Like she was so much better than they were.
‘How long, do you think?’ Danny asked.
‘I’ve got no idea.’
‘Until Steve comes back.’
‘I told you.’
‘Until we can go home then. Days or weeks?’
Charli shrugged and watched Danny pick up a pillow and throw it at the far wall. She could not help but laugh as it flopped harmlessly down on to the carpet, but once again, she failed to elicit anything but an angry glare.
‘How can you laugh?’ He pushed at her feet. ‘Have you been smoking weed or something?’
‘I wish.’ She wondered if the police had found the small stash at home in her bedside table. She wondered if they would do anything about it.
‘You’re just sick in the head then.’ He turned away in disgust. ‘You don’t hear me or Mum laughing, do you?’
Charli turned her head away and tried to lose herself in the music. She wondered if she would ever go back to school. The same school, anyway. The coppers had said she was allowed to bring her books after Linda had told them she had important exams coming up. How stupid was that? Like she could just sit and do revision when all this was going on. The Russian Revolution and The Merchant of fucking Venice.
She lay there and wondered if the people who marked the exams would take it into account, what had happened. Like when kids were really ill or one of their parents died or something. Would she get better grades, maybe?
She was a bit ashamed just thinking about it and felt her face redden.
She thought about that woman who had turned up out of the blue to keep her mother company; her and her boyfriend. Yeah, she was an old friend and all that, but they were both coppers, so maybe she was there for some other reason. Some kind of under-cover thing, like maybe her mum would say something to her she would never say to one of the other coppers. They’d talked a lot, her mum and that woman Helen, but Charli hadn’t really been able to hear it. Her mum had told her to keep an eye on Danny, so it was hard to keep up with everything else that was going on.
She’d heard the coppers talking though, Carson and the Scottish woman in uniform. Something about how long they could keep Steve at the police station. Something about a magistrate and ‘further detention’. She wasn’t going to say any of that to Danny.
He stood up and said, ‘I need a piss.’
On his way out, he picked up the pillow and threw it at her. There was a half-smile there, finally, but he still looked pale; different.
As soon as Charli heard the bathroom door close, she got up and went to the laptop. She opened it and logged quickly on to her Facebook page.
There were more messages than she would have time to read before Danny came back. She scrolled through them, the conversations that had sprung up beneath each comment.
perv dad = perv kids! lol!!
u r so ignorant
least i’m not a perv
no, just a moron
if he did stuff to those girls he probably did it to his own kids as
well …
When she heard the flush, she logged off and closed the lid of the laptop. She was back on the bed by the time Danny came back in. He looked excited.
‘We can sue them, yeah? You see it on the news and stuff. When people are arrested or accused of something and then it’s proved they didn’t do anything, they get tons of money. Compensation or whatever.’ He nodded. ‘Those twats on Facebook won’t be laughing when we’re the ones in a mansion with a couple of sports cars parked outside.’ He flicked his fingers, as ‘gangsta’ as it was possible for any white fourteen-year-old from Polesford to be. ‘Safe.’
‘Sounds all right,’ Charli said. Looking at her brother and wondering if the time would ever be right to ask him the question. Wondering if it had ever occurred to him, to ask her.
If he touched those girls …
They both froze as the track ended and the sound of their mother crying softly next door began to leak through the thin wall. Charli looked at Danny, but he dropped his head and stared down at the carpet. As soon as the next song started, he walked quickly to the CD player and turned the sound up, just enough.
SEVENTEEN
Helen was already in bed by the time Thorne came back from the bathroom. She lay with a pillow propped up behind her, wiping off her make-up and dropping the used cotton-wool balls on the floor beside the bed. Thorne began to get undressed.
‘Bit bloody nippy in here.’ He rubbed his arms and bent to press a hand to the radiator. It was only lukewarm. ‘Well, no chocolate on the pillow was bad enough, but this has definitely cost them their five-star rating,’ he said. ‘If it’s not the full works for breakfast, I’m inclined not to come back.’ He looked to Helen for a reaction and she glanced up. ‘I might even write something snotty in the visitors’ book.’
She gave him a thin smile and carried on wiping.
They had managed another half an hour or so downstairs, before Paula had finally noticed Thorne stifling his third or fourth yawn in as many minutes and told them there was no need to be polite. Thorne could still hear music playing. It was possible of course that they had made an effort to be sociable simply because they had visitors, and had been every bit as desperate to turn in as Thorne and Helen, but Thorne had them marked down as regular night owls.
He could empathise with a nurse’s need to kick back a little after a day at the sharp end in a major hospital; to decompress. No matter what time he or Helen got in after a late shift, even if Alfie was asleep, it was rare for either of them to go straight to bed. It always took a while for the buzz to settle or the disgust to dissipate. A drink would often be taken to help the process along. TV might be watched in silence or, very occasionally, whoever was in bed woken gently and some of the day’s darker moments shared.
Helen’s were almost always the toughest to talk about, and to hear.
It was possible of course that taxi drivers felt that same need to wind down at the end of a long day, but Thorne strongly suspected that Jason Sweeney just enjoyed drinking.
Though still not exactly thrilled that they were here at all, he was glad that he had listened to Helen and packed pyjamas. He put them on quickly and swapped his dirty T-shirt for a clean one. Helen was wearing one of his T-shirts too. He could see the top half of it above the duvet: Johnny Cash giving the world the finger.
As he walked towards the bed, Thorne heard the music stop suddenly, then, half a minute later, the sound of their hosts coming upstairs; whispering and laughing. He climbed quickly into bed, not really sure why he did not want the two of them to hear him moving around. He lay still and listened. The boards on the landing creaked as each of them used the bathroom and then, finally, the door to their bedroom closed.
Helen put her make-up remover on the bedside table. She adjusted her pillow and shuffled down beneath the duvet.
‘You can keep your bloody feet away as well,’ Thorne said. ‘Like blocks of ice.’
‘I’ve got socks on,’ she said. She reached to turn her light off, then rolled back and lay there, staring at the ceiling.
They lay in silence for a while.
‘So, what was all that about downstairs?’
‘All what?’
Thorne tut-tutted, shook his head. ‘I’d never have had you down as the school bully.’
‘I wasn’t,’ Helen said.
‘I’m kidding.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure me and Linda didn’t want her and Jenny following us around, but it’s ridiculous to say we bullied her. And why would she be happy for us to stay and then bring all that up?’
‘Maybe it’s why she wanted you to stay,’ Thorne said. ‘We should probably lock the door.’
Helen showed no sign of thinking Thorne’s remark was funny and clearly had nothing else to say about it.
‘So, how’s she holding up?’ Thorne kept his voice low. ‘Linda.’
Helen took a few seconds to answer. ‘What I said to Paula, really.�
��
‘Really?’ Thorne had presumed that downstairs, Helen had simply been trying to avoid any kind of in-depth conversation about what had gone on between her and Linda Bates. Now he wondered if she was trying to avoid one with him.
‘She’s tough.’
‘That’s good,’ Thorne said. He tried to sound as though he meant it. He was hoping that having seen how ‘tough’ her old schoolfriend was, Helen might now decide that there was no real reason for them to stay.
‘I mean she’s hardly dancing a jig or anything.’
‘Was she glad you came?’
Helen shrugged and pulled the duvet up a little. ‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘Well, I don’t think DC Carson was that thrilled about it. She was on the phone to her boss before anybody put the bloody kettle on.’ The truth was that Thorne had expected as much. If he had been SIO on the case, he’d have been furious if she hadn’t called; two coppers from a different force turning up on the doorstep. ‘Cornish wasn’t as chippy as he might have been, matter of fact. Could be he’s just trying very hard, but he seemed pretty decent.’ That look of concern right at the end might have been laid on a little thick though, Thorne thought. ‘He knew about Bardsey.’
Helen said, ‘Yeah?’
‘What about you?’
Helen did not answer and Thorne was not even sure that she’d heard him. She wore that same expression – blank, distant – that he had seen in the car driving towards Polesford and in the Magpie’s Nest just before they’d left. She was very still, as though she was holding her breath. Then she suddenly became aware of him studying her, and turned.
‘What?’
‘Are you glad you came?’
‘It was the right thing to do.’
‘That wasn’t what I asked.’
Helen sighed. Said, ‘Look, I’m tired, OK?’
Thorne moved towards her just as she turned on to her side. He slid an arm around her waist and across. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, by the way.’
‘Funny one,’ Helen said.
Thorne pushed his groin into her backside. ‘It’s not over yet.’
‘We can’t.’ Helen took Thorne’s hand and pressed it against her belly, as if to stop it creeping any lower. ‘Not in someone else’s house.’
‘We don’t have to make any noise,’ Thorne whispered.
‘I usually sleep through it anyway.’
Thorne laughed, pushed again.
‘No.’ Helen’s voice was louder suddenly and her body stiffened against his. ‘I’m not …’
‘OK,’ Thorne said. ‘Sorry.’ He turned away and reached across to turn his own light off.
‘Knackered,’ Helen mumbled. ‘That’s all.’
Thorne was asleep before she was.
EIGHTEEN
Polesford had gone to pot, there was no question about it.
The last ten, fifteen years, the old man had watched the town he loved turn into somewhere he barely recognised any more. Full of shops he didn’t feel welcome in, takeaways serving food he wouldn’t be caught dead eating, and people who didn’t seem to care that the place had become a shithole.
Back when his wife was still alive, there had been a proper butcher and an ironmonger, and the people who came to see the abbey and enjoy the countryside seemed to genuinely care about the town, to relish the time they spent there.
It was the people who had come from somewhere else, they were the problem, the start of it all. They were the rot that had set in. People who just wanted a bit of green around them, a reason to buy wellies, but buggered off every morning to work in Burton or Birmingham. They weren’t invested, that was the trouble. Yes, that was a good word for it, they didn’t have a stake in the place, not emotionally at any rate.
Now this terrible business with those girls.
That kind of thing would never have happened back when he was their age, or when his own children were teenagers, come to that.
He bent to let his terrier off the lead, watched him scamper into the trees.
However bad it got though, he still had the woods that backed on to his house to enjoy every day. That was the clincher, back when he and his wife had first bought the place. They’d both loved walking, and now, every time he took the dog out, he felt that small ache down in his stomach because she wasn’t at his side. These were their woods, always would be, however many noisy teenagers were tearing about on motorbikes or starting fires at night.
First thing every morning and last thing at night, ever since the dog was a puppy; him and her talking about their plans for the day. Then later on, looking back on how each of their days had gone. Now, it was mainly the dog he talked to.
He smiled, thinking that at least the dog never answered him back.
Said, ‘Sorry, love, only joking,’ to himself.
The dog came running out of the trees, panting. It sniffed the ground at the old man’s feet, then raced back into the bushes. Poor old bugger was almost as old as he was now, in dog years at any rate, but he still had plenty of zip in him. Still gave the squirrels in his back garden a hard time and went mad if he caught a whiff of a fox or a rabbit.
He walked on, and it seemed as if the day was growing brighter with every few steps, the sun coming up fast above the lines of sycamore and silver birch. At least it looked like they might be getting a bit of good weather today, help out those poor souls up to their armpits in the Anker.
He turned, looking for the dog behind him. He whistled and felt for one of the little bone-shaped chews he always kept in his pocket.
He’d meant what he’d said to that miserable sod at the police press thing the night before. The place would only go downhill a damn sight faster now. Yobbos piling off coaches to take pictures of the street where the girl was taken. Chattering about how terrible it must have been for everyone, then queuing up for fried chicken and making it hard for the people who actually lived here to get to the bar at the end of the day.
She would have wanted to move, if she’d still been alive. He’d thought that more than once. Much as his wife had loved the town, she would not have been able to bear it now, the place it had become. The supermarket and the beauty salons. The yelling in the streets come chucking-out time and the scrabble at the post office to cash the benefits cheques.
He turned, but there was still no sign of the dog.
Maybe he’d write another letter to the local paper. Not that they’d bothered printing his last one. It was a disgrace, because he knew what he was talking about and he wasn’t the only one who felt like this. He wanted his town back and what was wrong with that?
He could hear the dog yapping now, but it sounded a fair old distance away. He turned and walked back along the path, then cut into the trees. He gathered his overcoat a little tighter around him, pushed his scarf up to his throat. It was bright enough, but it was still bloody cold.
He whistled again, waited.
He shouted the dog’s name, once, twice, then cursed under his breath and started walking towards the noise.
Bloody rabbits …
NINETEEN
Thorne and Helen woke early, but, with no noise to indicate that anyone else was up and about, they stayed in their room, waiting for Paula or Jason to emerge from theirs.
Helen called her father to see how Alfie was, confident that her son would have woken long before they had and would already be giving him the runaround. Her father assured her that all was well and that he was loving every minute of looking after his grandson. She talked to Alfie briefly. She told him to be good and that she would see him soon.
She said ‘love you’ and he said it back.
When her father came back on the line, Helen reminded him to call if there was any problem. He told her not to be silly. He urged her to make the most of the break and to enjoy herself. Listening in, Thorne was interested to see that Helen took care to give no hint that they were anywhere other than where they were supposed to be; that they were, in fact, in the town where her fa
ther had lived for so many years. When Helen finally hung up, she looked at him, as though well aware of what he was thinking. Thorne decided it was probably not a good idea to ask her why.
They lay in bed and read for a while, talking easily. Thorne was happy to see that Helen seemed a lot brighter than she had the previous evening. He hoped that one day in her home town would prove long enough for her to have come to terms with whatever mixed feelings she clearly had about coming back.
Helen flicked through a magazine, while Thorne made another attempt to get involved in a thriller he had picked up and put down again countless times. ‘The copper in this is ridiculous,’ he said.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Helen said. ‘He’s got a drink problem and he’s a bit of a maverick.’
‘Have you ever met a copper like that?’
‘I’m sorry about last night …’
The absence of a smile told Thorne that she was not talking about the Valentine’s Day shag that never was. ‘No need,’ he said. ‘I was a bit worried, that’s all.’
‘I think I’m just finding it hard, not being with Alfie.’ She reached for Thorne’s hand. He put his book down. ‘This’ll be the longest I’ve ever been away from him. Well, apart from …’
The armed siege.
Three days during which Helen had lived with the constant terror that she might never see her child again.
‘I know,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s understandable.’ He was not convinced that this was the only reason why Helen had not been herself ever since they’d crossed the river into Polesford, but it was the only reason she seemed ready to give. ‘Still, you heard what your dad said about making the most of it.’
She picked up her magazine again. ‘Not exactly the right circumstances though, are they?’
‘We don’t need to stay,’ Thorne said. ‘We can drive back to the Cotswolds if you want.’
Helen shook her head. ‘I need to be here.’
Thorne said, ‘Well, it’s your call,’ and was surprised to find himself feeling relieved, and not just because of his aversion to the snootier parts of the English countryside. As far as the police operation in Polesford went, he was just an observer, of course he was, and he was under no pressure because he had no responsibility.
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