Vince xx
He sent the email without bothering to read through it again, then sat in thoughtful silence before opening his browser and typing private detectives into the search bar. Given the attitude of the police, and the fact that he hadn’t yet heard anything from Cheyenne Scott, he’d been thinking that hiring an investigator of his own might be another way forward. After his initial astonishment that there seemed to be so many agencies to choose from, he was equally surprised to realise that many of them dealt with missing persons enquiries, and that people leaving home seemed to be a common occurrence. What was it about running away? he wondered. Why were people so weak and foolish? He studied the sites in detail before ringing one of the agencies and outlining his problem.
The PI was matter-of-fact about it and gave him a run-through of potential costs that made Vince gasp. He told him he’d get back to him and rang the next name on the list. And another after that.
They all charged per day, plus expenses. And the general consensus was that the search would have to start in Paris – a trip he’d have to pay for. Money for old rope, he thought angrily as he totted up the costs, and his anger with Imogen flared again.
He rang Shona.
As always, her first question was had he heard anything.
‘No.’ He told her about the private investigators.
‘So are you going to hire one?’
‘None of the ones I’ve talked to,’ he said. ‘They charge a fortune and they’re talking about going to France and the UK and even the States, all of which would be part of their bill. They must think I’m a right mug!’
‘I’m sure they don’t. They have to cover all the bases.’
‘Even if I had the cash to splash around, I’m not shelling it out for them to jolly themselves around Europe in the height of summer,’ said Vince.
‘What will you do in that case?’
‘I’m going to go to France myself. Someone must have seen her and someone must know where she is. I’m going to find her, put an end to this nonsense and bring her back home.’
‘Vince, I’ve been thinking a lot about this,’ said Shona, her voice urgent. ‘Maybe you should accept the fact that she’s left.’
‘Accept it!’ he cried. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. Have you forgotten that Imogen isn’t a well woman?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with her,’ said Shona. ‘There isn’t, Vince. OK, so she’s a bit upset, but—’
‘A bit upset! A bit upset means not talking to someone for a few days. It doesn’t mean disappearing without a trace.’
‘The thing is, it’s not without a trace, is it?’ said Shona. ‘She’s said she doesn’t want to come home. Perhaps … perhaps you should take her at her word.’
‘You were perfectly prepared for the gardai to look for her.’ Vince’s voice was cool.
‘When I thought that she’d properly gone missing,’ said Shona. ‘When I thought something awful might have happened to her. But she’s doing her own thing, Vince. Of course I’m not happy that she snuck off without telling anyone, but it was her choice.’
‘Her choice!’ He snorted. ‘She had no right to make that choice.’
‘It wasn’t a fair one,’ agreed Shona. ‘All the same—’
‘I thought you understood,’ said Vince. ‘But you’re as bad as her.’
‘I don’t want you to make things worse,’ said Shona.
‘How much worse could they be?’
‘If you leave her to her own devices, she might come back of her own accord.’
She might, agreed Vince. But what Imogen might or might not do wasn’t good enough for him. He wasn’t the sort of person who sat around waiting for things to happen. He would make them happen himself.
And he would bring her home.
It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening when his mobile rang. The number was blocked, and his first thought was that Imogen had finally decided to call him. He felt a renewed surge of anger towards her and took a deep breath to calm himself before answering. But it wasn’t his wife; it was her stepsister Cheyenne, who was getting back to him after their Facebook connection.
‘I’ve only just seen your message,’ she said. ‘What d’you mean, Imogen is missing?’
‘Exactly what I said.’ Vince was terse. ‘She’s disappeared without a trace.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Cheyenne. ‘When? Have you told the police?’
‘They don’t want to know.’ He explained why they thought Imogen had left of her own accord.
‘They’re probably right,’ said Cheyenne, a note of relief in her voice.
‘It doesn’t mean they shouldn’t look for her,’ said Vince. ‘She could be in a distressed state.’
‘Why? What did you do?’
‘Me?’ he said. ‘I did nothing at all. This is all down to Imogen herself. Anyway, I thought you might have an idea of where she would have gone to.’
‘How on earth would I know? And why would I tell you if I did? If she’s left you, she’s left you. End of.’
‘She hasn’t left me,’ said Vince. ‘She’s gone AWOL, that’s all. And I can’t believe you’re happy she’s disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘Wherever she’s gone, she’s deliberately not told you, Vince, which is entirely up to her. Anyhow, she’s pretty capable, for all you like to portray her as a helpless stick without you.’
‘All I want is for her to be OK,’ Vince said. ‘And as a missing person—’
‘She’s not missing.’ Cheyenne interrupted him. ‘She’s walked out on you.’
‘I think you’ll find that missing is the appropriate word for someone who hasn’t been seen for nearly three weeks.’
‘Because she doesn’t want to be,’ said Cheyenne.
‘Look, I know you never really liked me, but all I want is for Imogen to be happy. The truth is that she’s been a bit edgy because we’ve been trying for a baby and it hasn’t been working out and she blames herself.’
‘Really?’ There was a note of scepticism in Cheyenne’s voice.
‘Yes, really. That’s why I’m worried about her. She’s fragile.’
‘No she’s not,’ retorted Cheyenne. ‘She’s as tough as old boots. Always has been.’
‘That’s what you think. You and your father, who never loved her.’
‘Don’t give me that shit, Vince.’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘It might be your truth, but it’s not mine. Or Dad’s. And it used not to be Imogen’s either.’
‘So if you have any idea where she is,’ continued Vince as though Cheyenne hadn’t spoken, ‘as her husband who loves her, I’d like to know.’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ said Cheyenne shortly.
‘She has to be in touch with someone. Nobody walks out of a home with nothing more than a change of clothes.’
‘Has she any money?’ asked Cheyenne.
‘She took some from our account.’
‘Which proves she had a plan,’ Cheyenne said.
‘She never plans,’ said Vince. ‘She’s erratic. You must know that already.’
‘She’s not erratic,’ said Cheyenne. ‘She can be a bit flighty sometimes, I admit, but she was always pretty together when we were a family. I’ll agree that she changed after meeting you.’
‘For the better.’
‘In your opinion.’
‘Look, are you going to help me find her or not?’
‘I’m sure if she wants to talk to you she’ll get in touch.’
‘Has she been in touch with you?’
‘No.’
‘You must have some idea where she might be. You lived with her for a long time. I think she’s still in France – where exactly did she live when she was there?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cheyenne.
‘You don’t know or you won’t tell me?’ Vince was getting more and more annoyed.
‘I don’t know, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you unless Im
ogen gave me permission first. As I haven’t spoken to her, she can’t do that and I can’t help you.’
‘You’re such a bitch, Cheyenne. She was right about you.’
‘She called me a bitch?’
‘Can you give me your father’s phone number?’ Vince didn’t answer her. ‘Maybe he’ll be more understanding.’
‘I’m perfectly understanding the situation, which is that she walked out and left you, and that she doesn’t want to talk to you,’ said Cheyenne. ‘That doesn’t take much deduction.’
‘I hope you’ll be happy when her broken and battered body is found at the bottom of a ravine in that case,’ said Vince. ‘Which could easily happen. And you might be able to stop it. Just because you dislike me doesn’t mean you shouldn’t help find someone who’s stressed.’
Cheyenne was silent.
‘So I’m asking you again, where the fuck is she?’
‘I really don’t know.’ Cheyenne’s tone was less belligerent. ‘Honestly, Vince. She hasn’t been in touch with me in months.’
‘What about your father?’
‘He and Paula are on holiday right now,’ said Cheyenne. ‘On a cruise.’
‘I’m sure he can take a call.’
‘You know how it is on those ships,’ said Cheyenne. ‘Costs a fortune to make and receive calls. Dad wouldn’t even bother to switch his phone on; he hates it at the best of times. Look, I’ll send him a message for you. That’s the best I can do.’
‘Give me his number and I’ll leave a message myself,’ said Vince.
‘I don’t know it off the top of my head,’ said Cheyenne. ‘Nobody remembers people’s mobile numbers.’
‘Send it to me.’
‘I’ll look it up,’ said Cheyenne. ‘Meantime, I’m sure Imogen is fine. Maybe she’ll come back to you when she’s had a bit of time to herself.’
‘Everyone keeps saying that. But I’m worried about her.’
Cheyenne sighed. ‘I’ll message Dad, and I’ll pass on your number.’
‘And send his to me,’ Vince reminded her.
‘Sure,’ said Cheyenne.
Then she hung up.
Chapter 16
Imogen arrived at Céline’s house, a compact single-storey home set in a small garden, at exactly eight thirty on Saturday morning. The sun was high enough that the orange and pink hibiscus flowers at the gate had opened, and their delicate scent flooded the air. Imogen closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She was lucky, she said to herself. Lucky to be here. Lucky to have found a job. Lucky to be rebuilding her life. She’d come up with a plan that had worked, and everything was going to be all right.
She rang the bell and Céline opened the door, greeting her with a smile and thanks for being on time.
‘It’s not big,’ she said as she waved her arm around to embrace her home. ‘And it’s not filthy. But it’s very, very messy. I’m sorry.’
Imogen looked at the piles of cookery books, newspapers and foodie magazines, the heaps of unironed clothes, and the selection of cups upturned on the drainer.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen a lot worse.’
‘Here’s the money.’ Céline handed her some euro notes, and Imogen’s eyes widened. Céline was paying her nearly double what she earned at the agency.
‘They pay close to minimum wage,’ she said. ‘I told you I’d pay you more.’
‘All the same …’
‘Take it,’ said Céline. ‘If you’re terrible, I won’t ask you again.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The cleaning stuff is in here.’ Céline opened a door that led to a small utility area. ‘Hopefully there’s everything you need.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Imogen.
‘In that case, au revoir. I’ll see you at the café, either this weekend or next week.’
‘See you,’ said Imogen.
As soon as Céline left, she set to work, methodically drying things and putting them away, finding places for the magazines and books. Her mother used to listen to music when she was working, but Imogen enjoyed the silence and immersing herself in her thoughts. Which were not as tense and fraught as before. She was less tense in herself too, not jumping at every random sound and less likely to regard everyone she met as a possible threat to her security.
Perhaps it was always easier to learn from your mistakes in another place, she thought as she began to polish Céline’s rosewood dining table. Perhaps that was why Carol had fled to Ireland after hers.
Imogen hadn’t suspected that there had been a change in her mother’s relationship with Denis Delissandes after his accident. Neither had Lucie, at least until the following Easter, when the entire family returned for the holiday. Denis had visited twice since his ill-fated skiing trip. He was supposed to be sailing on both occasions, but he spent more time in Carol’s bedroom than on board the Lobster Bisque, and although Carol’s feelings of guilt grew greater with every minute, she was wildly in love with him and her emotions blinded her judgement. She knew it was hopeless and she knew it was reckless, but she couldn’t help herself.
It was Imogen who gave her away, innocently remarking one day that Lucie might be able to fix Carol’s feet for her with one of her special lotions, because Denis hadn’t had much luck so far. Lucie had asked her what she was talking about and Imogen said that Denis had spent a lot of time rubbing them on his last visit, but that as he had to keep doing it, his rubbing clearly wasn’t working.
Lucie told Imogen that she would indeed try to help Carol, and then suggested that she go out to play while she talked to her mother. Imogen ignored the raised voices in the kitchen, but what she couldn’t ignore was Carol coming into the garden half an hour later and telling Imogen to get her things as they were leaving.
‘Will we be back in time for me to play football with Oliver?’ asked Imogen as she scrambled to her feet.
‘No,’ said Carol. ‘We won’t be back at all.’
Imogen stared at her. ‘But … but we’re supposed to be camping in the garden tonight,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Carol.
‘Where are we going? We can’t just leave. What about Madame? What about Monsieur? What about—’
‘Please be quiet, Imogen,’ said Carol. ‘We’re leaving and that’s that.’
‘But we can’t go without … What about school? I have to find out if I got a star for my project. And we’re doing a—’
‘Enough, Imogen.’ Carol held up her hand. ‘We need to get organised.’
The next few hours were a blur. All Imogen knew was that bags were packed and suddenly she and her mother were on a bus to Biarritz without her having had the chance to say goodbye to anyone. She was distraught.
‘Oliver and Charles will think I don’t like them any more,’ she wailed. ‘They’ll say I was afraid of camping outside. They’ll call me a scaredy-cat. It’s not fair. You said that Villa Martine was our home. You said it was where we lived.’
‘I was wrong.’
‘I hate you,’ said Imogen.
‘I’m not that fond of myself right now,’ Carol said. ‘But you have to remember that the Villa Martine is Madame and Monsieur’s home, not ours.’
‘Even if it isn’t our home, why do we have to leave?’ Imogen rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Madame said we were her family. We can’t just go away.’
‘Yes we can,’ said Carol. ‘I’m sorry, Imogen. It’s because I made a mistake.’
‘What sort of mistake?’
‘A big one.’
‘Did you burn Madame’s dress when you were ironing?’
‘No.’
‘Did you forget to take the washing out of the machine?’
‘No.’
‘Did you break Madame’s favourite blue bowl?’
‘No.’
Imogen searched her mind for other mistakes her mother might have made, but she couldn’t think of any.
‘You always say that everyone makes mistakes.
And that we forgive each other.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘So won’t Madame forgive you?’
‘Not this time.’
‘How can we go back if they don’t forgive you?’
‘We’re not going back,’ said Carol. ‘Not ever.’
Imogen burst into tears again, while Carol leaned her head against the bus window and stared blankly at the countryside.
Staying in a hotel for the first time as a guest didn’t cheer Imogen up. Nor did the novelty of the flight to Dublin. She was still upset and cranky when she and Carol arrived at Agnes’s house. Agnes and Berthe had returned to Ireland from New York six months previously, and now they wrapped their arms around the pair of them.
‘Thank you for looking after me,’ said Carol as Agnes kissed her on the cheek. ‘For taking me in. Again. I can’t believe how badly I’ve messed everything up.’
‘It was foolish,’ said Berthe. ‘But everyone does foolish things. And I bet it wasn’t his first indiscretion.’
‘Probably not,’ admitted Carol. ‘I should have known better.’
‘What’s an indiscretion?’ asked Imogen.
‘It’s a kind of mistake,’ said Berthe. ‘Doing something you shouldn’t.’
‘Mum said she made a big mistake and that was why we left,’ said Imogen. ‘But …’ she looked at Berthe, a puzzled expression on her face, ‘someone else must have had an indiscretion too. Because you said “his indiscretion”. And Mum is “her”.’
Carol and Berthe exchanged looks.
‘It’s not fair if Mum is taking the blame for someone else’s mistake.’ Imogen spoke rapidly. ‘It’s like when I put the ants in Oliver’s bed. I had to admit to it in the end because Charles was getting the blame and Madame would have punished him instead of me. So maybe if whoever did the indiscretion admits to it—’
‘Imogen, I was the one who made the mistake,’ said Carol. ‘Nobody else. I’m to blame. So let’s have no more talk about this.’
‘But Berthe said—’
‘Stop it for now, Imogen.’ Agnes intervened. ‘Go on upstairs. Your room is the first door on the right.’
Imogen stomped up the stairs. Carol, after a helpless look at Agnes and Berthe, followed her.
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