by Alex Lake
And she could only deny part of it. I wasn’t having an affair and I wasn’t planning to leave Anna, but I did want a divorce and I did fail to pick her up on time.
Hardly a convincing denial. And even if somehow she managed to prove it then the stain would remain. Shit sticks, as Edna had said, and she was right.
Although there was perhaps a way. The politician’s way. Deny everything. But for that she needed help. She took a deep breath.
‘I want you to say that I wasn’t planning to leave Anna and that I wasn’t having an affair.’ She paused. ‘And that I didn’t want a divorce.’
‘But you do,’ Brian said. ‘You want a newer, more exciting existence. You told me so. I’m boring. Of no interest. And as for the other allegations – perhaps your new existence excluded Anna and included a boyfriend. I can’t say it didn’t.’
‘Please. Tell them that I wasn’t planning to leave you. The stories say that I’d told you a week or so ago. You could deny it.’
‘I could,’ he said. ‘But firstly, that would be a lie, and secondly, it would look a bit odd when you buggered off in a few weeks or months or whenever you plan to finally leave me in peace.’ He rolled over to face the window. ‘You’re on your own in this one, Julia. You brought it on yourself.’
There was a quiet glee in his voice that infuriated her. He may not have told the press, but she could tell that he was glad they knew, and he was enjoying the power of being able to deny her something.
She did the only thing she could think of. She slammed the door when she left. The bang was like a rifle shot. She imagined Brian jumping in his bed, startled.
It was little consolation.
7
The Fifth Day
i.
So she was having an affair. You didn’t know but it doesn’t surprise you. She’s the type, after all. Shows up late for her daughter, doesn’t tell anyone. Irresponsible and selfish, the kind who puts herself first, who struggles to see beyond her own needs. Why wouldn’t she be having an affair? Someone like that would find it easy enough to justify.
I was unhappy in my marriage.
I just wanted to. I can’t help my emotions.
I was unfulfilled. Life should be more than this.
What happened to sticking things out, to putting your own needs after those of the family? Or of society? Of sacrifice? And duty? You often wondered what would happen if the country had to go to war again. We’d lose. People would be too concerned with their own preservation to risk fighting. They’d look for someone else to do it for them. We’d all save ourselves, and in doing so we’d doom the country.
That was the trouble now. People felt sad, so they got a pill. Work was hard, so people resigned. Marriages went through rocky patches and people got divorced. It was selfishness, pure and simple. And it was all justified by emotions. I’m unhappy. I’m stressed. I need to feel loved. Just having the emotion was enough justification for whatever people did.
And it was useless. Didn’t people see that unhappiness came from within? A person could change jobs, but if they were an unhappy type then they would take their unhappiness with them. People needed to learn to bear things. To be resilient.
Well, she would learn, the mother. She would learn what it meant to be unhappy. When this was over she’d be wishing to be stuck in a loveless marriage. She’d see how bad things could truly be and she’d realize what she had.
More precisely, what she’d lost.
For you had the girl. Sleeping, beautiful, pristine. Unharmed, still.
And the time was coming.
ii.
SEARCH FOR ANNA’S GRANDFATHER
In a further twist to the tragic and thoroughly modern saga of Anna Crowne, it emerged yesterday that the police have been seeking her grandfather, James Crowne, who disappeared over fifteen years ago.
Mr Crowne, now 67, was headmaster at the prestigious Tulcester Grammar School, before leaving his post abruptly during the summer holidays in 1999. Tulcester Grammar refused to comment.
DI Wynne of Cheshire Police, who is leading the investigation, appealed to Mr Crowne to come forward. ‘We think he may be able to provide information of use to the investigation,’ she said, ‘and we are interested in talking to him as soon as possible. We would ask him to contact the police as soon as he can, and, if anyone knows of his whereabouts, we would like to hear from them as well.’
The investigation continues.
There were five journalists outside now. Julia sat at the bedroom window, watching them. One sat in his car, head bent over a smartphone. The other four stood in a huddle, talking and laughing. As she sat there a dark blue Ford Focus pulled up and the Daily World reporter climbed out. He was holding a newspaper – Julia recognized the red top heading of his employer – and he brandished it, waving it above his head like a trophy.
The others crowded around him, peering at the paper. One of them, a fat man in jogging pants and a grey exercise shirt with sweat stains under the armpits, slapped his forehead in a gesture of mock failure.
Julia reached for her laptop and went to the homepage of the Daily World.
There it was. The title said it all.
DO OUR CHILDREN NOT DESERVE BETTER?
Recent events in Britain beg a question: do our children not deserve better? Babies die under the noses of social workers, twelve-year-olds are admitted to A&E with alcohol poisoning, and toddlers vanish from the school gates, their parents apparently incapable of making adequate arrangements for their pick up. As a society we are forced to ask a question: in the twenty-first century, in a First-World nation, a nation that for centuries was a beacon of progress and liberty for the world, is this the best we can do?
And underneath it was a photo of her, Julia Crowne, the best and most recent example of an entire nation’s moral collapse.
Somehow, they had got a picture of her – from Facebook, maybe – at her friend May’s wedding. In it, Julia – who was twenty-five when the photo was taken – was leaning towards the camera, her bridesmaid dress exposing a little more cleavage than she would normally have allowed. In one hand she was holding a bottle of champagne, in the other a cigarette. Her eyes were glazed, and she was obviously drunk. There was a caption beneath it.
Julia Crowne in Happier Times
So now they were suggesting that she was a drunk and a smoker. She wasn’t sure which was worse in the eyes of the moral majority: many of them liked a tipple themselves, so alcohol itself was ok. It was the abuse of alcohol that was the problem. Drinking too much demonstrated a lack of control – irresponsibility, in fact, which fitted perfectly with the image of Julia they wished to portray – whereas smoking was a crime in itself. Either way, the photo suggested that she was guilty of both.
Never mind that the photo was ten years old and predated Anna’s birth by half a decade. Never mind that she had been relatively sober, and had ended up putting one of the other bridesmaids, who was soused in vodka, to bed.
No, none of that mattered to these brave warriors for the truth. All that mattered to them was their so-called story.
She thought about opening the window and screaming at the reporters, about running out and scratching their faces, driving them away from her front door. But she couldn’t. It would only make things worse.
She was trapped. This had to end. One way or another, it had to end.
And then her phone rang.
iii.
It was DI Wynne.
Most of the people who called Julia were in her phone as a contact, so their name flashed on the screen when they called. Not so for Detective Inspector Wynne; Julia had not saved her number. It seemed like an admission that this situation would last. Nonetheless, she recognized the number immediately; the digits were imprinted on her memory the first time she saw them, as though the grey matter of her brain had known that they were important and put them in a special place, a separate place; a place where things that had to be remembered at all costs were put.
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br /> It reminded her of the compartment Anna claimed she had for puddings, desserts, sweets: anything sugary. She would push aside her knife and fork and declare herself full, too full to eat another bite of broccoli or cauliflower or cabbage or carrot, but then, minutes later, would ask what was for dessert.
I thought you were full, Julia would say, with a smile.
I am. But only for food (‘food’ being how Anna classified non-sugary comestibles). Not for ice cream. Ice cream (or cake or yogurt or Angel Delight) goes in a different compartment.
And in a strange way, Anna was right. Many times Julia had been full at a restaurant, stuffed with a creamy starter and bread and a large main course, groaning and unable to contemplate another bite, but then, somehow, when the waiter asked whether she wanted dessert, a little sorbet perhaps, or maybe a crème brûlée, she would find she did have room for that. So maybe it was a different compartment. It was as good an explanation as any other.
She answered the phone.
‘Mrs Crowne? It’s DI Wynne. I have some news.’
Some news. Julia’s world shrank to a pinprick focus on those two words and what they could signify. Good news? Bad news? Big news? Nothing much news?
‘We’ve found Lambert,’ Wynne said. ‘The janitor.’
‘And Anna?’ Julia asked. ‘Is she with him?’
‘We’ve not actually physically contacted him yet,’ said Wynne, ‘but we know where he is, and we have officers on their way to him now.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In Scotland. He’s staying by some place called Loch Maree. It’s very remote, which is why it’s taken so long. It’s easy enough to disappear up there. We put out an appeal for any information on him, and the owner of the cabin passed on his details. He’s been there for the last three weeks, and has another three weeks to go.’
‘Have they seen Anna?’
‘They haven’t seen him. He’s kept himself to himself. It’s the first time he’s holidayed up there.’
Julia nodded. It sounded too perfect, too much the kind of place that a child abductor would go. ‘So what’s next?’ she said.
‘The local constabulary are on their way up there now. They should be there within the next two hours. I’ll call as soon as I hear anything.’
‘Thank you,’ Julia said, then paused. ‘Do you … do you think this is it, Detective?’
DI Wynne didn’t answer for a while. When she did, her voice was uncertain. ‘I don’t know. It could be. But we don’t know what we’ll find until we get there. Maybe nothing. It’s been a week, after all.’
So all trace of Anna could be gone, Julia thought. That’s what you mean. He could have killed her and dumped her body in the remote fucking loch he’s camping by.
‘I have to say,’ Wynne continued, ‘that it’s odd that he used his name to book the place. That doesn’t seem right to me. But you never know. I’ll be in touch soon, Mrs Crowne.’
Edna and Brian were talking in the living room. Their mutters were indistinguishable in the kitchen, where Julia and Gill were facing the window, looking out at the yard.
‘She said two hours,’ Julia said. ‘It’s been two and a half. I don’t know what that means. That they found something, surely? I mean, if there was nothing it wouldn’t take as long, would it?’
Gill put her hand on Julia’s forearm. Her fingers were warm from holding her mug of coffee. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you can read too much into it.’
She was right, but that didn’t stop Julia thinking about it. The mind didn’t work like that. It reminded her of being a teenager and going over every possible meaning of every word a boy she was interested in had said.
He said he liked chips with mayonnaise not ketchup after I said I liked them that way was he just saying it to impress me which means he fancies me or maybe he just likes to impress girls or was it true and just a coincidence which means he doesn’t fancy me at all but he looked at me in a way which I think means he fancies me and he sort of blushed when I said hello to him or at least there was some redness on his neck but it could have been shaving rash oh I do hope he likes me I like him so much.
And on and on it went, her mind whirring incessantly, and nothing she could do to stop it. It was like that now, only the stakes were much higher. They stakes were the return of her little girl, so that she too could grow into a teenager who worried about whether boys liked her or not.
And then, behind her, a buzzing.
Her phone, ringing. That number, again.
‘Mrs Crowne? It’s DI Wynne.’
Her voice, flat. Grim. Not a good news voice.
A bad news voice. But what bad news? Anna, dead? Julian Lambert not there? Julian Lambert there but no Anna?
‘Yes? What did you find?’
‘We found Mr Lambert. He was fishing on the lake. We questioned him about Anna and he said he had no idea she was even missing—’
‘He would say that,’ Julia said. ‘He would say that.’
‘He gave us an alibi, Mrs Crowne—’
‘Of course he did!’ Julia said, her disappointment making her desperate. ‘I mean, he’s bound to have prepared something!’
‘His alibi is watertight: a local farmer he’s been helping with some fencing work. There are two other locals who worked with them.’
‘Unless they’re in on it,’ Julia said. ‘Did you think of that?’
‘His alibi checks out, Mrs Crowne. It wasn’t him.’
Brian came into the kitchen. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What did they find?’
Julia let her hand drop to her side. She looked out of the window.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all.’
DI Wynne called back ten minutes later.
‘Could we talk, Mrs Crowne?’ she said.
‘Sure,’ Julia answered. ‘Do you have news?’
‘We have a … well, it’s a theory, more than anything.’
Julia wanted to shout down the phone. What use was a theory to her? A theory wouldn’t bring Anna back, so why was DI Wynne getting her hopes up? All they had was some bullshit speculation. It was just the cops, useless as always, trying to give the impression they were doing something.
She took a deep breath. ‘So,’ she said. ‘What is it?’
‘We’re going to change the focus of the investigation,’ said Wynne. ‘For a little while, anyway. Other than Lambert, we’ve been working hard on the possibility that Anna is abroad, but that’s getting nowhere. The trail – if there is one – is totally cold, which is unlikely. There’s normally something.’
‘Like what?’ Julia said.
‘Well, if she is abroad, then it’s likely that it was a gang that took her. Only they have the resources and the networks. A lone individual would struggle to take a child out of the country and keep them concealed. And those gangs leave traces. They make noise. We hear stuff through police networks – informers, that kind of thing. It’s not always enough for us to find a kidnapped child, but it’s there. And there’s nothing here. Nothing at all. It’s possible it’s a gang but it just doesn’t feel like that to me. We think she might be closer to home.’
‘So she’s in the country?’
‘She might be. She might even be in the area. There’s something about this that feels local to me.’ DI Wynne paused. ‘Which is why we are still so keen to talk to Jim Crowne. We haven’t been able to find anything on him. It’s very irregular.’
‘What did Edna say?’
‘Nothing. She gave us a letter he wrote to her before he disappeared, about the affair and how he needed to start a new life. She said she told him not to contact her or Brian again, and he hasn’t. She said that he was the kind of person who would do that: put himself first.’
’What about the woman he left with? She must have parents, friends?’
‘Both her parents died some years ago,’ Wynne said. ‘We’ve spoken to some of the teachers who were around at the time and they didn�
��t hear from her. They assumed that she wanted a clean start. It’s odd, but … it was a long time ago. So anything you know would be very helpful.’
‘I don’t know anything more,’ Julia said. ‘I’m not sure I can help.’
‘You could ask Mr Crowne. Or Edna.’
Julia could have laughed. There was no way Edna would share anything with her, but she agreed to try.
‘And in the meantime?’ she said. ‘What are you planning?’
‘We’re just going to focus our resources a little differently for a while.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means we’re going to go door to door again. Revisit the people who work at the school. Talk to the parents of Anna’s friends, to your relatives. To anyone we can think of who is connected to your daughter.’
‘Didn’t you do this already?’
‘Yes, but we’re going to do it again. And this time we’re going to ask people if we can have a look around their houses. If we can search their houses. If they say no, then that might be grounds to get a warrant.’
Julia looked out at the reporters. Maybe they’d be gone soon after all. Maybe all this would be over. She didn’t want to think it, didn’t want to let herself dream it.
‘Great,’ Julia said. ‘That’s great.’
8
The Sixth Day
i.
They came yesterday.
The police. They came in the evening, when you had just returned home, when you were at your most vulnerable.
You answered the knock on the door, and there they were. A detective and two constables. Were they constables? Was that what they were called?