by John Harvey
“Just don’t get your hopes up, that’s all.”
Immediately, he saw the fear flood her eyes.
“I mean, about what I can do. As far as your sister’s concerned, my guess is she’s fine.”
“Then where is she? Why doesn’t she get in touch?”
“I don’t know. But she’ll have her reasons, I’m sure.”
Eighteen years earlier, Elder had been involved in an investigation into the disappearance of a teenage girl from a caravan site on the North Yorkshire coast; when she was found, years later, she was living in a small town in New Zealand, facing out across the Tasman Sea. She had had her reasons, too.
Outside on the street, Jennie looked small beside him, but having made a trip to the Ladies had recovered, her face back in place. No longer as if she might break.
“This list you want, will tomorrow afternoon be okay? I can fax it to your hotel.”
“That’s fine.”
“Okay.” She took a step away. “I’m just in the NGP. Can I give you a lift?”
“Thanks, no. I’ll walk.”
Jennie held out her hand again. “What you’re doing, I’m really grateful.”
Elder edged a smile. “The bungalow, you think it would be all right if I went out and took a look?”
The hesitation was momentary, no more; Jennie slipped the key off the ring and into his hand. She’d already given him her card with her various numbers, address, and e-mail.
“We’ll be in touch,” she said. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
He watched her pass through the car park entrance, then set off along Stoney Street in the direction of his hotel.
INCONGRUOUSLY, THERE WERE MORE FISHERMEN NOW, hooded and wrapped against the cold, small green lights alongside them puncturing the night. Car headlights flickering in the waters of the canal. Elder had tried sleeping: been unable to sleep. He’d opened his book, but failed to concentrate, no matter how much the story was pulling him in. After what had happened—to have put that behind her as well as she had and get her life back on track. After what had happened. The killer he’d been chasing had abducted his sixteen-year-old daughter, Katherine, and taunted him with what he’d done, what he might do. By the time Elder had finally caught up with him, Katherine had been subjected to savagery and pain she would never forget, her life hanging from a thread. You nearly killed her, Frank. His wife Joanne’s words. You. Not him. Because you had to get involved, you couldn’t let things be. Beneath her anger there was truth, a kind of truth that skewered them all together even as it rendered them apart.
Now the man who had damaged her most was in a secure unit in Broadmoor, and Katherine, after a period when she’d seemingly run wild and courted risk, as if, perhaps, nothing more terrible could possibly happen to her, had gradually reined herself back in, resumed her studies, begun to sort out her life.
You must be proud.
Just to think of it for one second made him catch his breath.
He tried another chapter of The Fox in the Attic before turning out the light.
At four-thirty he woke, rimed in sweat. Something, an image, pulling at his brain. It took him several moments to realize it was from the book, not the last section he’d read, but something earlier: unforgettable. Two men walking out of the sea marsh side by side, save for the misted rain the only things moving amid the unremitting gray; two men with shotguns, the taller carrying, slung across his shoulder, the body of a dead child. A girl. Elder could see it. Clearly. Her thin legs bouncing lightly against his chest.
Chapter 4
ELDER STOOD ALONE IN THE CENTRE OF THE ROOM. Someone, presumably Jennie, had pulled the beige curtains partway across the picture window, and had placed the free newspapers and meagre post on the small table just inside the front door. Patterned, machine-made lace hung down close to the glass, keeping out prying eyes. Antimacassars were draped neatly across the back of the two-seat settee and its matching chair. A cushioned footstool stood neatly in between, and, near that, a coffee table finished in beech veneer. A dresser that had come, Elder thought, from the larger house where Claire Meecham had lived previously, stood against the rear wall, its shelves busy with picture plates and china dogs and framed photographs, the two largest displaying her children in mortarboards and gowns, degree certificates held proudly across their chests. Smaller, centrally placed, was a picture of Claire and Brian, bundled up against the cold on some English sea front—Scarborough, Filey, Skegness—clearly half-frozen but, just as clearly, smiling. Happier times. As much as ten years before? He picked up the photo and held it toward the light. Claire would have been in her forties then, roughly the age Jennie was now, but looking older. Rounder of face, her hair turning naturally gray. A comfortable fifty or more. Comfortable.
Elder stepped back.
The air in the room smelt stale.
The kitchen was neat and narrow, tea and coffee clearly labelled in squared-off plastic jars; Horlicks, Ovaltine, a blue-and-white-striped J-cloth draped across the plastic bowl in the sink. Pinned to the wall by the rear door, a Woodland Trust calendar showed the days up to the weekend on which Claire had disappeared marked off with single diagonal lines. “Bank” was written inside one square in letters almost too small to read, “Doctor” in another. “Library” several times.
At the far end of the garden, a small flurry of sparrows and blue tits was squabbling around a pair of half-empty bird feeders. So far as was known, Claire had gone to work on the Friday as normal, returning home at the usual time; on Saturday she had apparently caught the bus to Arnold for her weekly shop at Sainsbury’s: Jennie had said there were milk and chicken breasts newly in the fridge, fresh bread in the bin. There was no car: not anymore. Brian had always done the driving; somehow Claire had never learned.
A fluffy pink bath mat hung over the edge of the bath; a green and red acrylic toilet seat cover. The bedroom was larger than Elder had expected, its walls a dusky pink. The one-eyed bear that Jennie had mentioned was no longer on the bed, but propped up on a chair between dressing table and wardrobe. There was a small clock radio on a cabinet beside the bed, a box of coloured tissues, and a book club edition of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. Elder had read it, had read several of du Maurier’s books, in fact, after visiting the author’s house in Cornwall. He had preferred the one about pirates and shipwreck. What was it? Jamaica Inn?
The wardrobe doors sprang open easily. Dresses in olive green and shades of gray and brown; a suit in sombre black. Skirts and blouses, evenly matched. Pairs of shoes lined up along the floor. On the surface of the dressing table were moisturizing creams and oil of evening primrose, a few items of makeup, more tissues, a brush and comb.
The two top drawers, as he’d expected, held mostly underwear, tights, several nightgowns, a small selection of thermal vests; below, neatly folded, were sweaters and cotton tops and cardigans. Elder slid the last of the drawers back into place then opened it again. The edge of something white was just showing between two shades of green.
Not white but lightly embossed cream; one of those semi-stiff card folders they give you with enlargements of your favourite photographs. This one showed a woman whom Elder, at first glance, failed to recognize as Claire: fully made-up, glass of wine in hand, her hair stylishly rolled, wearing a blue off-the-shoulder dress that emphasized the cleavage of her breasts.
In the photograph with Brian she’d looked happy, yes, content, but this was something different. Exultation. Delight.
Elder sat at the dressing table and switched on the light. His first thought was that the picture had been taken some years earlier, when she was younger; but no, behind the lipstick, the foundation, and the blusher, this was recent, he was sure. Claire, if not today, then not so many weeks or months earlier.
There were two narrow drawers beneath the mirror and he slid open first one and then the other. In the first were bits and pieces of inexpensive jewellery—bracelets, earrings, a plain silver necklace with a cross—i
n the second, resting inside a piece of folded cloth, was a vibrator, ridged along the sides and with a smooth and bulbous head.
Well, Elder thought, somewhat surprised, why not?
TRUE TO HER WORD, JENNIE FAXED THE INFORMATION Elder had asked for to his hotel. An address and phone number for Claire’s daughter, Jane, in Bristol; phone number and e-mail address for her son, James, in Melbourne, Australia. The organization where Claire had been employed was called Midas Holdings and had offices on Castle Gate. Jennie thought her boss there was called Tranter, but other than that, she hadn’t been able to come up with a single name from among the people with whom Claire worked.
Elder dialled the number Jennie had given him for herself and got through to her voice mail; the reception on her cell was patchy, just time enough to ask her to meet him that evening at the hotel before the signal went completely.
The walk up through the city to the Central Police Station was uneventful, Elder close to losing count of Big Issue sellers who, despite failing in their pitch, cheerily exhorted him to have a good day.
Neil Grimes, the DS from Missing Persons, had promised him five minutes and kept him waiting in reception for three times that long before coming, heavy footed, downstairs, a burly reddish-faced man in some danger of outgrowing both the sweater and jacket he was wearing.
“Let’s talk outside,” Grimes said. “I could murder someone for a fag.”
They walked round the corner to Shakespeare Street, diagonally across from a bar Elder remembered as Russell’s, though it seemed now to be called something else.
“You were on the force,” Grimes said, after his first long drag. “Up here. Major Crime. A few years back now.”
“Been checking me out?”
“I doubt I’d be stood here talking to you else.”
Elder nodded. “Claire Meecham. She was reported missing...”
“A week yesterday, aye. Off on a cruise, most like. Sommat of the sort. Back any day, you’ll see, complete with tan and duty-free.”
“Her sister’s positive she’d never have gone off like that, without a word.”
A wry smile cut across Grimes’s face. “Handled many mispers, did you? When you were in the job?”
“A few.”
“’Cause if you did you’d know folk can wake up one morning, pack a bag, and walk out the door wi’out bothering to slip the lock or feed the chuffin’ cat.”
“Folk fall in harm’s way, too.”
“You think that’s what’s happened here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Aye, right.” Grimes took one more pull on his cigarette and nipped the end between finger and thumb; he’d save the rest for later.
“The sister,” Elder said, “she thinks you might not be giving it all the priority you could.”
Grimes laughed. “And you are?”
Elder shrugged. “I said I’d poke around. A favour, that’s all. Didn’t want you to think I was going behind your back.”
“No skin off my nose,” Grimes said, beginning to walk back toward the station entrance. “Anything does crop up, you’ll give us a shout?”
“Of course.”
“No quarrel then, have we?”
The two men shook hands, and Elder, realizing he hadn’t had lunch and hearing his stomach grumble, went off in search of food.
HE’D ALWAYS LIKED THE FRENCH CAFÉ ON KING STREET and was pleased to find it still in business. He asked for a ham and cheese baguette and ate it while he browsed through that day’s Post; his copy of The Fox in the Attic was too big to fit his jacket pocket. A mistake.
Still hungry, he had a crêpe with sugar and lemon before his coffee. Time for a stroll down past the Theatre Royal toward the Arboretum before heading back to the hotel to meet Jennie.
Later that evening he would phone both of Claire’s children, hoping to catch James before he set off for work, and then, the next day, check out Midas Holdings. Maybe go back out to the bungalow and speak to some of the neighbours. He’d been in the city a good twenty-four hours and so far had made no attempt to get in touch with Katherine. And yet he could do all this: expend time and energy on someone he only knew from an empty bungalow and a couple of photographs. Because it was easier, easier than dealing with someone you knew almost too well.
He knew that Katherine was living in a student house in Lenton, though he had never been there. The cell number he had for her was no longer current. The distances between them growing greater all the time.
ELDER BOUGHT A BOTTLE OF JAMESON AND TOOK IT into the hotel and up to his room. Switched on the TV then turned it off again. Four walls. Back down in Cornwall, early evening, he would pull on his coat and walk out across the fields, the shapes of animals bulked close in the gathering dark, the last light stretching in a pale ring across the rim of sea.
When Jennie arrived, later than she’d intended, she was angry with the traffic, frustrated by the incompetence of other drivers, the idiot she’d just been listening to on the car radio, a thin film of sweat on her upper lip.
“Best not ask what kind of a day you’ve had,” Elder said, edging a smile.
“Best not.”
They sat in the far corner of the lower-level bar and at that hour had the place almost to themselves. Driving or not, Jennie was in sore need of a gin and tonic, and Elder had a small scotch to keep her company. Once she’d settled and lit a cigarette, he slipped the photograph from between the pages of his book.
“My God!” Jennie exclaimed, knocked back. “Where on earth did you get this?”
“One of the drawers in her bedroom. Tucked away.”
For a moment he thought she was going to question his right, but she bit her tongue.
“You’ve not seen it before, then?” Elder said.
“Never.”
“Any idea where it was taken?”
Jennie looked at the picture again. “None, I’m afraid.”
“Nor the occasion?”
She shook her head.
“It is recent, though?”
“It’s difficult to say. For sure, I mean. But, yes, I think so. The last couple of years at any rate.” Jennie took the photograph in both hands. “It’s amazing. Claire in that getup. Don’t get me wrong, I think she looks fantastic. It’s just I’ve never... I’ve never seen her like this, that’s all.”
“So dressed up or so happy?”
“Either. Both. Anyone would think she’d won the lottery. At least. And that dress—she used to make me feel like a real slapper if I showed half the cleavage she’s flashing there.”
“You’re sure you don’t know where it is? Where it was taken?”
Jennie shook her head. “It’s a reception of some kind, isn’t it? A wedding, maybe? I just don’t know.”
“Could it have something to do with the place she worked? A retirement party, perhaps? Christmas?”
“It’s possible, but...” Jennie reached for her glass. “If you did know, do you think it would help? I mean, do you think it’s got anything to do with whatever’s happened? Where she’s gone?”
“It might. It obviously meant something to her, enough to hang on to. Although why keep it hidden? From what you say, her daughter aside, you were about the only person to go and see her. Regularly, at any rate. Would she feel the need to hide it from you?”
“Not really, no.” Jennie smiled. “Not once I’d got over the shock.”
“What about Jane?”
“I don’t really know. She’d be surprised, certainly. But any more than that... If it was James, it might be a different matter.”
“His mother, you mean. Looking sexy and having fun.”
“It’s not what boys want, is it? Where their mothers are concerned.”
“Probably not.”
Jennie gave the photograph one more look before setting it down.
“There was something else,” Elder said.
“Go on.”
“It probably wouldn’t be worth mentioning,
but for the impression you’d given.”
“About Claire?”
“Yes.”
“Is this something else you found ferreting through my sister’s drawers?”
Elder nodded. “A vibrator.”
“What?”
“A vibrator.”
“My God! I didn’t know she had it in her.” And then Jennie blushed full red, realizing what she’d just said.
“I didn’t mean...”
“I know.”
“I always thought that as far as Claire was concerned, sex was, well, it wasn’t something she considered very important. So I’m surprised. And I suppose, in a way... well, yes, I suppose I’m pleased.” Jennie brushed the ends of hair from her face. “I’d ask you, though, the same question as before. How does finding those things help find her?”
“And I still don’t know. Except that it suggests she wasn’t quite the person you took her for. Not altogether.”
“You mean she was leading another life?”
“It doesn’t have to be as dramatic as that. But the more we can find out about her, the more chance we have of discovering where she is.”
Ten minutes later they stood at the top of the stairs outside the hotel; the traffic, into and out of the city, had started to calm down.
“You’ve got far to go?”
“Not far.”
Elder realized he had no idea where she lived, whether or not she lived alone. The only rings she wore were on her right hand.
“I might be a bit difficult to get hold of for the next couple of days,” Jennie said. “Sales conference. Best leave a message on my cell if you need to get hold of me.”
Back in his room, Elder poured himself a shot of Jameson before reaching for the phone.
Chapter 5
JANE MEECHAM’S VOICE WAS SHARP AT FIRST AND shrill, not at all pleased that her aunt had given her number to a total stranger; but then once Elder had explained the situation and the nature of his involvement, she mellowed. Not much, but a little. Her concern over her mother’s whereabouts and whatever might have happened to her seemed real enough.