‘Shall we go?’
We went into the hallway and he told her someone would be back so not to leave the building. She took it well; very well, in fact, for someone who had so much to hide. I think both of us expected my daughter to come out and start crying.
There were other officers in the corridor when we left: stormtrooper ones in blue uniforms and the rank and file. The sober officer joined them. Sherlock came into the flat with me. He seemed less officious on his own. Maybe he realised what a strain this was for me. He checked all the rooms as a matter of course, but didn’t look under the bed or in my cupboards. Perhaps he already sensed there was nothing there.
‘How well do you know her?’
‘Who?’
‘The woman next door.’
‘We get on.’
‘Well?’
‘I think so.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Not really. Everyone pretty much keeps themselves to themselves.’
‘Not like the old days, eh?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘You could be living next door to a serial killer and you’d never know.’
I paused. ‘Something like that.’
‘Well, we’ve got a few leads. Not much.’
‘Right.’
‘Everyone has skeletons in their closet. The trick is not to get distracted by them.’
I sat down and waited for him to go on.
‘We’d like to hold a press conference with you and your ex-wife as soon as possible.’
‘Right.’
‘Are you okay with that?’
‘If it helps.’
‘It will. We need as much help as we can get. When things are in the papers, when they’re out in the open, people tend to feel rushed and make mistakes. If someone out there knows something, if the kidnapper is watching, I want them to know we’re after them. I want them to make that mistake.’
‘What if it’s too late?’
He sat down next to me.
‘There’s always that chance. But I don’t think we are.’
I couldn’t help liking Sherlock. I looked up to him the way I did at school with the older boys and prefects. There was something admirable and heroic about them. It wasn’t worship or schoolboy crushes; it wasn’t wanting to be them; it was wanting to be around them so that some of their sheen would rub off on me. I suppose it was the same with my little girl. Maybe I’ve always needed someone else to keep me going and never realised.
I took him to the door. He asked me to keep my phone by me; he was going to get back about the conference. I went down to the lobby with him. We passed the fat Greek on the corridor and others I’d never seen in the lift. They were all being quizzed by the police. They looked at me like it was my fault. Their lives were being turned upside down by my selfishness. But it wasn’t till a few days later that I realised how selfish. That’s when the arrests began.
19
You’d think being so close to things, I’d have known what was going on; but I was just as much in the dark as someone reading a newspaper or gossiping about it in the pub. Sure, Sherlock kept me informed, and I kept my phone by me just like he said, but it wasn’t as if I knew what was going on in his head, or what the police were doing. When I did, it was always post the event. I saw them tear apart the building and take people away and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it.
The thing that did get to me was seeing my ex-wife tear herself apart. When I saw her again, there was no summer dress and red belt, just a baggy coat and jeans. She hadn’t put any makeup on. She used to be able to get away with that, but not today. She looked, well, middle-aged. I used to be proud of the fact she looked so young and kept herself in trim - you see so many women these days who look just like men - but now I felt guilty. I knew she’d seen the hobbit a few more times; now, she said she wanted to come over and talk to me - we should be together at a time like this. I said it was impossible; the place was a mess. She got hysterical and said so was she, so I told her I’d see her in the city centre gardens. Rashelle didn’t like me leaving and neither did I, but the alternative was having her over with her daughter next door.
She sat on the park bench a little away from me. We could have been lovers on a secret rendezvous, if there’d been anything left. The gardens were full of sweaty office workers lying on the grass and students playing in the fountains. I imagined my daughter playing in them like she used to, running through the jets of water and screaming when she got caught by the spray. But there was just the echo of her running through my head.
‘Have they any news?’
I shook my head. ‘Just this press conference.’
‘I won’t be able to say anything. You’ll have to do the talking.’
‘I think they’ll ask us to read something.’
‘I can’t. I can’t do anything.’
A kid on a skateboard whizzed past, attempted a flip, and landed on his back. At certain points in my life, I would have delighted in this humiliating comeuppance. If he’d cracked his head open and broken his teeth, it would have been some expiation for the thousand times kids like him had banged into and frightened the life out of me. He wasn’t one of nature’s blessed. He was ugly with blue hair and baggy trousers, perhaps thirteen or fourteen. When I was his age, I was reading books; I didn’t dare to disturb the universe. I’ve seen his type in crowds, wearing the apparel of the counter culture, voicing their disaffection with society, and thought them quite pathetic. Rebellion wasn’t about the clothes you wore; it was what you said and did. I wish I’d had the nerve.
‘Why did you let her go? Why didn’t you watch her more carefully? She’d be here now.’
It was bound to come out sometime. To be fair, had the positions been reversed, I would have brought it up sooner; I would have blamed everything on her.
‘Don’t you think I know that? It’s all my fault.’
She looked at me and the stress lines on her face gave way to ones of grief. She put her head in her hands and cried. The skateboarder looked up. He felt more of her pain than I felt for his. Maybe he was an emo. I watched as she got a handkerchief from her bag and wiped her eyes.
‘I’m sorry. It could have been either of us. I just want her back.’
‘So do I.’
We stared at the fountains not saying anything, and I thought of our little girl staring out of the playroom with Rashelle, wondering where we were. I think I had a chance to tell my wife right then. I remember working my way up to it, playing the conversation out in my head, wondering if I’d ever be brave enough and whether she’d ever forgive me; but it’s a truism to say that the longer you leave something, the harder it is to undo. I watched other skateboarders, girls in t-shirts and hotpants, mothers with their babies pass by - there were a thousand distractions - and said nothing.
‘Do you think the press conference will do anything?’
‘They seem to think so.’
‘The prospect of seeing all those people…’
‘I know.’
‘You should be used to it.’
‘Should be.’
‘It’s already got out.’
I stared at her, not understanding. She showed me the newspaper she was carrying. It was yesterday’s Evening News. I never read the papers. I think I know it all. Besides, I haven’t got the time. I see the headlines on TV or on the big screen at Tesco. Nothing really changes, not the big things; there’s always war and disaster and floods and downturns and upturns, and Muslims fighting Jews. That stuff has got really boring. I know it means a lot to those involved but I’ve got too exposed to it. It’s the local stories that stick out to me: a girl knifed on my doorstep, gangs roaming the streets, stories of neglect and abuse in my own backyard.
‘What am I looking at?’
She pointed to a small article written by a staff reporter: ‘Girl Goes Missing from Tower Block’. It looked innocuous enough till I came across the names and realised who the girl was. People w
ere reading about us.
‘I suppose it was inevitable.’
‘You don’t care?’
‘Not if it helps.’
‘I don’t want people to know.’
Her voice was on the edge of tears again.
‘Crying is not going to bring her back. We’ve both done enough of that.’
‘What else is there to do?’
‘I don’t know. What has your counsellor said?’
‘She just talks.’
‘Maybe we should pray?’
She looked at me like I was joking, which I usually am when it comes to religion.
‘I mean properly.’
‘You don’t believe in God.’
‘I will if he brings her back.’
‘What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you talking like this?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. I haven’t slept.’
I sat next to her and did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I expected her to pull away, but she didn’t. She leaned her head on me. I wondered what Handshaker would have to say about it, or Rashelle for that matter.
‘Come on.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
There is a small church tucked away in the heart of the city that no one knows about except me and the handful of parishioners who attend Midnight Mass there, and the tramps who seek shelter from the rain. The priest is a sober man, which is somewhat of a rarity these days, and has never minded when I pop in and sit on the back row and wonder where it all went wrong. My wife is right; I don’t believe, but I enjoy trying to make those that do think again. For a non-believer I am spectacularly interested in religion. That makes me ripe for conversion, apparently; maybe that’s why the priest spent so much time talking to me.
‘You never told me you went to church.’
‘You never asked.’
‘I’m not a Catholic.’
‘I’m not anything.’
We stood on the small stone steps outside. There was a figurine of Mary at the side, holding the baby.
‘Are we allowed in?’
‘I don’t think God’s going to pass judgement on our respective denominations. I think he’ll be pleased with the company.’
‘Do you have to be so cynical about everything?’
‘Actually, I’m not. I want to believe.’
I opened the door and the hallowed cold came out to greet us. There’s always a chill when I enter a church. I don’t know if it’s because of the stone, or it’s the air conditioning, or something I’m bringing in - maybe it’s the presence of God? - but it affects me every time. It’s one of the few places I bring my coat to wear inside.
Our feet echoed softly on the grey, stone floor. We took some seats on the back row and stared at the apse. Jesus was hanging on the cross behind the altar. It’s hard not to be affected by something like that. He looks so pathetic and in such pain.
My wife bent her head; she knew what was expected of her. She was always the one who did things properly and had the deep sense of propriety; I was always the one who let her down. Sometimes, I think I did it deliberately.
A strange thing happened as we sat there. I became aware of myself. I wouldn’t say I prayed exactly; it was more a thought, but maybe that’s what prayer is. I thought about my little girl and how I wanted her to be okay, and how I didn’t want my ex-wife to suffer, or any of us come to any harm. I thought about the bad things I’d done and the good things and whether any of it mattered.
After a few minutes, I think my eyes closed, for the next thing I remember was my wife holding my arm. I looked up and the priest was beside us.
‘Are you okay?’
You hear that expression so much it completely loses its value; but when he said it, I could have cried: No, we’re not okay, father. Both of us need your help. But my stinking pride got in the way.
‘We’re fine, thank you.’
He looked at my wife. I could sense her wavering. She would have talked if I had. She shook her head. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if she had. It may have stopped the rest. Hindsight is a horrible thing. We left the church together and walked down the stone steps, just like we had when we got married. There were no wedding bells this time, just the dolorous knelling to a close. So much for prayers.
‘Where are you going?’
She looked at Mary holding the baby. ‘I don’t know.’
She set off down the cobbles and didn’t look back. The belt of her baggy coat hung loosely at either side. It had turned in the middle and looked like a rope. She would never have let that happen before. For a second I felt like going after her, the way they do in films, to try and say something meaningful to make her feel better. I think it was my last chance to tell her but I never did. That’s not a good thing to know.
Instead, I made my way back to the gardens. The skateboarder and the rows of office workers had gone. Mothers with their babies took their seats in the pews and watched the fountains. I was on my own. I looked up at the Sears building - you could see part of it from the gardens - and wondered if she was feeling the same way and if she would ever forgive me.
20
The fat Greek next door seemed like an amiable guy to me. Sure, he had funny manners and his hygiene was certainly Mediterranean, but there didn’t seem anything unduly creepy or criminal about him. There are people I’ve met who might as well have those words tattooed on their forehead. I am talking about scallies and smackheads and drunks and people who look like paedophiles. Yeah, I know you’re going to say, well, you can’t tell about people, but most of the time you can. It’s why I cross the road to avoid them. Am I the only one who does that?
Occasionally, I heard him play his music and, more occasionally, heard him and his friends watch the football, and pump their arms on my wall whenever Greece or whoever scored. Though I am not given to that kind of passion, I can understand it. I have seen it in my daughter. I suppose it’s about being or feeling young. I might have been that way once, though my mother always told me I was a serious child. She made me that way, I’m pretty sure. She didn’t mean to; it was because of my dad. She was good enough to keep the problems to herself, and never got the children involved - it’s what people of that generation did - but it affected her. I realise that makes me sound old. Just to know people like that makes you sound old.
When I got to back to the flat, there were some officers in the lobby. I’d got used to that kind of activity and didn’t really think about it, but when I saw the fat Greek being escorted by two of them, I stopped. He shot me a look and it was not of anger, nor of guilt - how could it be? - but of imploration. I’m innocent. It wasn’t me. Sherlock was there and held my arm back. Was he expecting me to take a run at him? Was I the kind of man who looked like I would take an eye for an eye?
I watched as he was bundled into an unmarked car. He went without a struggle. I don’t think I would have been as composed. I would have screamed.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Just routine.’
‘Does he know something?’
‘It’s just routine.’
‘Does he know where she is?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘What am I meant to do now?’
‘Just sit tight. We’ll be in touch.’
I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, nor overdo my concern. Everything in moderation. He looked at me like he knew what I was thinking, which was worrying. But I suppose, if he really had done, he’d have arrested me, and not the fat Greek.
When I got to the seventh floor, I went straight to Rashelle’s. I made sure no one was about, then gave the coded knock. After the last visit, we decided it was better to have one. We’d already agreed not to use our phones, not that we ever did much; it wasn’t that kind of relationship. With what they can do nowadays, it would have been too dangerous.
I heard a door open and close, then the patter of feet. It opened a fraction. So
mething was wrong.
‘What’s up?’
‘They came back.’
‘Who?’
‘The police. After you’d gone.’
My brain was working overtime. ‘Did you let them in?’
‘Are you crazy? I stayed with her in the playroom. She kept saying Daddy was at the door and wanting to go and see you. She got frantic. I kept telling her you had a secret knock and it wasn’t you. I had to restrain her.’
‘Did they hear you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How do you know it was them if you didn’t answer?’
‘Who else could it have been?’
I’d never seen her this agitated. It’s like the cap had come off and the fear had been let out.
‘How is she?’
She took me to the playroom and opened the door. My little girl was lying on the bed, crying. I nearly died.
‘Darling?’
She turned round a little but couldn’t rouse herself. I don’t know who was more devastated.
‘Darling, what’s happened?’
I sat on the bed and held her in my arms.
She flashed a look at Rashelle. ‘Auntie hit me.’
I turned. Hit can mean a lot of things to a child. I’ve seen kids leathered and beaten and those who were given a tap on the bottom and they’ve all described it as a hit. There are violent hits and disciplinary hits and taps on the backside. It’s all about context.
‘I thought you said restrain?’
‘I did what I had to to keep her quiet. I’m sorry.’
She was crying, too. Children get over being smacked. It’s part of the territory, like bullying at school and domestic violence. None of it’s nice, but neither is being called names and being teased. When my wife smacked her, I know it was probably deserved and didn’t say too much - I know she must have been driven to it and that she couldn’t help herself - but I always think there was another way. Now I know that’s a bit rich coming from me, considering how I feel about other people’s kids and how they all need a good crack, but my daughter is not like that, really. She’s soft.
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