by Emily Elgar
I take a deep breath and, as I exhale, I pick up a notebook from the box. It’s the notebook I used while researching the article. One page has the corner turned down, a reminder to myself to go back to it. It’s an interview with a Dr. Nina Rossi from Plymouth. I remember she was one of the senior doctors at the practice where Grace was registered. At the bottom of the page I’ve scrawled a note in pen:
Uncomfortable answering questions about Meg and Grace—why?
I cast my mind back to the interview. I knew Grace’s old GP had moved on to a new post but thought it’d be helpful to meet Dr. Rossi anyway, to get the medical perspective on Grace’s limitations. As one of the senior doctors at the practice, she dealt with all media inquiries. Nina Rossi was an upright, tense woman who clearly had little interest in talking to me beyond parroting facts. Her answers are straightforward but I remember feeling she was holding something back. I let myself imagine for a moment that I’m writing an article on Meg’s murder and Grace’s disappearance. I’d go back to Plymouth, interview Dr. Rossi again, sniff out any other old contacts. No one would ever talk to me in Ashford now, but maybe I’d have more luck further afield. It’s not going to happen, though, I tell myself. A fantasy, nothing more. My phone starts to ring, shrilly interrupting my thoughts. It’s Jakey—I feel my whole world brighten.
“Dad!” He sounds out of breath, excited, and before I can say anything he says, “I made the team, Dad! I’m on the football team!” Tears prick behind my eyes, tears of gratitude, relief. He is safe, better than safe: he’s healthy and happy.
“Mate! That’s amazing news! God, I’m so proud of you! Are you striker?”
But on the other end of the line Ruth is calling his name.
“Coming, Mum!” he calls back.
I picture him hurrying towards her, his too-big backpack banging against his back, his school blazer falling off his shoulders, the gappy-toothed grin he’ll greet her with.
“Sorry, Dad, gotta go. Mum’s taking me out for pizza to celebrate.”
I clear my throat before I say, “OK. Have a good time, mate. Love you, Jakey.”
“You too, Dad,” he says before the line goes dead and I’m left with a hollow ache: grief for the family we once were. Two years ago Ruth and I were told to think about how to say goodbye to our son and today he’s playing football for his school team. We’re proof that sometimes people do get second chances. Is it possible Ruth and I could have a second chance too?
I look at my watch, realizing the ten minutes I promised myself has somehow melted into half an hour. I shove the box under my bed and force myself back to my computer. An hour later I’ve written six hundred words about sheepdog trials and giant vegetable competitions, and with a quick glance at my watch I rush out to meet Dave.
Dave is already sitting at a corner table. The Red Dragon, his favorite, is an old-fashioned pub and I have to duck to avoid destroying a bunch of dried hops hanging from the ceiling. Dave has a wide, jowly face and strangely delicate features, a button nose and rosebud mouth that would be sweet on a young girl but don’t work so well on a balding forty-something man. To be honest, if Dave wasn’t a policeman we wouldn’t have seen each other again after that first night. But most good reporters know how important it is to have an ear in the police station, so I made sure we kept in touch. But tonight, I remind myself, I’m meeting him as a friend. Dave’s facing the door, absentmindedly tearing up a cardboard beer coaster. He hasn’t got himself a drink because the unspoken deal is that I buy the drinks and he talks about local police stuff once his tongue is loosened. Tonight, I don’t care. I just want a drink. I wave at him and his brow relaxes as I head to the bar, ordering two pints. Dave keeps his eyes fixed on the beers as I carry them over to him.
“Ah, cheers, mate,” he says, lifting his pint as soon as I’ve put it on the table in front of him.
“How’s it going, Dave?” I ask, sitting on a small stool opposite him. Dave shrugs as he drinks.
“Karen’s going for the jugular again,” he says.
This is why I texted him. Dave’s as soft as a marshmallow and loves to talk about his ex-wife, whom he still clearly loves. I nod and murmur agreement at the right moments. Karen’s started dating and Dave is understandably cut up about it. I wonder whether his sensitivity is why Dave’s never been promoted, why after fifteen years he’s still only a constable in the macho Ashford police force. As Dave finishes his pint I’m about to take the opportunity to start talking about Ruth when the barmaid changes the channel on the television to—in what must be a first in the history of the Dragon—the news. Dave and I swivel on our stools towards the screen as the reporter addresses the camera outside number 52 Woodgreen Avenue.
“The police are appealing to anyone who knows or has seen Simon Davis, a forty-five-year-old Caucasian man, to contact the police on the number below. If you see Mr. Davis you are advised not to approach him, but to contact the police immediately.”
A grainy photo fills the screen, not a great shot. People can’t have been in the habit of taking photos of Simon if this is the best they have. He’s smiling, head tilted at the camera, his eyes half-shut. He’s standing as though he has his arm around someone’s shoulders but they’ve been cut out, giving the sinister impression Simon might be holding on to them. His hair is longer, messier than I remember, his features smaller in a fuller face. The reporter keeps talking.
“Search-and-rescue groups are preparing to work through the night in their effort to find Grace Nichols. Concerns are growing for the seventeen-year-old, who has a complex history of health conditions, including an extremely rare type of muscular dystrophy. South West News has been informed that Grace also had problems with her heart, and epilepsy, for which she needs daily medication. Stress and anxiety are known to worsen both conditions, so it is of upmost importance that Grace is found as quickly as possible. Her neighbors and friends are understandably very concerned for Grace and are making an urgent appeal to anyone who might provide information on her whereabouts.” The image snaps to an interview prerecorded earlier today. The woman is middle-aged, with unnaturally bright red hair that falls in waves below her shoulders. Her face is puffy, her blue eyes flick from the camera to the reporter, and as she talks a dimple winks in her cheek. Susan Dorman, Meg’s next-door neighbor and a regular on local forums. She was one of the ringleaders in the hate campaign against me after the article went live—CornishSuse. I look away from her face on the screen, my fingers gripping my pint glass. CornishSuse was there days after the article was printed, watching from across the street when some yob spat on me and told me to fuck off back to London. I was still more confused than angry then. In my mind, all I’d said in the article was that Grace might benefit from having her dad in her life, that their estrangement was a decision I felt had been made for her rather than by her. Although I could never say it out loud, especially now, I still stand by the article. It was meant in good faith. It was what I did after that photo of Jakey was posted—getting drunk and angry—that I regret. It never crossed my mind that the article would upset people the way it did—it was like I’d attacked every Ashford mum individually. I had to hide out in Ruth’s parents’ house for two days after that. Now it seems they were right and I was wrong after all; Simon is dangerous, a sick man capable of terrible violence. I begged Ruth to move back to London but she wouldn’t budge. I had no choice. I had to stay in Ashford. Thinking about Ruth reminds me why I called Dave in the first place.
“I was going to say, actually, mate, Ruth’s making me go to therapy . . .”
But Dave isn’t listening. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he shakes his head and shushes me. He wants to listen to what CornishSuse has to say.
“I live next door to Meg and Grace. They were more than just neighbors, they were our friends, our best friends, and they never did anything to hurt anyone. Everyone loved them.”
“Can you tell us a bit about the reaction from neighbors and friends about what’s happ
ened here?”
“Oh God, everyone is crushed. Absolutely crushed. We know we just have to focus on finding Grace, which is what Meg would want us to do. Until we find her, until we find her safe, we won’t be able to mourn our friend properly. Which is why we’re organizing our own community search teams. If anyone would like to come and help us, we’re running a twenty-four-hour Find Grace headquarters from the Style Rooms Hair and Beauty Salon on Pembroke Road on the Summervale Estate. There’ll be community searches going on round the clock, so please come by if you’d like to help.”
“Ha! That’ll piss Upton right off. She’s not one for police and community cohesion, says amateurs only bugger things up, make it harder for the professionals.” Dave is talking again, but I don’t turn to look at him because at the bottom of the screen a line of red ticker tape starts to roll: BREAKING NEWS: POLICE HAVE REVEALED IT IS ESTIMATED THAT OVER £3000 IN CASH WAS TAKEN FROM THE MURDER AND KIDNAP SCENE AT 52 WOODGREEN AVENUE.
Dave reads, nods, and smiles in a smug way to show he already knew about the cash, before he wiggles his empty pint glass in the air and says, “I’m still thirsty, mate.”
I walk dutifully back to our table clutching pints for us both, while trying to think of a way to move the subject back to safer ground. But Dave is fixated on the Nichols case, staring up at the TV, nodding his head. To be fair to him, police business is the reason I usually get in touch and he’s clearly primed to tell me what he knows. I don’t want to be rude and, besides, I can’t deny I’m not interested in getting some insider knowledge, even if it turns out to be nothing. I follow his stare to the TV. The picture has changed to the press interview with DCI Upton and I know he’s waiting for me to ask.
“You knew about the cash?” I say, gesturing at the screen.
Dave shrugs, his mouth turning down like a sad cod, his head wobbling back and forth like he’s trying to make up his mind whether to talk. It’s a pantomime. He’s desperate to talk.
“You knew,” I say. Dave breaks into a grin and leans towards me, hunching over his pint.
“Upton reckons Simon Davis tried to make it look like a burglary gone wrong, what with the cash and their laptop being taken. Apparently it was well known Megan didn’t trust banks.” I’ve tried to resist, but it’s like a switch has been turned on and I’ve come alive again. Suddenly, I’m me again, the old me, a journalist on the scent of a huge story and I need to get Dave to tell me everything he knows.
“And there are no other suspects?” Dave, I know, likes it when I make it sound like he is the whole force.
“Not at the moment, mate—Simon’s a violent man, he’d even tried to kidnap Grace when she was small and we know he was having money troubles, been on the dole for years, can’t hold down a job. Claimed it was because of mental health problems. There’s no doubt this was him.”
“What about forensics?” I can see the moisture from Dave’s pint on his bottom lip.
“Nothing’s come up yet. It was all planned. He wiped the lamp or was using gloves, and they’re saying he probably wasn’t wearing shoes—took them off so he didn’t make any noise. He knew what he was doing, that’s clear enough. The rest of the house is full of the girl’s and the victim’s DNA, plus quite a few other sources. We’re checking all their friends and neighbors when we speak to them.”
I nod.
“The phrase I like to use is ‘every contact leaves a trace.’” Dave pauses, to let the well-known police wisdom he’s claiming as his own sink in. I’ve heard it before, but I don’t tell him that. Dave raises a finger. “But the key thing to remember, Jon, is that the evidence might not be left at the scene. I call this ‘reverse contact.’ So the perp could have taken evidence of contact away with him. He might have traces of the victim’s DNA on the clothes he was wearing, for example.” Dave nods his head as he waits for me to take it on board. He should have been a teacher instead of a policeman.
“Sounds like Simon thought it all through carefully, especially for someone so mentally unstable.” I’ve always railed against assumptions of criminality, but Dave has confirmed what I already knew: there is no other possible suspect. Meg’s and Grace’s lives were so closeted—they weren’t involved in any shady dealings that might implicate them. Besides, I don’t want to make it sound like I’m defending Simon and risk making myself even more of a social pariah.
Dave shrugs. His eyes flicker towards the sports news that’s now on the TV as he says, “Apparently he’d go up and down. Must have planned all this on an up. If I’m honest with you, mate, he’d been suicidal before. I reckon he decided to take his daughter with him. It’s like what you said in the article—he didn’t think it was fair that Megan kept him from Grace. I think he wanted to punish Megan in the cruelest way he could think of for keeping him away.”
I hate that he’s saying the worst possibility out loud, as though the saying of it makes it more likely to be fact. Even worse, I hate my work being involved, albeit indirectly. I know the story already but I don’t want to lose Dave to the football so I say, “Remind me about the first time he tried to take Grace.” Dave fixes his eyes on me as he takes two big gulps of his pint, stifling a burp before replying.
“The girl, Grace, was small, only six, she’d just been discharged from the hospital. It was the first time she’d been in—meningitis. Simon and Megan had at last gone their separate ways by this point. He was pissed off Megan hadn’t let him see Grace in the hospital. He still had a key to the back door and when Megan went in to check on Grace one night just days after she was discharged her bed was empty. Blues and twos tracked him down, driving south just a few miles out of Plymouth. Must have scared the poor little thing shitless.”
“She was six?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Just a couple of years older than Danny when he drowned.”
Dave makes the cod face again, before he lifts his glass, shrugs, so? Although officially cleared of any wrongdoing or neglect, so many years after the tragedy Simon is still widely held responsible for his son’s death. Dave’s eyes glide back towards the football scores.
“So, you have any idea where Simon is now?” I ask, wanting to keep Dave talking.
He snorts. “As if I’d tell you, mate. More than my life’s worth. But the truth is, they could be anywhere. If they’re still alive, and if he’s got any brain cells, he’ll have left the country already.”
“With Grace?”
Dave shrugs again, smiles from the corner of his mouth, but he’s trying too hard, I can tell he doesn’t have a clue. Anything he does know is locker-room gossip from the station, based on conjecture, nothing more. Upton has enough sense to keep lowly constables safely away from anything important. Dave burps softly into his hand, his forehead creases, and he looks up at me.
“What’s your theory, then?”
I keep my face open. “What do you mean?”
“You must have a theory, asking me here, getting involved when you of all people should be staying well clear.”
“Not really, mate, no theory. Honestly, I got in touch because I wanted to tell you about these bloody therapy sessions Ruth’s insisting on, but then the news came on and, well, it’s difficult to think about anything else, isn’t it?”
Dave laughs, guttural, into his beer. Clearly he doesn’t believe a word. He probably thinks, like everyone else, I’m here to defend Simon. But it’s different now. Before recent events, I felt sorry for Simon. I could tell he loved his family, but since that sunny June day over twenty years ago he’d been in perpetual freefall, trapped in his own scream. He’d been punished again and again for a moment’s distraction. The man lost everything he loved in a single moment. His life was my worst nightmare. I felt sorry for him. But a violent man with nothing to lose is dangerous, and now I know he was the only person who would have a motive to murder Meg and kidnap Grace.
I feel Dave still looking at me, but he’s not smiling anymore and his glass is on the table, a sign he’s about to
get serious again. He burps quietly under his breath this time before speaking.
“Look, we both know from personal experience how shit it is not to be allowed to see your kids every day, and I know, in a way, you feel a bit sorry for the bloke, and I don’t blame you, mate, but if he really did that to someone, to the mother of his child—”
I hold up my hands, shake my head at Dave. “Dave, I know, I know Simon probably did it. I didn’t say anything about him, did I?”
Dave narrows his eyes and gestures at his face to show he’s mimicking me as he says, “Yeah, but you were getting that look.”
“What look?”
“The sort of constipated look that means you’re thinking something nuts.”
“Look, Dave, most likely Simon is guilty. It’s terrible to think, but he probably killed Megan and took Grace. What I want to know is why, and why now? Grace, if she’s still alive, is going to be eighteen in a few months. If she wanted to see him, like he claimed, why didn’t he just wait a bit longer until she could decide herself?” As I talk, I feel another, bigger reason tugging at the corner of my mind, but as soon as I try to focus on it, it slips away again.
Dave glances over my shoulder at the screen again. I turn; they’re showing a repeat of the clip of Cara, covered in a gray blanket and being led away from number 52 by two police officers. Cara’s mum walks behind, clutching Grace’s cat. A police support officer drapes an arm around Susan’s heaving shoulders.
“That’s it!” Dave says out of the blue, snapping his chubby fingers. “She works in the Ship”—he nods towards the screen—“or at least she did last summer. I knew I recognized her from somewhere.”