped through it and peeped around Sophia’s half-open bedroom door. The twins had both chosen to sleep in the same bed, for some reason, their arms wrapped around each other. She could hear their gentle breathing.
Down two more flights of stairs, and into the staff kitchen. She turned on all the lights. Then, very carefully, she unbolted and opened the kitchen door. The cold night air rushed in at once, confronting her, encircling her. She stood on the threshold, not crossing it yet, listening for the tiniest of sounds, her head cocked, as tense as a hunting dog sniffing for a hint of its prey.
She stayed like that for twenty seconds or more, until there was a sudden, unexpected noise which in the stillness of the night seemed deafeningly loud and almost made her jump in the air. It was the buzzer at the front door.
Clutching her heart, Rachel rushed upstairs to look at the nearest entryphone screen.
In her haste, she had omitted to do two things. She did not close the back door properly. And although, while standing in the doorway, she had looked all around her, she had not looked down. Had she done so she would have seen, a few inches from the ground, a thin length of silvery cord, sticky and glistening, stretched across the doorway like a tripwire, then twining itself around a drainpipe and disappearing back into the pit.
*
She did not recognize the two callers at the front door, but when she went down to speak to them they both produced identity cards proving them to be detectives. One of them looked to be in his early fifties; the other seemed much younger, about twenty years younger.
‘My name is Detective Constable Pilbeam,’ the younger one said. ‘And this is my colleague, Detective Chief Inspector Capes.’
‘Otherwise known as the Caped Crusader,’ said his companion, with a hopeful smile.
Rachel returned the smile, even though she found this rather an odd remark.
‘Come in,’ she said, and led them into the sitting room. Neither of them took off their coats, but they both sat down on the nearest sof
a and seemed ready to make themselves comfortable.
‘I didn’t know they called you that,’ DC Pilbeam said to his colleague, in an undertone.
‘What?’
‘The Caped Crusader.’
‘Well, they do,’ he answered sharply.
Rachel wondered whether she should offer them a drink, then decided against it. It would have been a friendly thing to do, but they probably weren’t allowed to drink on duty.
‘Who does?’ said DC Pilbeam, apparently unwilling to drop the subject.
‘Mm?’
‘Who calls you that?’
‘Everybody.’
‘I’ve never heard them.’
‘I wonder,’ said Rachel, growing impatient, ‘if you’d mind telling me what this is about.’
‘Ah. Yes.’ DCI Capes sat up straight, and adopted a formal tone of voice. ‘We’re speaking to Ms Rachel Wells, I take it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you are employed as private tutor to the daughters of Sir Gilbert and Lady Gunn?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. We’re here to make some routine enquiries about a missing person. Would we be right in thinking that you’re acquainted with one Frederick Francis, Senior Partner in the firm of Bonanza Tax Management?’
‘I know Mr Francis, yes. Is he the person who’s gone missing?’
‘Mr Francis has not been home for several days, and nobody has seen him in that time. His friends are growing concerned. Does this come as a surprise to you?’
‘That he’s gone missing, or that he has friends who are concerned about him?’
DC Pilbeam smiled. DCI Capes didn’t.
‘Please, Ms Wells, this could be a very serious matter.’
‘What’s it got to do with me anyway?’
‘Last Thursday evening,’ said DC Pilbeam, consulting his notebook, ‘Mr Francis was having a drink at the Henry Root bar around the corner. He got into conversation with one of the ladies behind the bar, and told her that he was coming round to this house. To see you. She said that at this point in the evening, he was rather the worse for drink.’ He looked up. ‘Did he visit you that evening?’
‘Yes,’ said Rachel, ‘he did.’
‘At what time?’
‘About quarter to ten.’
‘Would you mind describing the encounter?’
‘Well, there was nothing very special about it,’ said Rachel, suddenly feeling nervous and evasive. ‘We … had a drink together. Talked about this and that.’
‘What was the purpose of his visit, in your view?’
‘He’d heard that I was here by myself, looking after the children, and he was – concerned about me, I suppose. Where did he go afterwards, do you know?’
‘What time did he leave?’
‘Probably about five to ten.’
‘I see. So it was a very short visit. Surprisingly short, one might say.’
‘Yes, I suppose it was.’
‘And did you see Mr Francis leave the premises?’
‘No. I heard him leave by the front door. But after that I took the girls back upstairs.’
‘The girls? So they were witnesses to his visit as well?’
‘Yes, they were.’
‘But if I understand you correctly, you can’t actually say for certain that Mr Francis left the premises at all.’
‘Well, I think I would have noticed if he’d been hiding here for the last week.’
‘This short conversation you had with him,’ said DCI Capes, ‘was it … friendly, amicable?’
Rachel nodded. ‘Yes, I’d say so.’
‘You didn’t argue, at all? There was no quarrel? No … lovers’ tiff?’
‘He was not my lover.’
To emphasize this point, Rachel had raised her voice, but at the same time it cracked and broke. She sank down into an armchair and put her head in her hands. DC Pilbeam immediately leaped up from the sofa. He crouched down beside her and put a comforting hand on her knee.
‘Ms Wells, are you all right? You seem rather distressed.’
‘Oh, I’m … Not really … I don’t know, I’m fine … It’s just … It’s this house,’ she said, fighting back tears. ‘I hate it here. At night it’s dark and lonely and I start to imagine all sorts of strange things. And I get worried about the girls. So worried about them. I worry that they’re not safe.’
‘Why would they not be safe?’
‘I don’t know. There’s some … danger here. I’m convinced of it.’
‘Is that what you thought when Mr Francis called?’ said DCI Capes, from across the room. ‘That he might pose a danger to those girls?’
DC Pilbeam shot him a warning glance: he did not seem to like the slightly aggressive tone of this question. His own voice was much smoother and more reassuring.
‘Ms Wells,’ he said, ‘I’m going to tell you a little bit more about this case, and why we consider it so important.’
Rachel wiped the tears away from her eyes, and nodded.
‘The fact is that Mr Francis is not the only person to have disappeared recently in this vicinity.’
‘Oh?’
‘DCI Capes and I suspect that his disappearance is linked to five others, which have all occurred in the last few weeks. First of all, Ms Josephine Winshaw-Eaves, the newspaper columnist. Then Mr Giles Trending, the CEO of Stercus Television. Then Philip Stanmore, a director of Sunbeam Foods. Then Helke Winshaw, CEO of Winshaw Clearance plc. And also Lord Lucrum, head of the Institute for Quality Valuation. Mr Francis is the sixth person to have disappeared. One thing that all these people have in common is that they either lived, or were last seen, within a few hundred yards of this street.’
DCI Capes added: ‘But that’s not all they have in common.’
‘Indeed not,’ said DC Pilbeam, rising to his feet and beginning to pace the room. ‘But this is where the theories of my colleague and myself diverge.’
‘My junior colleague,’ said DCI Capes, ‘is a remarkable young man. He believes that in order to solve a crime, you have to look at it from the political angle. Using the word in its broadest sense, that is. I have to say that in the past, his theories have produced impressive results. So that’s the approach we intend to take in this instance.’
‘All the same,’ said DC Pilbeam, ‘as we’ve learned from past experience, we must be careful not to jump to the first and most obvious conclusion, even if it looks as if –’
‘There is no mystery, Nathan, about what these six people have in common. Just because I was the one who found out the link –’
‘What is the link?’ Rachel asked, butting in before their argument spiralled out of control.
‘It’s perfectly simple,’ said DCI Capes. ‘All six of them were present at a reception held last month at Number 11, Downing Street.’ He turned to DC Pilbeam with a challenging gleam in his eye. ‘Well? Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes. Absolutely. I don’t deny it. But I still think we should look beyond that …’
‘Beyond that!’ said Capes, in a scoffing tone. ‘To what? What else is there?’
‘There is something else,’ said Pilbeam. ‘There is the Winshaw family itself.’
‘Not them again!’ said Capes. ‘How many times do I have to point it out to you? Only two of these people are members of the Winshaw family, and one of those only by marriage.’
‘True,’ said Pilbeam. ‘But look at the other connections. Mr Trending heads the steering committee of the Winshaw Prize, established in honour of Roderick Winshaw. Mr Francis
began his career as a trader at Stewards’ Bank, as a protégé of Thomas Winshaw. Lord Lucrum used to work –’
‘– with Henry Winshaw, on the committee that started dismantling the NHS,’ Rachel said.
‘Quite,’ said DC Pilbeam, so absorbed in his own reasoning that he barely noticed where this contribution had come from. ‘And Philip Stanmore’s Sunbeam Foods –’
‘– is the biggest member of the Brunwin Group, established by Dorothy Winshaw in the seventies and eighties.’
‘Exactly!’ Pilbeam turned to his colleague. ‘Don’t you see? You have to dig deeper. Have you read that book yet? The one that I lent you?’
‘Which book?’ said DCI Capes.
Pilbeam raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘The Winshaw Legacy,’ he said, ‘by Michael Owen. Everything you need to know about the family is –’
He broke off, his attention suddenly caught by an object placed on top of the grand piano. He went over and picked it up. It was a book.
‘But … this is extraordinary,’ he said. ‘This is the very book I’m talking about. How …? What …?’
Rachel reached out and took it from him, her hands shaking.
‘I’ve been reading this,’ she said. ‘A friend of mine lent it to me the other day.’
‘I see,’ said DC Pilbeam, taking a step back, and eyeing her very differently, with a new closeness. ‘And that, I suppose, is why you are so familiar with these connections I was making?’
‘Yes,’ said Rachel. ‘I suppose it is.’
‘Interesting,’ said DC Pilbeam. ‘Very interesting.’ He was staring at her, now, so intently that she was obliged to look away and blurt out, in a strong but quavering voice:
‘I have nothing to do with Mr Francis’s disappearance. Or any of these other people. I’ve got nothing to do with any of this. I shouldn’t even be in this house. I don’t belong here.’
Her lips trembled and she fell silent. But this time it was DCI Capes, rather than his younger colleague, who took pity on her and, rising to his feet, said in a kindly voice: