Guilty Waters

by Priscilla Masters

  Madame Bellange frowned. The postmark on the card was July. Now it was September. Since then, nothing. Not a word, written or telephoned. She had rung Annabelle’s mobile many times, leaving messages, but had heard nothing back, and now she was worried. Her ex-husband, Armand, was not concerned. He was too busy with his new amour, Juliette, and had told her (nastily, she thought) that she was over-possessive of Annabelle, that she should learn to treat her as a normal seventeen-year-old and that the girl was simply enjoying what all young women should – a little bit of freedom. She had slammed the phone down on him after shouting that both Annabelle and Dorothée should be starting their college courses next week. Madame Bellange’s face hardened. She had been to the National Police, whom she still thought of as the Sûreté. They had not been interested. ‘Two teenage girls,’ they’d said scornfully, ‘hitchhiking around England. What do you expect? A letter every day?’ And they had laughed.

  ‘But Dorothée’s mother has heard nothing either,’ Cécile had insisted.

  They’d shrugged. ‘And is she worried?’

  ‘Not like I,’ Madame Bellange had said with dignity, and repeated, ‘but next week they are due back at college.’

  ‘Then they’ll be back. You’ll see,’ the police had said, still exchanging amused glances between themselves.

  Madame Bellange had grown angry. ‘But their mobile phones …’ she’d insisted.

  ‘Run out of credit, I expect,’ the policeman had said, touching his moustache to hide his amusement, which was turning towards impatience.

  ‘Or maybe lost,’ the other one had suggested. ‘I have an eighteen-year-old daughter, madame. She has lost four mobile phones – so far. And she never has any credit.’

  ‘Girls,’ the other one had chimed in.

  ‘Both of them?’

  This had provoked a shrug and Madame Bellange had been even more annoyed then because the balding Sûreté man had winked at his colleague. Winked. Without trying to hide it. They were making fun of her, she realized.

  She went home.

  But the walls of the flat seemed to press in on her; accuse her of neglect. Annabelle’s lilac bedroom, completely cleaned, curtains, duvet, bedding all washed, ironed and sprinkled with lavender water, seemed to emphasize how long it had been since her daughter had inhabited it. It didn’t even smell of her any more.

  She moved back to the lounge, picked up the postcard again and looked even closer at the picture on the front. The people looked so happy. It seemed like an innocent, pretty, old-fashioned sort of place. The girls would surely have been safe here. That was where she should start her search.

  If no one would help her she’d find them herself. She would show them all, Armand included. She would take the Eurostar, hire a car and drive up to this place in Staffordshire. She would find the girls. She would return with them. For a second she wondered whether to speak to Dorothée’s parents again but, like her and Armand, the girl’s parents were also separated and Madame Caron was a career woman who had hardly noticed Dorothée’s escape to Britain, while Monsieur Caron was ‘not well’, so everyone said. Cécile Bellange suspected not well was a euphemism for alcoholic, as it apparently affected his ability to function in any job and worry about his daughter, who had not been heard of for two months. Two whole months. And so it was up to her. She would drive to this lake Rudyard. She stared at the postcard. ‘I will find you, ma chérie,’ she whispered, kissing the card. ‘Wait for me and I will come and bring you home. As the Sûreté will not help me, I will find you with the help of the British police.’

  She closed her eyes and pictured her daughter, small and slight, always laughing, funny and sweet. Dark eyes, long, shining, straight brown hair. Her little girl.

  The British police, in the form of Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy, had listened to the weather forecast that morning. Coincidentally, by eleven o’clock, on the same morning as Madame Bellange was looking at the postcard, in shorts and hiking boots and a picnic basket in front of them, Joanna and her husband of nine months, pathologist Matthew Levin, were sitting on the bank, looking down on Rudyard Lake. For a moment they were dazzled by the golden sparkle of the sun, feeling its warmth on their faces and listening to the whispers of the leaves in the trees as the breeze kept the temperatures in the mid-seventies, perfect for hiking and picnics. While Joanna had been showering that morning, Matthew had packed some rolls and a flask of coffee and they were eating eau sauvage. ‘Fantastic,’ Joanna said, biting into the bread roll filled with ham, tomatoes, beetroot, cream cheese and an eye-watering dollop of Colman’s English mustard. ‘Blimey, Matt,’ she said, panting. ‘You didn’t spare the mustard, did you?’

  He simply laughed and put his arm around her. ‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘Can’t stand ham without mustard. It’s tasteless. Don’t be such a wimp, Jo.’ He wiped a crumb away from the side of her mouth. ‘It is lovely up here,’ he said, looking down at the Boathouse and the sparkling lake. ‘Simply beautiful.’ He gave her a light kiss on her mouth. ‘I’m glad you suggested it.’

  As they watched, the small train steamed its way along the side of the lake accompanied by whoops from excited children and a whooh whooh in response from the train. Joanna nestled into Matthew’s arms and for a few moments they were silent. The air hung heavy between them, full of things better left unsaid. Joanna knew she had been ducking away from them for long enough. It was time to face their demons. In this idyllic setting, Matthew content, herself the same – for a change – it seemed the right time and place. They had been married for almost nine months. A gestation period. She couldn’t avoid unpleasant subjects any longer.

  ‘Matthew,’ she began tentatively.

  Always intuitive to her moods, she felt him tense beside her. He brushed her hair with his lips and was silent for a long moment, neither encouraging nor discouraging her from continuing. She could feel his heart pounding against her cheek. Then he said, very quietly, ‘I’m all ears, Jo.’

  And she didn’t know how to proceed. Instead she focused on the gleaming body of water, which gave her an answer. ‘Rudyard,’ she said softly. ‘Would you call your son Rudyard?’

  Matthew froze. So did she.

  Then, ‘What exactly are you saying?’ Each syllable was uttered quietly and carefully.

  ‘You know what I’m saying, Matt,’ she said, without looking at him.

  It was enough. His arm tightened around her.

  Martin and James Stuart were champion climbers and letterboxers. They stashed their notes everywhere, in crevices and cracks, in rocks and trees, at the back of caves, beneath stones and on top of cairns, collecting stamps and leaving hints and accounts of their visits. They had begun, years ago, on Dartmoor, walking to the most remote areas, climbing hills, boating to the middle of islands, finding other messages and hints in return. It was their main obsession. That and climbing. Every time they were off together they roamed the countryside and today was no exception. The perfect day, actually, for stashing messages and recovering others, taking risks and climbing crab-like up the Roaches, joining a few other climbers taking advantage of the perfect weather. They had a few days off together and the Roaches was one of the nearest good climbing sites to their Birmingham base. So, like Joanna and Matthew, they had packed a substantial picnic and were at the moment a few miles north-east of Leek, on the Roaches, a craggy outcrop popular with climbers as it sported more than fifty different challenges. The scene was watched by the Winking Man, another rocky outcrop in the profile of a man’s face, except the nose was a little damaged. The strange thing about this natural phenomenon was that a shard of rock behind a hole gave the impression that the man was winking at you as you passed on the high, remote Buxton to Leek road. The area’s wild ruggedness was so popular with walkers, hikers and indeed letterboxers, that it was often difficult to find a parking place, the road narrow with gullies at the side. The illusion of being in the great wilderness was sullied a little by the large signs warning visitors to put
their valuables out of sight as it was also popular with car thieves.

  Martin and James were atop the Winking Man’s head on Ramshaw Rocks, savouring both the breeze and the vast panorama with the sense of power that a good climb gives. James poked around in the crevices, ever hopeful. ‘Hey,’ he said, finding the rusting tin. He opened it, took the stamp out of the paper it was folded in and found himself looking at the King of the Roaches, a bearded figure with a crown on top. He inked the stamp with the inkpad he always carried and stamped his notebook, then picked out the photograph and read the back, grinning broadly. ‘Bingo. “Two French girls on a voyage of discovery.”’ He eyed his brother. ‘Well?’ he said.

  Martin craned over and read. ‘“Come and find us. We will give you a welcome at the poet’s lake, love Annabelle Bellange and Dorothée Caron”. Lovely. What say you?’

  ‘Gorgeous,’ James said, looking at the photo of the two attractive, smiling girls. ‘But it’s months old,’ he pointed out, always the pessimist, looking at the date scribbled in the corner of the photo. ‘They won’t still be there.’ He hesitated. ‘I take it the poet’s lake is Rudyard?’

  Hands on hips, his brother stood up on the rocks, a powerful, muscular figure silhouetted against the bright blue of the sky. He looked like a conqueror, an Alexander the Great. ‘Has to be,’ he said. ‘And they’ll be long gone by now, but if they’re still marauding round nearby we can probably get an address out of the visitor’s book at wherever they were staying. Or maybe they’ll have left us another message somewhere round there. Come on, James. It’s worth a try. It’ll be a bit of fun anyway. Since you split up with Kay you’ve been like a frustrated elephant.’

  His brother looked affronted. ‘I have not.’

  But Martin wasn’t capitulating. ‘Oh, yes you have,’ he teased. And then, ‘Careful …’ as his brother inched closer to him and he glanced down at the long drop. ‘You don’t want me over the edge.’

  But his brother’s temper had flared, the way if often did these days if Martin tried to tackle the subject of James post-Kay. ‘What about you when we were out clubbing the other night?’ he retorted angrily. ‘I don’t think any of the girls were safe with you spreading yourself around.’ He thumped his brother’s shoulder harder than was necessary. ‘If Camilla found out about you there’d be no wedding, I can tell you. She wouldn’t be impressed with you draping yourself all over that Swedish girl. It was bordering on obscene. And she didn’t like it.’

  ‘I was drunk,’ his brother said, embarrassed. He couldn’t remember much about that night, no matter how hard he tried. Perhaps it was for the best, though he felt that James was deliberately exaggerating, sticking the knife in.

  On top of the rock the two brothers glared at each other, as they had done ever since Martin, the younger by ten months, had been born. Life had been one great competition ever since, the younger child catching up with his brother in walking, talking, running, climbing and finally overtaking, although he’d remained the shorter of the two. They were endlessly competitive in everything they did, which naturally led to frequent confrontations and sometimes dangerous situations – this had the potential to escalate into one. And then, quite spontaneously, as suddenly as it had sprung up, the squall was over. They grinned at each other, slapped each other’s backs.

  ‘OK,’ James said. ‘It might be worth just checking out the B&B in Rudyard. We’ll go tonight. Have a drink at the hotel there. See if we can find out more about Annabelle and Dorothée. If they’re still around we can chase them up. Track them down. Offer them a lift if they’re still on their hitchhiking holiday.’ He scanned the moorland scene. ‘Maybe we’ll hit lucky.’

  FOUR

  They had continued with the walk hand in hand, Matthew stopping every few steps to study Jo’s face, a frown puckering his normally neutral features. ‘Are you sure about this, Jo?’

  She turned to face him, for once not backing away from awkward topics. ‘I’ve been thinking about it since before we were married,’ she said. ‘It’s inevitable.’ She touched the golden hairs on his arm and looked into his face. ‘How can I deny you the chance of being a father again?’

  How indeed? he was wondering. She could hear the doubt in his voice. He kicked a stone. ‘But what about you? Won’t you resent it?’

  She couldn’t look at him now. ‘It’ll be a—’

  ‘Sacrifice?’ he put in perceptively.

  ‘I was thinking more a change,’ she lied.

  ‘And work?’

  She had to be honest. ‘I shan’t want to take much time off.’

  ‘There are practical considerations, then.’ It was typical of Matthew to cut straight to the bone. She nodded. They walked a little further, in silence now, their thoughts diverging. Matthew was excited at the prospect of a son. A child, he corrected himself, but the idea of a son made him more than happy. At his side, Joanna was contemplating the future with dread. The word sacrifice had been the correct one. As usual, Matthew had put his finger right on the painful, throbbing pulse.

  Then she turned to look at him. His hair was catching the sunlight. It had been the first thing she had noticed about him – his tawny tousled hair as he had bent over his work, performing a post-mortem on an elderly woman who had been bludgeoned to death. He had looked up, perhaps sensing her nausea and revulsion at the work his hands were doing as he explored the damage caused by each blow. And as he had watched her, his green eyes had lit up with fun, or mischief, or happiness. Possibly even sympathy for her state. In his eyes there was something that made the light dance, like will-o’-the-wisps or the strange and ethereal Northern lights. But those same eyes could also look stormy or angry or simply sad. And there was a tinge of that sadness in them as he returned her stare. She knew he wished she could have been more excited at the prospect of trying for a child together as one, bonded by their wedding vows.

  She returned to the past.

  The day they’d met, she’d noticed his full mouth and the memory of what she’d thought when she’d noted its shape still made her blush. The chin shaped so square and determinedly uncompromising had been the last thing she’d thought about the pathologist – before the nausea had taken over and she had puked up in the sink, furthering his merriment. But it was that last feature, his chin, which dominated his character. That stubborn streak.

  He had started to walk ahead but now he turned. ‘What are you thinking, Jo?’

  She tried to laugh it off as she shook her head. ‘Nothing, really.’

  ‘Nothing?’ he queried, still with that searching, curious study of her. And when she did not answer he continued with the conversation. ‘When were you thinking of …’ his mouth twitched, ‘… starting this new venture?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m not pregnant yet.’

  Matthew grinned, his eyes shining green. ‘Well, babies have to be made, you know?’

  She entered into the silliness of it to disguise her discomfort. ‘Really?’

  ‘Aha. And no time like …’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she warned, looking around her at the sunny-day crowds.

  ‘No one’s looking,’ he put in.

  ‘Matthew, if you think I’m being arrested on the charge of indecent behaviour you’ve …’

  He was joking. His face leaked nothing but fun and happiness, which made her feel apprehensive.

  ‘Would you be disappointed if it was another …’

  But even the word, another, brought its ghosts. ‘I wonder how Eloise will take it,’ he mused, and she could have supplied the answer.

  Not well. Eloise, her tricky stepdaughter, now a medical student, took nothing well in which Joanna Piercy was involved. She still blamed her for her parents’ marital breakup.

  They walked on, crossing the dam head, heading towards the visitor centre – a stone boathouse. Dinghies for hire were pulled up on the shore and the man was doing brisk business. They stopped at the ice-cream stall where a fres
h-faced youth was observing them.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Two ninety-nines, please,’ Matthew said.

  The youth grinned. ‘Right away, sir,’ he said, practically touching his cap. He had an appealing face, cheeky, naive and engaging, a girl’s rosy-cheeked complexion with large, cow-brown eyes. He extruded the ice cream into two cones, stuck a Cadbury’s flake in each, handed one to Joanna and the other to Matthew, and winked at them.

  ‘Enjoy,’ he said.

  His manner was so pleasant that they thanked him, turned away and sat on the seat overlooking the lake, watching a couple ineptly spin a rowing boat around and around to the accompaniment of giggles from the shore and an angry exchange in the vessel. The girl stood up, almost capsizing the boat. Sails billowed as the yachts tacked up and down the lake in a fresh breeze, a couple of near collisions resulting in shrieks and squeals which bounced over the water towards them. Dogs barked, children shouted. There was the sound of splashing.

  ‘The English at play on a beautiful late summer’s day,’ Matthew murmured, biting into his flake and licking right around the cone with a tongue as long as a lizard’s.

  ‘Perfect,’ Joanna said, doing the same. When they’d finished their ice creams she nestled into him on the wooden seat. ‘Just perfect.’ But Matthew was gazing across the water, his eyes unfocused, his attention somewhere else. ‘You OK?’

  He turned to face her. ‘I’m just worried,’ he said. ‘Motherhood. It isn’t what you really want, is it, Jo?’

  She couldn’t lie. ‘No.’

  ‘I’m just worried that you’ll resent the sacrifice. Hold it against me if things don’t work out. Every time the child cries or is sick or disturbs our night’s sleep. It’s what they do, you know, babies.’