Little Black Lies

by Sharon Bolton

  DAY FIVE

  Friday, 4 November

  17

  I’m running up the hill. People are staring. They think I know something. I’m being stupid, drawing attention to myself like this, but I have to keep moving or I’ll start thinking. The police station is out. If I could catch Skye on her own, I’d probably get the basic facts out of her, but not in front of her colleagues.

  Peter Grimwood. I’ve seen him a couple of times this week. Him and his mother. Couple of days ago he nearly scared me to death with a toy gun. Funny kid. Bit quiet and clingy, I’d thought.

  Rachel’s kid, missing? This can’t be good. On any level.

  I bang on the door of the news office and open it a second later. I know they’re all still here, I could see them through the window as I ran past. Cathy is leaning against her desk. Mabel, in a pink velour tracksuit, is hovering in the kitchen doorway and Rob stands in the middle of the room. They all three stare at me. A phone is ringing. Everyone ignores it.

  ‘Rob, mate. What can I do?’

  Rob lifts one hand to push imaginary hair out of his eyes. ‘Go home. Check your shed, your peat shed, your garage, under your bushes. Anywhere a small boy could be hiding out. Then be back here at first light to join the search. It’s all anyone can do.’

  At that moment, he looks every one of his seventy-plus years.

  ‘You can take Rob home,’ says Cathy. ‘Or better still, up to Rachel’s. She shouldn’t be on her own.’

  ‘Where’s Sander?’ Sander is Rachel’s husband. He works in the Secretariat.

  ‘Away,’ Rob tells me. ‘Flying back tomorrow. And she isn’t on her own. Jan’s with her.’

  A look between Mabel and Cathy tells me they don’t think much of Jan’s ability to take care of her daughter in a crisis. I barely know Rachel’s mother, but I’ve heard she has a keen sense of drama.

  ‘Jan can’t cope with Rachel and both boys,’ says Mabel. ‘And it’s not as though we’re actually answering the phones here.’

  On cue, another starts ringing. Rob’s hand reaches out and his mother stops him with a yip. She crosses to a line of hooks and pulls a coat down.

  ‘You’re not a newsman right now, Robert, you are the news, and you of all people know the mess you’ll get yourself into if you start talking to people who can quote you. Come on.’ She shoves the coat at him. ‘Callum’s going to drive you home. Cathy will take me. The last one turned up safe and sound and Peter will too.’

  * * *

  ‘I drove past Rachel’s house earlier,’ I say as we head out of town. ‘What time was Peter missed?’

  ‘Shortly after four. When everyone was watching the eclipse.’ Suddenly, Rob won’t look at me. ‘Cathy had just dropped the older two home from school. Rachel called the police at half past four after she and the boys had searched the house and garden.’

  The email with Catrin’s photograph came through shortly before three in the afternoon. I arrived in Stanley roughly an hour later. It must have been about four when I followed Catrin’s car up the hill.

  ‘What time were you there?’ he is asking me. ‘Did you see anything of him?’

  ‘Earlier,’ I lie. ‘I didn’t see anything of Peter,’ I add, grateful to tell him something that’s true.

  I head up the same hill that I followed Catrin up just hours earlier. How far in front was she? A couple of minutes? Ten? Easily enough time to reach the driveway of the Greenwood house, as I’m doing now, turn in the soft mud surrounding it and then bomb it back down the hill. I try to remember whether I made it up this far and can’t. So much of this afternoon has been lost to the flashback. But this is the easiest place to turn round, so chances are I did.

  I shunt backwards and forwards and wonder if I’m deliberately trying to hide previously made tyre tracks. And, if I am, what the hell I think I’m playing at. Rob jumps out as soon as I pull the brake on. He disappears into the house before I have time to wish him goodnight, leaving me no choice but to follow.

  As I make my way inside, I’m thankful for one thing, at least. Rob has just reminded me about yesterday’s eclipse. I knew about it – we all did – I’d just forgotten, given everything else going on. Still, good to know the freaky unscheduled darkness was a natural phenomenon, not a sign of approaching lunacy on my part.

  In daylight, this is one of the nicer houses in Stanley, standing high above Surf Bay, in a large, sloping garden. The kitchen smells of instant coffee, oxtail soup and burned toast. Feeling awkward about being inside uninvited, but even more uncomfortable about bailing, I find Rob in the sitting room where his wife, Jan, is huddled under a blanket with Christopher, Rachel’s eldest.

  ‘Is there news?’ She sees me and her eyes widen.

  ‘Callum drove past here earlier in the day.’ Rob turns back to me. ‘Have you told Bob Stopford?’

  ‘What time was it? Were you alone?’

  ‘Some time before four,’ I tell Jan. ‘Alone. I didn’t see anything of Peter. And I haven’t told Stopford yet. Hi, Chris. How’s your mum doing?’

  A few months ago, I gave a talk to the older kids at Chris’s school about the future of information technology and how, one day, household computers will change our lives and the world. Chris had been one of the brightest, the most interested.

  His face grows paler. ‘I think she’ll be better when Dad gets home.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed?’ his granddad asks him.

  ‘I can’t sleep. Michael’s in my bed and he sticks his elbows in me.’

  I look at my watch. Not far off four in the morning, making it nearly twelve hours that Peter has been missing. Jan tucks the blanket up higher around her shoulders.

  ‘Why don’t I light a fire?’ I look at the peat burner. It’s been swept and cleaned, there are firelighters and kindling in a basket to one side. It’s ready to go and will give me something to do. ‘Do you know where the matches are, Chris?’

  I follow Chris into the kitchen. He’s going to be tall. His dad, Sander, is. So is Rachel, for a woman. Chris was always a couple of inches taller than Ned.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Peter?’ I ask, when we’re out of earshot of the grown-ups.

  ‘He was in his cot when I got home from school. His nappy was wet. I changed him.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Michael was calling for me. We were going to go down to the beach to watch the eclipse.’

  His eyes drift from mine. He thinks he’s in trouble. He ran outside, faster than his toddler brother could follow, and now he’s blaming himself. I pull out a chair and sit on it, so I’m on a level with the kid.

  ‘Where was your mum?’

  ‘Lying down. In her bedroom. That’s where she usually is when we get home.’

  ‘He’s tired, Callum. He needs to be in bed.’ Rob has followed me in from the living room.

  ‘You found the other little boy, didn’t you?’ Chris says to me. ‘Are you going to look for Peter?’

  ‘Of course, we all are. Did you bring Peter downstairs?’

  ‘I carried him,’ Chris tells me. ‘Then I put him down. He’s quite heavy.’

  ‘He’s a monster,’ chips in Rob. ‘I can barely lift him myself.’

  ‘What happened then, mate?’

  ‘I ran down to join Michael. We have a den on the beach. We were playing there. We stayed until we heard Mum shouting for us. That’s when we knew Peter was missing.’

  ‘Rachel phoned the police at four thirty,’ says Rob.

  Chris is looking at me. ‘Will they light fires for Peter? Like they did for that other little boy?’

  I stand up. ‘It’s a bit wet for fires tonight. But that other little boy is safe and sound now. You need to remember that.’

  Chris stays where he is. ‘Jimmy wasn’t safe, though, was he?’

  Rob and I make eye contact. Neither of us has anything to say to that.

  ‘The police searched the wreck in the bay yesterday.’ Chris is looking defiant now. H
e knows this isn’t something we want to hear. ‘They were looking for that other little boy. The one from West Falkland. That makes four now.’

  ‘Bed,’ says Rob, for want of anything else.

  ‘Will you take me?’ Chris asks me.

  ‘I’ll take you up, Chris.’ His grandmother has been hovering in the doorway, watching us.

  ‘I want Callum.’ Exhausted though he is, Chris is determined to get his way.

  After Rob nods his permission and Jan gives an exasperated shrug, I pull off my shoes and follow Chris upstairs, not without a few misgivings. I have no experience of young kids.

  On the upper floor, I can see four open doors, one closed. Behind the closed one, I imagine, is Rachel. Chris pauses on the threshold of one door before walking past. As I follow him, I see a small form huddled in a single bed. The next room along is Peter’s. I lean in and switch on the light.

  Surely this should be sealed off? A crime scene? Resolving to touch nothing, I lean over the cot and catch the faint whiff of piss. Hard to tell in this light but I think I can see a stain where Peter’s nappy leaked earlier. There is a changing mat on the floor, an opened pack of nappies at its head. There are three left in it. A dirty one is in the corner of the room.

  I find Chris in the next room along. ‘This is Michael’s room,’ he tells me, explaining the posters and toys that seem too young for a near teenager. ‘You’re going to look for Peter, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Everyone is.’

  ‘Where will you look?’

  ‘I guess we’ll start close to home. If he’s wandered away by himself, he won’t have gone far.’

  ‘We checked the garden. Michael and I looked everywhere. We went down to the beach too. And the old boathouse down there. He isn’t anywhere near the house.’

  ‘Chris, if you remember anything, anything at all, you have to tell the police. Or me, if you prefer. Do you promise me?’

  He nods and snuggles down. ‘Will Mum be OK?’ he asks, as I leave the room. I can’t remember what I tell him, only that I look back at Rachel’s door and hope that her non-appearance means she’s asleep, that she’s having a few hours’ break from all this.

  As I approach the living room, I hear voices that I know are not meant for me.

  ‘… of all people should be here!’

  I push open the door. I still don’t have shoes on and I can move quietly for a big bloke. Both Rob and Jan turn, surprise on their faces and something else too. Something I don’t think is worry about their grandson. Rob has been making half-hearted attempts to light the fire. Ignoring the atmosphere, I edge him out of the way and have it going in a few seconds.

  I’ve been in this house before, but years ago. I remember good-quality furniture and decent paintings on the walls. During the evenings, candles glowed softly, the air was scented. There were always flowers. Kids’ clutter was never far away but not more than the odd toy lying around. Tonight, the room looks as though no one’s bothered to tidy it up in weeks and the whole house has a stale smell to it. This is more than a few hours’ neglect by a terrified mother.

  ‘How’s Rachel doing?’

  Jan and Rob exchange a look.

  ‘In shock, we think,’ says Rob. ‘Shaking. Can barely talk. Trying to hold it together for the older boys but—’

  ‘Sander knows, I take it?’

  ‘I spoke to him,’ says Rob. ‘Not the easiest conversation to have over a long-distance line but he had to know.’

  ‘What time, exactly, did you drive by this afternoon?’ Jan doesn’t wait for me to reply. ‘We know you left the newsroom shortly before four, you couldn’t have been here much earlier. Were you with Catrin Quinn?’

  I know nothing about Peter’s disappearance, and yet suddenly I’m feeling guilty as hell. Jan has backed towards the kitchen door and I realize she’s edging nearer to the phone.

  ‘What’s Catrin got to do with this?’ I get to my feet.

  ‘Rachel saw her here this afternoon.’ Rob can’t look at me any more. ‘Seconds before Peter went missing. Just as it all went dark. She saw Catrin pick him up. By the time she ran outside, they’d both gone.’

  ‘The police are looking for her. They’ll find her. And if she’s hurt my grandson…’

  Rob puts a hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘We’re all upset, Callum. Maybe it’s better if…’

  I don’t need telling twice. I find my shoes, pull them on and step outside.

  ‘Obviously we all hope there’s been some misunderstanding.’ Rob has followed me out.

  ‘There’s no misunderstanding, Rob. Rachel saw her.’ Jan comes up to me, catches hold of my arm. ‘It’s twenty-four hours since she apparently found the other boy. He was on her land, on her property. And all those whales she killed. Not to mention the dead child on the wreck. Nobody believes that was coincidence. She’s not well, Callum. You have to help us find her, before she does something terrible.’

  * * *

  With one thought in my head, I drive to the harbour. Catrin’s car is here and her boat still missing. So I head up to the hills above Port Fitzroy. The darkness in the sky is beginning to soften. I drive on and leave the road, heading for the cliff. In the light, I can get right to the edge. In the semi-darkness it seems risky, but I need to know if her boat is down in the bay.

  I drive as far as I dare, then get out.

  I’m so cold that even walking forward is painful, but the rug from the car helps a bit. I carry on and the light grows.

  So close to the edge, the wind is a demon. It tugs at the rug, determined to claim it for its own. Below me, surrounded by rocks that look like teeth, among clouds that swirl and a sea that strikes hard, is Catrin’s boat.

  There is no life, no movement on board, and I have no way of getting in touch. If I call her on the radio, the whole world will hear. If I go down to the harbour, try to commandeer a boat and get out to her, I’ll be stopped or followed.

  A flicker of white against the steel grey of the water catches my eye. A large white bird is flying low, barely skimming the surface of the sea. As it nears Catrin’s boat, it gains height. I can make out massive, black-tipped wings and a hooked beak. It hovers above the boat and I’d give a lot right now to be able to see what it can.

  What’s going on down there, Catrin? What the hell are you doing on that boat?

  I think about climbing down, swimming out, and know I wouldn’t make it.

  I tell myself that Catrin would not hurt a child. That she drove past the Grimwood house yesterday and saw Peter, maybe playing in the garden, maybe watching at the fence. She saw him and it hit her hard, because her own son – my son – would have been almost exactly the same age. It hit her hard and she needed time alone. She went to where she always goes when she needs to get her head together, out to sea.

  If she saw Peter, why didn’t I see him?

  The wind pushes me back, as though afraid of what might happen if I get too close to the edge. There is another vessel, steaming around the headland, approaching Catrin’s boat at speed. A police boat. They’ve found her.

  Catrin and I drove past the Grimwood house at roughly four in the afternoon. By ten minutes past four Rachel had missed her youngest son, was already searching. Fewer than a dozen cars a day drive along that road. That there should be three, in less than ten minutes?

  And Rachel claims she saw Catrin pick the kid up.

  Catrin has suffered more than anybody I know. I’ve seen suffering and I still say it unreservedly. She’s been damaged beyond recognition, probably beyond repair, but she still wouldn’t hurt a child.

  I have to go on believing that. Or I might as well step off this cliff now.

  The police vessel slows as it approaches Catrin’s boat. I see Queenie run on deck to greet them. Then she appears. She’s moving slowly, looks half asleep. Catrin, who is normally so quick, so agile on a boat, seems drugged. She catches a rope thrown to her and makes it off. I watch a police officer board her boat, then another. A t
hird. With Queenie in her arms, Catrin is helped to make the crossing on to the police boat. She’s taken below, her head guided down to prevent it banging on the cabin roof. There are no cuffs that I can see, but it’s pretty clear what’s going on. Catrin is under arrest.

  18

  Way before I get back into Stanley three hours later I’m praying for more rain. A bloody great downpour, a thunderstorm, a frigging hurricane would do. Anything to get this lot off the streets. People are everywhere. Bob-Cat’s Diner is full. The pub has opened early. There’s a crowd outside the post office. People are drifting in and out of the town hall. Two days ago, when we looked for Archie West, there was a sense of purpose that you could almost touch. Everyone was determined to get out and find the lad. It’s all very different now and this isn’t compassion fatigue. A lot of these faces I don’t recognize and feel sure they must be off the cruise ship, drawn ashore by the sense of a drama unfolding.

  They’ll all know about Catrin’s arrest. If they think she did it, they’ll be waiting for the police to force a confession, for her to tell them where Peter is. No one will be looking for him.

  It’s nearly eight o’clock in the morning. Resisting the temptation to speed back into town after watching Catrin being taken into custody, I’d driven home instead, taken a shower, put on dry clothes, eaten. I’d forced myself to be calm, knowing that Catrin, like any other arrested prisoner, would have to be processed. She’d be booked into the system, have fingerprints taken and be photographed. She’d be offered a solicitor and, if she accepted – I hope to God she did – there could have been a couple of hours’ delay before one was found and woken. The first interview could have taken an hour and by then they’d have to break.

  That crap should all be over with by now and the initial excitement, at the station at least, will be starting to die down. They’ll have time to talk to me.

  Heads turn my way as I park. Already, I’m tainted by my association with the woman they know has fallen under police suspicion. God help me, there is a TV crew, here to cover the beached whale story, only to be met with a completely unexpected bonanza. One guy holds a camera on one shoulder, the other has one of those big furry microphones that hover out of shot. A woman in an apricot-coloured coat has hair that looks solid. A warm shade of blonde, it curves around her head. The wind blows her scarf across her face. Her hair doesn’t move. Someone tips them off and as I climb out of the car, they’re heading over.