by Alex Clare
A sharp flare of pain made her snap her eyes open, followed by a second pulse reminding her that her left eye was swollen almost shut. The right side of her face had corrugations from the cushion: she must have fallen asleep on the sofa. The team would be out there, searching for Harper and she should be with them. Swinging her feet to the floor made her dizzy and she dropped her head between her knees until it passed.
Feeling redundant, Robyn made tea and scavenged through the fridge then, unable to settle, picked up her phone and skimmed through her contacts. Without pausing to think whether this was a good idea, she pressed the green button.
Becky’s phone was answered on the second ring. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, sweetheart. It’s Dad. Something happened today and I needed to hear your voice.’
‘What happened? Are you OK?’
‘We were tracking a burglar and he punched me in the face. Nothing serious, I’ve got a fine black eye.’
‘Wow. Take care of yourself. What’s going on at the moment? Nothing ever happens in Meresbourne.’ There was a pause, a friendly one, without pressure to fill it.
‘I’m not keeping you from going out?’
‘Not tonight, Dad. Been rehearsing all day and we’ve just ordered some pizzas.’
‘I’d like to see this play. Come and support you. When is it again?’
‘Oh? Well we’re just doing two performances.’ There was a new note in Becky’s voice. ‘I think Mum’s coming. To both, I mean. So maybe not.’
‘Ah, right.’ Robyn could blame the tears on her cheek from the earlier damage. ‘It’s probably best I don’t meet your mother. Well, perhaps you could get someone to take a picture of you – the last one I’ve got of you is in your prom dress.’
Becky laughed. It sounded like a release. ‘Well, one of the guys will be recording it. You can watch the whole thing on DVD.’
‘Great. Send me a copy.’ The pause this time felt as if someone should fill it. ‘Becky, will you be coming down this summer? Or could I come up and see you?’ She started counting the bouquets on the wallpaper: yellow flowers, blue ribbon; white flowers, pink ribbon; blue flowers, red …
‘Dad.’
Pink flowers, white ribbon; Yellow flowers …
‘What are you going to look like?’
Robyn tried to make her voice relaxed. ‘I’m going to look like me. Like I’m supposed to look.’
‘You mean in a dress, don’t you?’
‘I will be Robyn, yes.’
The hesitation became a pause, lengthening into a silence, until there was a burst of chatter at the other end. ‘Dad, the pizzas are here. I’ll come down and see you after the play, OK? The beginning of September.’
Robyn resolved to be grateful for what she had. ‘OK, sweetheart. I’ll be here. Bye.’ She sat back on the sofa. She had had a conversation with her daughter and felt a sense of achievement. White flowers, pink ribbon; yellow flowers, blue ribbon. Her mother had thought it was a good idea to have flowers on the wallpaper and fruit on the carpet. Where a channel had worn in the doorway, the woven cherries were stained brown, like rot. It felt dark inside already because the heavy flounces on the curtain rail blocked most of the light, though when she closed the curtains, they didn’t quite meet in the middle. Then, there was the ugly, dark furniture which took up too much space. The vast dresser couldn’t be moved because it hid the bare strip where the special-offer wallpaper had run out. She wondered why none of this had bothered her until now.
Reaching behind the dresser, Robyn ran her fingers over the wall, finding the wallpaper’s edge and probed with a fingernail until there was enough to get hold of. She tugged. There was brief resistance, then a soft ripping noise as the old paste gave up. Getting a good grip, she pulled hard and the sheet came away from the wall, shreds of paper and paste settling on the carpet. One of the china dogs cluttering the dresser teetered and fell. She kicked the shards under a coffee table and went for the next sheet, picking at the edge until a harder flake of glue snapped a nail. Jaw set, Robyn searched in the toolbox for a scraper and began again.
SUNDAY 24 JULY
34
The kettle was pre-filled to ensure the first tea of the morning took as little time to make as possible. While it was brewing, Robyn contemplated the devastation in the lounge. She’d started piling rubbish in one corner, then decided there was more satisfaction in just ripping the wallpaper off, leaving everything where it fell. With the pale plaster exposed, the room already seemed bigger and lighter, the furniture darker and uglier. She began to plan a day’s decorating before her thoughts fixed with a sudden clarity on Melissa Chivers and the need to tell her about Janice’s imminent release. To be professional, she would have to do it face to face or at least by phone. As the pot steamed, she decided to visit because a part of her wanted to see Ms Chivers squirm when Josh was mentioned. She was certain she’d be criticised whatever she did but if Ms Chivers wanted to complain again, let it be about too much concern for her welfare rather than too little.
After giving the tea a final stir she had to stand at the counter. There was nowhere to sit in the kitchen because of the vast freezer her mother insisted be kept fully stocked, even in the last days of her final illness when she’d been incapable of cooking. Now there were just a couple of packets of frozen vegetables at the bottom of the huge chest. Robyn blinked to clear her sore eyes. If she got rid of the freezer, she could put a table at the end of the kitchen and have breakfast overlooking the garden. As the toast popped, Robyn found herself whistling.
Make-up was a problem. The left side of her face was a swollen mess of yellow and red. It would be impossible to even try to cover it up. She settled for just some foundation and lipstick, wincing as she rubbed the tender skin. Choosing a suit meant wearing the last of her blouses: she wondered whether she could get away without ironing any of them.
On the way to Upper Town, Robyn pulled into the recycling centre. The things from Janice’s went into the ‘general waste’ skip, mixed up with torn wallpaper. Next went a bag of ancient ornaments from the lounge. One smashed, ripping the first bag, the bright sleeve of a boy’s t-shirt poking out. She emptied the wallpaper from the third bag over it. Behind her a queue of people waited with more junk to go on top. Relieved, Robyn brushed dust from her suit and hurried back to the car. She double-checked the boot: it was empty, apart from the blue ball. Everything was now covered, except Janice herself. She didn’t know that Ben’s move to Switzerland had been brought forward and that might push her to do something else stupid. The rest of the journey continued to erode her good mood. Under an overcast sky, a series of four-by-fours going down the hill seemed to be trying to drive everyone else off the road. There were no reporters visible outside Ms Chivers’ house but also no sign of her Lexus. Robyn rang the bell and waited on the doorstep. Another ring and she walked back up the path to survey the house. Outside on the pavement a woman in a thin tracksuit swore at something on the ground. The clouds had closed in now, the sky a uniform grey.
‘Excuse me.’ Robyn wasn’t prepared for the woman to whip out a phone and hold it up, thumb on the keypad, tugging a miniature Schnauzer to heel.
‘We’ve had enough of your sort around here, I’m calling the police.’
Robyn reached for her warrant card keeping her eyes on the woman’s face and reminding herself never to wear that much foundation.
‘Please don’t worry, madam. I am a police officer.’ She opened the gate and stepped onto the pavement, waiting for the reaction.
The dog sniffed Robyn’s trousers. The woman tugged the lead and took the warrant card. As she squinted down, the skin around her nose wrinkled though her forehead didn’t.
‘Oh, you’re the transsexual policeman. Are people beating you up? Aren’t we a bit more advanced than that? I thought you were a journalist. We’ve had so many and they’re so intrusive.’
Robyn gave a professional smile. ‘I understand what a nuisance they are.’
> Tucked under the woman’s arm was a copy of the Sunday Journal. Whatever the headline was, the first word was SCANDAL. Robyn couldn’t see the picture – the article might be about her. She scolded herself for being paranoid. ‘I was hoping to see Melissa Chivers about some loose ends we need to tie up. She’s not at home – do you have any idea where she may be?’
‘It’s Sunday.’ The woman shivered. ‘She’ll be at church.’
Robyn sighed. Of course she would be. ‘Thank you.’ She stepped away, to find the woman moving with her.
‘Is it true, she seduced this teenager?’ For the first time, the woman leaned forward. The dog, ignored, tugged at the lead.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t comment on an ongoing case. Good morning.’ Robyn turned without looking, nearly knocking a paper-boy off his bike. She hurried back to the car as the first drops of rain hit the windscreen.
The drive back into town was full of stops and starts to avoid more four-by-fours, now all coming up the hill. The rain was a steady deluge, thunder rumbling in the distance. At the bottom of the hill, Robyn crossed the roundabout towards the town centre, into a street lined with cars taking advantage of the free parking. A woman in a t-shirt ran to a car. Robyn let her pull out, then tucked the Mondeo into the slot outside a shuttered shoe-shop. Its doorway was spattered with vomit.
Robyn got her umbrella out of the boot, wishing she’d brought a coat. She followed the street into Market Square. The stalls were huddled under tarpaulins: no one seemed to be browsing. Crossing the empty plaza, she stepped through The Cut into St Leonard’s Square then turned into Saints’ Row. At least here, the overhang of the medieval buildings gave some protection from the rain. The address for the Church of Immaculate Purity was on the second floor of one of the bland, seventies office blocks in Commercial Square.
Halfway down the Row, a mauve number ‘6’ denoted a stop on the ‘Marvellous Meresbourne’ tourist trail. The stock image of Edmund Napier Loveless glared down from a board on the front of her old house, severe in her high-necked Victorian dress. A man with a shock of white hair strode out, pulling on a tweed cap as he glared at the sky.
A woman joined him tucking a gift-shop purchase into a large shoulder bag. ‘I don’t know why you bothered coming, I know you’re not interested in her writing …’ They continued up the street towards Saints’ Fountain.
‘You spent over an hour in there – the woman pretended to be a man and wrote, what, three books?’
‘She had to because women weren’t allowed to express themselves and still aren’t …’
‘Big Issue?’ A man in a red tabard over a worn fleece jacket held out a magazine. The couple ignored him and Saints’ Fountain, walking on and turning right towards the High Street. The vendor’s attention shifted to Robyn. ‘Big Issue, this week’s Big Issue?’
Robyn felt a pang of guilt but rationalised she was in a hurry. She turned left, stepping over dropped kebabs and into Commercial Square. Fifteen minutes later, she’d gone the full circuit of the square, checking each shuttered door and was back where she’d started, at the fountain.
Robyn closed her umbrella and walked across to the Big Issue vendor. ‘Hi.’ The man smiled, reaching for a magazine. ‘Do you know the Church of Immaculate Purity?’
The vendor frowned. One stubby finger scratched a scab on his neck. ‘You sure you’re not after the shrine to Saints Sergius and Bacchus? Number 7 on the tourist trail. It’s right here.’ He pointed past the fountain to a worn stone carving, almost obscured by the coloured ribbons tied into the protective grille.
Robyn, cold in her suit, shivered at the rip in the man’s fleece. ‘Thanks. It’s the church I need. I’m meeting someone.’
The man offered the magazine to a party of students straggling out of the museum. They flowed passed him without acknowledgement and regrouped on his other side. He turned back to Robyn.
‘Building on the corner over there. Tried to convert me once. Only went in with them because I thought I’d get a cup of tea.’
‘Thanks. I guess you must see everything around here.’ Robyn wondered if her presence was putting off purchasers.
‘Yeah. I watch them go in there not long after I arrive Sundays and some days in the week too and they’re in there ’til after I go but no one buys a copy of the magazine.’
Robyn blinked and reached for her bag. ‘Oh yes, I’ll take one please.’
The magazine was too big for her handbag so she had to hold it as she walked over to the building he’d pointed out. None of the buzzers were for the church. She looked back, feeling helpless. The vendor gestured to one side. An anonymous passage cluttered with rubbish bins ran between two buildings. Robyn waved back to the vendor and stepped forward, wrinkling her nose at the conflicting smells of cleaning fluid and urine. Whoever was behind the door at the end seemed to have taken recent steps to conceal their identity. A clean, white square of paint marked where a sign had been removed and the door bristled with shiny-looking locks. An obvious security camera swung to point at her, red light blinking. A small hand-drawn cross next to the entry intercom was the only clue this was the right place. She pressed the button, hearing nothing. On the road, a group headed towards the river, complaining about the wind. Here, at least, it was sheltered. She pressed the buzzer a second time. A car hooted. There was a crackle beside her. ‘Who’s there?’
‘This is Detective Inspector Bailley. I need to speak to Melissa Chivers and I understand she’s here. May I come in?’
There was no answer, just a continuous red blink from above. Somewhere, a siren sounded. She debated whether to press the buzzer again. A gull landed on the roof next door and began cleaning its feathers in the soft drizzle.
‘DI Bailley, why are you still harassing me?’
The sudden speech had made Robyn jump. She took a second to make sure her own voice was level. ‘Ms Chivers, I have some information for you. May I come in?’
‘No. This is a place of God. We would need to purify it after your entry.’
A drop of rain went down Robyn’s back. There was no room to put the umbrella up. ‘I’d prefer to discuss this with you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Ms Chivers …’
‘DI Bailley, I resent this constant intrusion and your persecution of my faith. What do you need to tell me?’
Robyn counted to ten. ‘Ms Chivers, I wanted to let you know the person who took Ben will be released on bail tomorrow, on condition they do not approach him.’
‘I do not see that as relevant, given I will be leaving the country in less than a week. Now leave me alone.’
There was a crackle from the speaker then silence from the other end. Robyn stared at the box for a minute, then whacked the door as hard as she could with the rolled-up magazine. The gull took off, screeching.
35
Robyn marched back to the car, starting the engine just to get the heating on. She was wet, angry and hungry. For want of further inspiration, she turned the car towards the police station and took refuge in the canteen. The looks she sensed were no longer just curious. Now there was anger there too. She could guess what they were thinking, she’d heard snippets. Janice was just taking care of her own flesh and blood. His mother’s a fruitloop. OK, she’d been an idiot but one cop shouldn’t shop another. And it was someone who couldn’t even decide what sex they were. If she had been a target before, there was now the possibility things could get rather more personal.
Robyn retreated with her lunch to the empty incident room. Hanging her wet jacket over a chair, she checked under Janice’s desk and found a fan heater, then read through Lorraine’s notes of the incident at Lower Markham, nodding with approval. Cindy had given a full statement, denying all knowledge of the items’ history and had been released on bail. There was nothing she needed to add. She took the last bite of her roll, sat back and enjoyed the flow of warm air. With one finger she typed ‘Lacey’ into the computer.
In under two minutes, she’d
read all the notes on Lacey Penrose’s disappearance. Her parents lived in Pickley village. Robyn hesitated, then she looked at the picture of the mutilated skull and picked up her damp jacket.
The house was on the edge of Pickley, one of a row of identical executive homes: the image of safe, secure suburbia. Robyn edged past the Toyota estate in the driveway and rang the doorbell. The man who opened the door was wearing a light sweater, just like one Roger had owned. His expression was of polite disbelief, taking in her clothes and swollen eye.
‘Mr Penrose? My name is DI Bailley. Do you have a few moments?’
Robyn followed the man into the main room, his family looking up from their half-eaten lunch at the other end. ‘Mr Penrose: I’m sorry to disturb your lunch. I wanted to talk to you about Lacey.’
Mr Penrose didn’t answer and sank onto one end of the sofa. There were noises as the others put down their cutlery, rose from the table and came to the lounge end of the room. Mrs Penrose joined her husband on the sofa, rumpled sections of the Sunday Journal between them. An older woman with the same prominent nose as Mr Penrose shuffled to a big recliner closest to the fireplace. A girl, maybe eighteen, had a silent argument with a younger boy, then left him at the table and curled herself into an armchair. Robyn waited until it was clear she wouldn’t be offered a seat.
‘Mr Penrose, I’m reopening the investigation into Lacey’s disappearance as we have found some new evidence …’
There was a clatter as the boy dropped his fork, startling a Labrador from under the table.