The hedge closes behind me and I navigate using the tops of the trees silhouetted against the greeny-orange sky. There are fewer of them to the right, which must be the path to get to the house. Although I’m fairly sure of my way, branches thwack against my face and drag at my clothes. It’s been some time since I tried to come through here and I wonder if I’m going to walk into a wall of brambles. I must have been with Noah last time. It must have been one of our getting-on moments. I’d convinced him that there was a ghost living here, in the drive woods. We sat for hours waiting one night until a badger appeared and spooked us. We ran home screaming.
As I approach the house I’m met by flashing blue lights. Police? Here?
Three squad cars fill the courtyard outside the house and there are some massive lamps floodlighting the Mini. People in white all-over suits are rummaging inside and underneath it. They’ve set up a white plastic gazebo and the lights are so strong it looks like a film set.
“What’s going on?” I say to the air.
This is not normal.
No one seems to notice me, and I pause at the entrance to the courtyard, trying to decide whether I should go up to our flat or talk to a police person or try the doors of the big house.
In the end, I decide to try the flat. The door’s unlocked, it’s nice and cosy, but there’s no sign of Mum. Instead, Tai bounces up to me, his tail wagging. He yaps and trots over to the back door so I let him out down the back steps to wee in the stable yard.
“What’s going on, Tai?” I ask, resting my hands on the radiator. “Why are the police here?” He answers by squeezing back in through the gap in the door, rolling on to his back and squirming around until I rub his tummy. “And where’s Mum?”
Flipping back on to his feet, he examines his empty food bowl, prodding it with his nose and making sad noises. Eventually, he pushes it right across the floor and looks up at me. Hopeful.
“You haven’t been fed?” I say, finding half an open tin of dog food in the fridge. It looks like the same tin of food Mum opened this morning. “You really haven’t been fed – you must be starving.” Prising the lid open I spoon out the disgusting jellied lumps. “Here.”
Tai snuffles around me and makes extravagant eating sounds. I rub his ears and the food vanishes in seconds. “What have you done with Mum, eh?”
While he licks the bowl clean I wander over to the little window next to the front door and peer out through the slatted blind into the courtyard. I don’t think anyone can see me, so I watch for a few minutes, trying to make sense of everything. The people in white are very busy sticking things into bags, and one of them is crawling across the tarmac on their hands and knees with their nose about an inch above the ground.
If it wasn’t really disturbing it would be funny.
As I stare out, the front door at the top of the steps to the main house opens, and framed in a rectangle of orange light is Sharon, Chris the waterkeeper’s girlfriend. She’s looking down at her phone, so I can’t really see her expression because she’s got this long blonde hair that hangs down in a sheet on either side of her head. Behind her comes Dave McAndrew, the man from the sawmill, and Connor Evans, the gamekeeper, both looking worried. They’re followed by Lord Belcombe and Chris himself. They all bundle into the Land Rover and sweep out of the courtyard.
Then Lady Belcombe, Noah’s mum, appears at the top of the steps, watches the white-suited people for a moment, checks her phone and goes back inside, without closing the door properly.
“What shall I do, Tai?” I ask, stepping back from the window.
In answer, Tai lies down, crosses his paws and rests his head on my foot.
“I need to do something, I can’t just stand here waiting.” I don’t usually go into the main house, but I really want to find out what’s happened – and if anyone asks, I’ll say I’m searching for Mum, which I kind of am.
A little bit terrified, I run down our steps, cross the courtyard and walk up the grand marble steps that lead to the house. I know Lord B’s out, I saw him go, but Lady B’s not easy. Mum’s very good with her but she can be scary, mostly because she’s used to people following her orders. She ran a newspaper or something before becoming a Belcombe. She doesn’t fit here in the middle of the countryside. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her outside unless the sun’s shining. She’s too towny and she probably knows it. Maybe that’s why she’s so prickly. Perhaps country people make her feel uncomfortable.
Or am I kidding myself?
The heavy oak door swings open as I touch it and I stick my head around. It gives straight on to the hallway – which is really a giant open barn thingy, as big as most people’s whole houses, with a fireplace, sofas and a table. Portraits of ancient Belcombes line the walls and the corners of the room disappear in polished wood murk.
Lady Belcombe is standing in front of the fireplace, her face streaked with tears. When she sees it’s me she rushes forward to grab my arm. “Vivienne, darling, I’m so glad you’re back. Have you heard anything from little Noah? Have you seen him? He hasn’t come home, he wasn’t there when Marion went to pick him up, and…” She shakes her head as if there’s something more she’s not going to tell me. “I’m so worried about him.”
“What?” I say. “Mum went to pick him up from school and he wasn’t there?” I try to keep the excitement out of my voice. This is thrilling on many levels.
“He’s vanished,” she says, sniffing. “Has he contacted you?”
I reach for my phone. “No,” I’m saying already. “No – not as far as I know, nothing.” I hold it up. Apart from this morning’s I’ll get you later, the last message from Noah was six months ago, when he’d sent me the charming words, Suck it up, loser.
That probably marked the absolutely final end of our not very beautiful friendship.
“Vanished – like, disappeared?” I say. She’s not listening to me though.
A policewoman comes out of the sitting room and takes Lady B by the elbow. “Shall I make you another cup of tea?” she asks.
“I’ve had enough of tea, you stupid woman,” Lady B snaps, and then, as if remembering that she’s talking to a police officer, she says, “No, no thank you very much,” sniffs and sinks into one of the monumental leather sofas, trembling and blowing her nose. “Vivienne, sit down and help this woman find my son.” She points at the other vast sofa, one that must have seen the death of several cows.
Ignoring everyone, Tigger, the Belcombes’ cat, struts over and wipes his head on my shin then sits and licks his chest. I bury my hand in the thick fur behind his head and try to feel normal. Because she’s told me to, I sit down, but it feels surreal sitting here with Lady B and the cat.
“Ah – Vivienne? Vivienne Lin.” Not at all bothered by Lady B, the policewoman checks a notebook. “You live here, don’t you?” she says. “We need to talk to you.”
“What’s happened to Noah?” I ask. “Where’s my mum?” Tigger leaps from the floor and settles on my lap, purring.
“Your mother? Oh, yes, she’s showing one of my colleagues the route she took to St David’s this morning. As for Noah, we’re just checking every avenue at this stage.” The policewoman delivers a glowing smile. “As you’re sitting down, would you like to talk here? Just an informal chat. We’re trying to establish one or two things about him – his interests, that sort of thing.”
Of course I’ll answer questions. Anyway, I don’t suppose I have much choice.
The policewoman perches on the arm of the sofa. It’s probably meant to make her seem informal, but she looks awkward in these surroundings. Everything in this room is carefully ancient. Wood panelling, blazing logs, long oak table, battered leather sofas, an heirloom rug casually covering most but not all of the smooth old floorboards. Even the greyhound lying in the firelight, her head on her forepaw, is medieval.
The policewoman, however, looks like she came from IKEA – clothes all dayglo and orange, and modern and functional. She, me and Tigger are
all out of place. I grip the cat tighter.
“So, tell us about Noah.” She leans forward and her dayglo creaks. “What did you and Noah do together, mostly? I gather you’re the same age.”
“Do together?” I shrug. “Well, nothing, any more. He goes to a different school, has different friends – although I don’t know if he actually has any friends.”
“Oh?” The policewoman looks up from her notebook. “How would you know? If you don’t have much to do with each other?”
Looking out, I see lights moving around in the garden. Perhaps I’m imagining them. This is all so weird. I think about my answer instead. How would I know?
“I’ve just never seen any here. My friends come back for sleepovers and stuff. He doesn’t…” I tail off, conscious of Lady B turning slightly towards us, “…seem to do that sort of thing.”
Outside, the police people are talking together. An engine starts. More lights flash through the windows. Lady B gets to her feet and then sits down again; she checks her phone, and checks it again.
The policewoman is writing. In the silence, Lady Belcombe’s sniffing seems really loud, as does the crackling of the fire. Tigger stretches down and settles across my feet.
“Why is Mum helping you? When did Noah disappear?”
“All in good time.” The policewoman fixes a smile that tells me nothing. “What about his relationship with sport? Rugby in particular.”
“I’ve no idea,” I say. “He’s not – I mean we used to climb trees and ride bikes and that…”
“How about people – were there any people he mentioned?”
“I said about the friends…” I glance over to Lady B, who is still sniffing on the sofa, but definitely listening.
“No – more like teachers. Did he ever say anything about any teachers? At all?” The policewoman looks up into my face and stares really hard.
I shrug. I shake my head. “No – no, I’ve no idea.”
“Perhaps it’s just coincidence,” she says, with no explanation. “Was there anywhere that might be special to Noah? You know, a hiding place?” She leans forward conspiratorially. It doesn’t work, she’s still like a teacher. But then I remember that this is Noah and I don’t owe him anything. I owe this policewoman more. I try to think of what he might do – where he might hide. Would he hide? He would have done when he was six, but I don’t really know the twelve-year-old Noah.
I shake my head as I try to remember all the places that we hung out as kids. “The shed on the river? Where the waterkeepers kept all their stuff – they call it The Palace. We used to try to get in, but old Mr Mumford always chased us away. There was the big walnut tree in the middle meadow, we almost killed each other there.” I glance over to Lady B. She’s listening, her brow furrowed as if she’s imagining all the places that I’m talking about. “The yew tree by the chalk pond? I think he defended it and I threw fir cones at him. We both built fortresses all over the gardens – even in the ditches by Long Wood…”
The policewoman looks up at me. “Always at war?”
I nod. “Definitely.”
She sits back and pings her glow-in-the-dark tabard thingy. “So he could be anywhere?”
“S’pose so. But it’s very cold.”
I don’t think I’m the only one that jumps when the front door swings open and Lord Belcombe steps in, followed by Connor Evans, Dave McAndrew, Pavel, one of the part-time gardeners, and two policemen. They bring in the cold and they all look grim. They looked worried before, but now, behind his beard, Dave McAndrew is white – sheet white – and he sees Lady B, tearful on the sofa, and turns away from her as if he can’t bear it.
“We really have searched everywhere,” mutters Lord Belcombe to his wife, who launches into another wave of sobbing. “Just now we tried the pheasant hatchery, and the smokery, just in case, but no joy. Tony and Shona are still out checking the gardens. They might find him – if he’s hiding.”
I look out at the lights moving around in the dark. Ah – the gardeners with torches.
“But why would he be hiding? The poor little…” Lady B launches into a new round of sobbing.
Lord B sits down next to his wife, still wearing his waxed jacket and walking boots, and takes one of her hands in his. “It’ll be all right,” he says, but underneath his wild curly hair his sad face and worried eyes say that he doesn’t believe it himself.
For a moment, I feel sorry for him.
Connor and Pavel stand by the fire, chatting with the policemen, stamping their feet. They both look really stressed. This is big. It’s not like he’s late home or something – they must think he’s really run away.
“So, this morning. What do you remember?” The policewoman sits with her pen hovering over the page.
I take a deep breath. “It was like every morning – Mum drove, I sat in the back. We went to my school first. I got out. Boom – that’s it. What’s happened to him?”
“Any more detail?” asks the policewoman, ignoring my question.
I wonder whether to tell her about the row and decide that it won’t hurt. “Er, Noah tends to sit in the front seat – he’s… Well, he does.” I glance up at his mother sitting there working her way through a box of tissues. “Ever since he— Anyway, Mum suggested that we should both sit on the back seat, together, and Noah refused and in the confusion, he banged his nose…” I couldn’t quite tell the whole truth. “And he gets nosebleeds really easily, so he bled over everything.”
“Everything?”
“Er – my bag and his trousers. And the car.”
“I’ll need your bag if you don’t mind.” She scribbles in her notebook. “So how would you say your relationship with Noah was?” The policewoman’s voice seems very loud and everyone turns to look.
“Um,” I say. “Stormy? No – distant.”
She spends far too long writing “stormy”, so I imagine she’s also writing notes on how my face looks, my clothing, my eyebrows.
“Can I see your phone – you’ve had contact with him today?”
“Here,” I say. “We were still in the car together when he sent that.”
She reads the messages. Her eyes widen. “Let me get this clear, that was him talking to you.” She points at the I’ll get you later bit.
“Yup,” I say. Over by the fire, the men stop talking and the room falls uncomfortably quiet.
Finally, when she seems to notice that everyone’s listening, she takes a plastic bag from her pocket and slips my phone inside. “We’ll just hang on to it for a bit – in case he contacts you. OK?”
Another policewoman arrives to take Connor the gamekeeper off for questioning, and everyone looks embarrassed and shuffles their feet. Connor goes bright red. “I don’t know a thing,” he says to the room, but no one answers.
Dave blows his nose and pulls his collar up around his ears. I’ve never seen him look so human. I’ve always been a little scared of him. The sawmill’s further out of the estate so he usually only comes in to help with the shoots. Everyone helps with the shoots. All winter, rich people come and shoot pheasants. Mostly they’re pretty rubbish shots, but sometimes they’re not and loads of dead birds fall in the woods and Connor’s dogs pick them up and everyone eats pheasant for weeks. Sometimes, for real people, they shoot not real birds but clay birds instead. Clay pigeons. Then you just hear someone shout “Pull!” followed by two bangs and loads of shards of black pot fall all over the place. That’s just noisy. I can see the fun in that – kind of like a big, real computer game. In the summer, very rich people come and fish. Not worm and bits of bacon fishing, but proper fly-fishing. Chris Mumford teaches them. They don’t catch many, but we have a fishery on the estate full of baby trout that get put in the river from time to time. Sometimes there are too many fish, so they smoke them and we all eat smoked trout for ages.
I don’t much like smoked trout. Or pheasant.
Lord B throws a log on the fire so violently that sparks burst up the chimney.
I slip out through the front door.
Mum’s not back when I let myself into the flat and listen out for Tai’s tiny snores. Finding my bag, I empty it and take it to the policewoman in the main house.
“Thank you, Vivienne,” she says, looking away, as if I’m dismissed. I want to ask again about Mum, but instead I return to our flat without a word, slamming our door behind me, shutting myself in.
This is my home, it’s been my home for almost all my life, but it feels strange. Blue flickering lights from the police cars flash across the walls as if they’re warning everyone out of their way, but there’s no one to warn. Don’t they ever turn them off?
I imagine the people in the house. Then there’s me, here, and around us there’s acres and acres of empty space, cut through by the river. They can’t possibly have searched it all.
Tai wakes, pads over and lays his head on my foot.
“Hello, boy,” I say, reaching to pick him up. Straight away he wriggles out of my arms and sniffs at the front door where he whines, scratching at the frame. He wants to go for a walk.
“I know, but I’m so hungry and…” I look out into the darkness – am I a little afraid? I’m never scared of the dark; that was Noah’s thing. Not mine. But…
Kicking off my shoes, I rummage in the cupboard for a packet of instant tomato soup.
“I’ll make this really fast,” I say, ripping off the top. I wait for the kettle to boil and watch the blue lights flicker through the blind.
I wish I knew more.
I wish I knew anything.
I wish Mum was here.
He hasn’t come home, he wasn’t there when Marion went to pick him up.
Murder at Twilight Page 2