by Paula Daly
She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to. She knows she has me.
‘What do you want to know?’ I say.
She whips out a recording device from her handbag. ‘State your name and spell it as well, please.’
I’m spelling out K-A-L-L-I-S-T-O when I see Kate in the drawing-room window.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘I’m not sure I should be doing this,’ and the reporter’s face hardens in an instant.
‘Okay, but can you just confirm something for us?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Is it true that Lucinda Riverty has an older boyfriend? A much older boyfriend. Can you confirm that?’
‘What?’ I say, shocked. ‘No.’
‘No, as in not true? Or, no, as in you can’t confirm it, because you don’t know?’
I stammer something along the lines of it not being true but, to be honest, I’m thrown. Where has she got this from? Who is telling the press this stuff?
I look at her levelly, because all at once I’m annoyed. ‘Have you seen a picture of Lucinda?’
‘Yes, a school one. We could do with another, actually.’
‘So if you’ve seen a picture of her then you know she’s not the kind of slutty girl you are making her out to be—’
‘I did not suggest for a second she was slutty.’
‘Yes you did. Lucinda’s running around with a much older boyfriend. You go printing crap like that and instantly people stop caring. People think, oh, well, she’s obviously that kind of girl. She’ll probably turn up dead.’
She goes to interrupt, defending her job, but I continue on.
‘That’s what journalists do. You write, “Mr So-and-so, who was the victim of an armed attack at his eight hundred thousand pound home.” It’s the same deal. You’re telling people how sorry they should feel for the victims instead of just reporting it. You make me sick.’
‘That’s what news is … Mrs—’ she pauses, and I remind her, answering ‘Kallisto.’
A faint smile crosses her lips. ‘Oh yes. That wouldn’t happen to be the same Mrs Kallisto who was supposed to be looking after Lucinda Riverty, would it? … At the time she disappeared?’
Shocked into silence, I glare at her.
‘That’s not what happened,’ I say finally. ‘That’s not how it was—’, but she’s moved the digital recorder back towards my lips.
‘How about you tell me, in your own words, exactly what did happen?’
I glance towards Kate’s house. She’s still there, in the drawing-room window, beckoning for me to come up.
I turn to the reporter. I know I’m guilty. I know that Lucinda’s disappearance is my fault. But saying it out loud to this woman? Saying it out loud to the nation, and having them judge me, having this vile woman put words into my mouth? I can’t do it. It’s the coward’s approach, but I can’t bring myself to form the words.
‘Mrs Kallisto?’ she prompts, and, short of something intelligent and cutting to say, I tell her to piss off and make my way to the house.
Kate is standing right there in the hallway when I go in. For a second I hesitate. She sees my apprehension and embraces me. She feels so tiny beneath her clothes that I think: When did this happen? When did she get so thin without my noticing?
‘What did that reporter say to you?’ she asks.
‘Nothing,’ I reply uneasily. ‘Just if I knew you. I told her I did but that I couldn’t answer her questions.’
‘I’ve been watching her.’
‘She’s very businesslike. I suppose you’ve got to be if you’re to survive in that game.’ I don’t tell Kate what the reporter said to me.
‘They’re here fast,’ I say. ‘The media.’
‘It’s because of that other girl,’ Kate replies. ‘Because Lucinda’s the second one to disappear.’
My voice is weak and shaky. I want to ask Kate how she is, but I can’t bring myself to do it, because it’s such an inadequate question. Because you know they’re not all right. You know they’re holding on to the edge, their fingernails scratching to keep a hold.
She looks at me as if sensing what I’m thinking and says, ‘I’m so scared, Lisa. I’m so fucking scared.’
My heart is breaking for her. ‘I know,’ I say softly. ‘I know.’
‘Where is she?’
‘They’ll find her.’
Kate rubs her face with her hands. She’s exhausted. We move through to the kitchen. I can hear the quiet pitter-patter of footsteps signalling there are people upstairs, but compared to earlier, the house is deafeningly quiet. Everyone must be out searching.
We sit down at the kitchen island. There’s a huge lean-to conservatory that runs along the back of Kate’s house; it’s flooding the kitchen with white light from the snow-covered garden.
From where I’m sitting I can see the children’s playhouse. It’s painted in nursery colours to look like the gingerbread cottage from Hansel and Gretel. Sally and Lucinda spent whole days out there when they were nine or ten. Making up clubs, and secret codes, and whatever it is girls do at that age. It seems so painfully long ago now.
‘I know this sounds stupid,’ Kate says quietly, ‘but I never thought this would happen to me. I never thought I’d be the woman on the news, the woman you never want to be. I always thought I was protected somehow. I always thought I was shielded from things like this.’ She tries to smile. ‘Stupid, really.’ Her eyes are red-raw, her skin almost see-through.
‘Kate, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am.’
She takes my hands in hers. ‘Stop saying that, Lisa. Please. You’ve said it already. This is not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault. I should have checked as well, if we’re looking to apportion blame.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know how you can do this,’ I say, truly staggered by how she’s dealing with the situation, by what she’s saying. ‘I don’t know how you can be so discerning. Is that really how you feel?’
‘What’s the use?’ she says softly. ‘I’ve not got the energy for anger right now. I just want her home.’
‘She will be.’
And she looks at me, the dark shadow across her face lifting for a second. ‘Do you know what?’ she says, ‘I really think she will. I think she will come home. I’m at the stage now where I don’t care what’s happened to her as long as I get her back. We can get through anything as long as she’s alive.’
I do my best to put what I hope is a positive expression on my face. Try to show: Yes, absolutely, Lucinda is coming home. But I don’t know if I pull it off, because I don’t really believe it. How can I believe it when I’ve watched family after family go through this on the news? Split open with grief when their child turns up dead.
I stand and hug Kate again. ‘Where’s Fergus?’ I ask her.
‘Upstairs with Alexa.’
‘How is he?’
‘He knows an awful thing has happened, he knows Lucinda’s not here, but he doesn’t understand the consequences of it. He’s no idea of the danger she’s in and we’ve purposely not told him.’
‘Of course.’
‘How’s Sally?’ she asks.
Typical of Kate to be concerned about my kids at a time like this.
‘Pretty awful, but I’ve not spoken to her since this morning. I tried calling. The police were at school interviewing them and I’ve heard nothing since. She blames herself, as you’d expect.’
‘Why was she off yesterday?’
‘Stomach pains – nothing serious. I couldn’t stay home with her ’cause there was too much going on at work and so she—’
‘You should have called,’ Kate says. ‘I would have kept an eye on her—’ and then she stops.
Because we’re both thinking the same thing.
If only I had called her.
There’s an extended moment of silence as we both consider the what-ifs, the if-onlys, then I shudder as I hear footsteps coming from the floor above.
Kate senses m
y anxiety. ‘She’s just using the loo. She’s not on her way down here.’
She means Alexa, of course, and I let my breath out slowly.
‘I’m sorry she was so fierce earlier,’ Kate says. ‘It’s just her way. To blame, I mean.’
I avert my gaze. What I always do when Alexa is the subject of conversation.
‘She was right to blame,’ I say quietly, but Kate’s mind is suddenly elsewhere. She’s looking past me to the corner of the room, and her eyes have glazed over.
12
DC JOANNE ASPINALL walks up the steps to the doctor’s surgery. It’s 5.40 p.m.
Missing girl number two, day one, and the pressure is building. She had been going to cancel this appointment. She had been going to stay at the station, keep working. But her boss told her they weren’t going to get any further with the investigation today. He sent Joanne home, telling her to call at the Rivertys’ while she was heading back that way. ‘Let them know we’re doing everything we can. Take some more details, speak to the press if necessary.’
Guy Riverty had been out with the search parties and Kate was being looked after by her sister. Joanne hadn’t stayed long.
Detectives usually work office hours – nine to five; staying late if the case warrants it. Sometimes Joanne missed the shifts of a WPC – she used to get more errands done when she worked nights. She sees her reflection in the glass doors at the top of the steps and touches her hair briefly. It has all but come loose from her ponytail. She can’t remember the last time she had a proper cut.
The waiting room’s full and it’s Joanne’s instinct to drop her head. She keeps a low profile in Windermere. She knows better than to advertise the fact she’s CID.
She’d read something recently about ‘Making the police more visible’. Some daft government adviser suggesting that, because of the cutbacks, they should make the most of police officers. Cultivate a greater perception of police presence – bobbies on the beat and all that.
The idea was that police officers should travel to and from work in uniform. Joanne had laughed out loud when she read it. You go in and out of your house in your uniform and it won’t be more than a day before your windows are egged and your tyres are flat. And that’s in a nice area.
Joanne punches her details into the computerized thing on the wall that lets the surgery staff know you’ve arrived. The old people never use it, so you can sometimes jump the queue a bit while they wait for the receptionist to deal with them. She takes a seat next to a smiling old lady, who says to her, ‘Flu jab?’, and Joanne says yes. Just because it’s easier.
There’s a pharmacy within the surgery, which Joanne thinks is a terrific idea. No more driving round in the pouring rain, clutching your prescription, nowhere open after 5 p.m. This pharmacy keeps the same hours as the doctors, so you’re done and dusted all in one go.
Joanne spies a copy of World of Interiors – which her Auntie Jackie calls ‘World of Inferiors’, and bypasses it, opting instead for the December issue of Good Housekeeping. Unusual to find an up-to-date copy in here, she thinks, and muses over ways to liven up Christmas dinner: Why not try goose? Or guinea fowl? Her eyes settle on a salmon terrine (suitable for diabetics), but her thoughts are never far from the missing girl.
When Joanne first moved to CID she found it hard to live alongside the job. She wasn’t like those TV detectives, the ones who never switch off, the ones who drink heavily, who go against the boss and lose their family to the force in the process.
Joanne’s problem was more subtle than that. She found she suffered from a heavy guilt the minute her thoughts drifted elsewhere, the minute she went back to the mundane tasks of normal living.
If she wasn’t thinking about her current case, she felt that she should be.
She was more used to it now. She managed it better. She’d come to liken it to the creative process she’d heard artists speak about. When their attention was diverted by other things, their subconscious was busily working away on their behalf, figuring things out, solving problems.
Joanne found that if she let her mind wander, if she let it relax, then ideas and answers would pop up like traffic cones. One minute they were absent and the next they were everywhere she looked.
She hears the buzzer signalling they’re ready for the next patient, and her name appears. The old lady next to her seems a bit perturbed that Joanne is going in ahead of her, but Joanne doesn’t bother to explain she’s not really having the flu jab after all.
She’s nervous because she’s going to have to undress. She’s not prudish, not even shy, she just doesn’t like to see the look on the face of whoever she is undressing for.
She knocks once before going in, and Dr Ravenscroft, Joanne’s GP since childhood, greets her. ‘Joanne! Good to see you. Take a seat. How are you today?’
‘Well, thanks.’
‘And how’s your aunt? I’ve not seen her in a while.’
‘Same old, same old – they don’t call her Mad Jackie for nothing.’
He chuckles.
‘She’s still living with you, then?’ he asks.
‘Think I’m going to be stuck with her for ever.’
He smiles sympathetically. ‘And what about you? Are you still busy fighting crime?’
‘Trying to.’
‘Wonderful. Wonderful.’ He starts typing, bringing up her notes. ‘Now, what can I do for you today?’
‘I’d like a breast reduction.’
He doesn’t look up. ‘Not really a fan of them myself,’ he mumbles absently, and Joanne’s not sure what she’s supposed to say to that. ‘You’re having upper-back pain, sweat rashes?’
‘Pretty much,’ she answers. ‘The back pain’s not continuous but it’s vicious when it hits. My main problem, though, is here,’ and she motions to the area between her neck and shoulder.
‘Trapezius,’ he says. ‘Gets quite tight in there, does it?’
Joanne pushes her thumb in. ‘It’s almost solid. I’ve got permanent indentations on each side from my bra straps.’
She reaches beneath her blouse and hooks the right strap out from where it’s become embedded within the muscle. The relief is temporary as she gives the skin a quick rub. She slides her index finger inside the groove the strap has made; it’s half an inch deep. It feels fiery hot to the touch.
‘Does it affect your work?’ he asks.
‘Sometimes.’
She doesn’t want to tell him in what way. Doesn’t really want to share that she can’t run without feeling humiliated, can’t conduct an interview without first feeling embarrassed. She’s done her best to put a brave face on things in the past and not let this get in the way, but it seems now that she’s approaching her late thirties, the fear of being viewed with ridicule is not so easy to shrug off.
Doctor Ravenscroft nods gravely. ‘You know you won’t be able to breastfeed.’
‘I don’t even have a boyfriend … breastfeeding’s not exactly top of my agenda.’
‘It might be one day,’ he says, his tone suddenly breezy. ‘Nice chap comes along, sweeps you off your feet …’
Joanne just looks at him.
‘Never say “never”!’ he says. ‘Lovely girl like you, there’s bound to be some fellow waiting in the wings, ready to take you home and make you his wife …’
‘But where would I put the unicorn?’ Joanne says flatly.
Joanne gets her referral to the plastic surgeon.
Leaving Dr Ravenscroft’s room, she walks past the phlebotomist, past the treatment room where all the oldies are having their flu jabs, past the cleaner’s store cupboard and back through to the main waiting area. She’s about to leave through the double glass doors when she hears something that makes her stop.
‘Do you pay for your prescriptions?’ the assistant in the pharmacy is asking the man.
‘Yes,’ comes the reply. Then, ‘Oh, actually, no. I don’t pay for this one … it’s for a child … see?’
Apologetically, t
he assistant says, ‘Of course it is. It’ll be ready in just a moment.’
It’s Guy – Guy Riverty – who’s waiting for a prescription. What is he doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be out with the search parties?
The first thing that pops into Joanne’s head is that he must be picking something up for Kate. Something to calm her nerves, to make her sleep. But then he’s just said it’s for a child. No prescription charge. It’s exempt.
Joanne decides to wait inside her car.
She climbs in, and the temperature gauge reads minus seven. She turns the ignition to get the heat going and automatically there’s a blast of music. One of Auntie Jackie’s Michael Bublé CDs that she’s been listening to. ‘Smug bastard,’ Joanne mutters, and kills the stereo.
She switches her headlights on so she can’t be seen so easily inside the car, and remembers something Lisa Kallisto said earlier in the day. She said Kate’s son had health problems. ‘Been sickly for as long as they’d been friends,’ was more or less what she’d said, and Joanne decides that’s the reason for Guy being here.
So she calls it a day. Guy must be here for a prescription for their son, she thinks, and dips the clutch, puts the car into gear. Just as she edges forward, though, she sees Guy Riverty emerge. He’s looking harried.
To be expected, she thinks.
He’s glancing around furtively.
His daughter’s missing, she reasons.
He drives off in his Audi Q7 V12 – a hundred grand’s worth of car – without his headlights on.
Yeah, well, he’s distracted.
But then, at the top of the road, instead of taking a left towards home, he goes right.
Bit odd, Joanne thinks. So she follows him.
13
JOANNE KEEPS WELL back. Stays a safe distance behind Guy Riverty. If he were to slow down for any reason, and she were to get too close, he’d see her in his rear-view mirror. He has a personalized numberplate – GR 658 – and his huge Audi, bright white in colour, is lit up like a Christmas float. If you were up to something dodgy, it would be the last car you’d want to be driving. It’s about as conspicuous as you can get.