Guilty Waters

by Priscilla Masters

  And so she had dressed up tonight as an indication of her new attitude. A couple of weeks ago she had treated herself to a very expensive new dress and some smart black court shoes and tonight, instead of dressing down in her usual skinny jeans and top with boots, she had decided, for once, to dress like a lady, which Matthew loved. Like many men he loved to see his wife in a skirt, legs on display. And more than once he had commented that with all the cycling she did which had toned her legs, it was an awful shame to see them encased in denim. So she was dressed not only to indulge her love of clothes but also to please her husband, and hopefully not displease her stepdaughter. As she slipped it over her head she had to admit that her new dress was unusual, with a panel of silky material in a rainbow effect down the front with plain black sides and the clever stitched effect of a black bolero over it. The shoes were skyscrapers, rather appropriately designed by Paris Hilton, black patent with a silk bow on the front. She wriggled her toes. And she could walk in them – well, just about. Unlike the TV detectives she wasn’t sure she’d manage to run in them, though. One false step, she thought, as she almost tripped down the stairs, and you’d twist your ankle.

  On the drive over she was quiet, pondering on the significance of this mid-week assignation. This was unusual for Eloise. Usually she came to Waterfall Cottage, liking the village and the walks nearby through the moorlands. She tended to come over at the weekends or more truthfully for weekends rather than in the week. For her to suggest they come over to this end of town on a Wednesday evening was different.

  Joanna was also thinking about the two French girls playing hooky and not letting their mothers know where they were or where they were heading. She smiled. She sure as hell wouldn’t like to be them when they faced their mothers again, although Dorothée’s mother appeared a bit more easy-going than Cécile Bellange, who struck her as a rather intense woman. Come to that, Joanna wouldn’t mind giving them a bloody ticking off too for wasting police time, although she had to admit she hadn’t spent a lot of time investigating the girls’ disappearance, and the climb at the Roaches had been an exhilarating bonus. She hadn’t done too badly. Maybe she and Matthew would even get into letterboxing themselves.

  Her smile broadened as she recalled where the embryonic case had taken them. Following a pair of fit legs up a rock face hadn’t seemed like hard work – nor the ice creams she had shared with Korpanski on the lake side. Then there had been the creepy proprietor of the bed and breakfast and the brothers who had unsuccessfully made chase. She gave a little chuckle. She couldn’t go around arresting people simply on account of their being creepy.

  Matthew looked across, his eyes warm. ‘What are you giggling about?’

  She told him a summarized version, and he, too, found it amusing and said maybe they’d better stay at home instead of risking a weekend at a creepy bed and breakfast.

  ‘What made him so creepy?’

  That was always difficult to put into words. She tried anyway. ‘I don’t know. He was a bit Uriah Heap with funny eyes, sweating and looking guilty when he shouldn’t have had anything to worry about. But it appears the girls simply left Mandalay and headed for London. Typical teenage girls,’ she said.

  ‘Thank goodness Eloise was always fixated on getting to medical school,’ was his response.

  They had reached Hanchurch roundabout, turning left then right at the traffic lights, over junction fifteen of the M6 and out on to the A53 towards Whitmore.

  The Mainwaring Arms was a small pub popular with the locals and the hoi polloi of Newcastle-under-Lyme. It had recently opened a smart wine bar at its rear, which was where they were booked in.

  Eloise was already sitting down when they arrived, a little late, as there had been a holdup on the ‘D’ road. Pale and thin, with very blonde hair and her mother’s sharp, angular features, Matthew’s daughter was a final year medical student; it wouldn’t be long before she qualified. Another Dr Levin.

  Tonight, unlike Joanna, she had not dressed up – her hair was hanging loose, a little rat-tailed. She looked tired and was toying with a glass of water. Water? Or gin? She looked distracted as they approached and her father picked up on this. He touched Joanna’s arm as they reached the table, his face taut with concern. Joanna’s guess was that Eloise Levin had been studying too hard for her finals, burning the candle at both ends, but working rather than partying. She would give the girl that. Like her father, Eloise was conscientious and took her studies very seriously. When she stood up to give her father a kiss, Joanna noted that she had lost weight, and this was emphasized by the patched jeans she was wearing and a baggy grey sweater that did nothing for her pale complexion. Eloise embraced her father and aimed a cursory nod in Joanna’s direction – her customary greeting. If that.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’ She gave him a kiss.

  Joanna dropped into one of the chairs opposite and watched Matthew kiss his daughter back, both cheeks, before holding her at arms’ length then sitting down and teasing her about the patches on her jeans, which he knew were a fashion statement.

  He tweaked her shoulder. ‘Aren’t we giving you enough of an allowance?’

  Eloise gave a weak smile and didn’t bother to respond to the tease, just opened the menu with the statement: ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘Obviously not, then,’ Matthew said, still smiling and not abandoning his tease, even though it was patently boring his daughter, ‘if you can’t afford to eat or clothe yourself.’

  Her response was … Joanna kept her eyes on the girl: nothing.

  Eloise simply kept her eyes on the menu, averting her father’s gaze. To Joanna it appeared rude. But then nothing his daughter said or didn’t say could or ever had tipped Matthew into ill humour. Though tinged with guilt for having left her mother, Matthew simply adored his daughter. As was Matthew’s way, when he gave his love it was absolute – without dilution or compromise. His love for Joanna indicated that, so how could she complain when his daughter received the same degree of affection?

  And the son he so badly wanted? Joanna watched him through lowered eyelashes. Yes. That son – or even second daughter – would receive no less.

  Matthew continued to smile as he too picked up the menu and studied it.

  They ordered their meal and a bottle of wine. Matthew kept glancing across at them both, from one to the other, from wife to daughter and back again. Joanna knew he wanted to comment on Eloise’s appearance, ask if everything was all right, but there is nothing more annoying when you consider yourself an adult than a parent asking if you are all right. Matthew knew this and was wise enough to resist the temptation.

  But halfway through the meal, having watched Eloise push her food round and round the plate, he couldn’t help himself. ‘I thought you were hungry,’ he said sharply.

  Joanna had hoped he hadn’t realized what Eloise was up to, the fork hardly touching her mouth, the food uneaten, simply played with.

  His daughter looked up, bones prominent in her face. ‘Don’t fuss, Dad.’

  Matthew bit his lip, didn’t look at Joanna but frowned into his plate, took a determined gulp of wine and was quietly thoughtful. Minutes later he looked up, bright again and hopeful. ‘How would you feel, Eloise,’ he asked enthusiastically, ‘if you had a new brother?’ He paused before adding, ‘Or sister?’

  After a brief startled, panicky look at Joanna, who gently shook her head, Eloise fumbled for words. ‘We-ell,’ she began. But Joanna had already read it. Anger, hostility. Rage, even. And the heat of that surprised and shocked her. She felt a brief pang, the tiniest sliver of pity, for this child, as yet not even conceived. Poor little thing, she thought. A mother who was distinctly unenthusiastic for the honour, a father who made a demand on its sex and a stepsister who positively hated the idea of its existence. What would Matthew do if he had another daughter instead of the longed-for son? And what if the son did not live up to his father’s masculine expectations?

  Joanna toyed with her own food. It was all very
well for DS Mike Korpanski to tell her that she would love the child – if not from conception – the moment she held it in her arms. It was fine for him to reassure her that all mothers always did. It was natural. What if it wasn’t for her? Was she then unnatural? Korpanski had assured her that she would nurture and care for it without a second thought. But what if …?

  The evening remained subdued. Eloise hardly ate a thing. Matthew was fidgety, doing his best to avoid mentioning his concern for his daughter and Joanna, as always, felt outside the family circle, an uninvited and unwelcome intruder, someone who peeped in through the window but was left outside, feeling as cold as she had when she had stood on the top of the Roaches a week ago.

  THIRTEEN

  Matthew was quiet all the way home, which was not a good sign. Joanna kept glancing across at him. His face was set, his hands gripping the steering wheel unnecessarily hard. Her husband was generally a chatty, communicative man, particularly after spending time with Eloise. He would comment proudly on her progress at medical school, repeat remarks she’d made and chuckle at some of the funnier things she’d said. Generally he had plenty to say – except when he had something on his mind, like now. He appeared deep in thought and after a few attempts at conversation Joanna gave up. She didn’t dare broach the subject of Eloise. Anything she said about the girl was often open to misinterpretation. So she too remained quiet.

  It wasn’t until they reached home and were having a goodnight drink on the sofa that Matthew finally spoke. ‘She’s not eating properly, is she?’ Before Joanna could find a suitable response he carried on: ‘I don’t know what to do, Jo.’

  She put her arms around him. ‘Matt,’ she said, ‘you and Eloise have always been close. You can talk.’ Her suggestion almost stuck in her throat but she said it anyway. ‘Perhaps,’ she said tentatively, ‘you might think about meeting up with her – on your own one night – and ask her then what the matter is because …’ she ploughed on regardless, ‘… something must be wrong.’

  She looked into his troubled face and felt a wash of pity. Matthew’s guilt always made him feel he had let his beloved daughter down, somehow. She carried on: ‘Eloise was never fat, you know. She’s always been pretty slim but now – well – I agree. She is looking too thin,’ she finished lamely.

  Luckily for her, Matthew took her comment the right way. He gave her a hug. ‘Thanks,’ he said. His positive response encouraged her to say more.

  ‘Maybe it’s boyfriend trouble or the pressure of the exams coming up. You know how it is.’

  He nuzzled her neck. ‘Hmm,’ he said, then moved away so he could stare into her face. ‘Boyfriend trouble?’

  She laughed and after a moment he joined her.

  ‘Children,’ he said. ‘Nothing but trouble.’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Now, time for bed,’ he said, smiling and setting his glass down.

  Thursday, 3 October, 10 a.m.

  Charlotte had arrived in Staffordshire that morning and the fine weather and sense of absolute freedom made her want to whoop for joy. Unfettered in her silver Skoda Yeti Adventure, she felt as free as the proverbial bird. She didn’t even think about Shona and Stan tying the knot in Italia. She turned the radio up full. Andrew Gold’s ‘Never Let It Slip Away’. Oops! She just had. But to salve her conscience she had sent them a lovely card and lodged £200 in the appropriate John Lewis account. Now she could wash her hands of the past and focus on the future. Perhaps tacky pop songs said it all. Love is all around – indeed. They should be so lucky!

  Joanna had plenty of other cases to occupy her mind and it was easy to forget about the two girls. The weather had remained dry. The level of the lake had dropped. From being a sparkling body of water reflecting summer sunshine it had changed to a sullen shallow basin with a sticky muddy edge. At weekends the train continued to thrill the children whatever the weather as September had melted into October. The screams of delight and the toot toot of the cheerful little engines were heard by Barker as he stood on the edge of the lawn that sloped gently in the direction of the lake, almost tipping him into it. He stood staring at the water’s surface, which seemed to him teeming with life. It was full of day trippers, canoeists and inexpert sailors, quite apart from the people at the water’s edge frolicking and shouting, dogs barking, the ice-cream vendor’s tinkle tune playing, children screaming. He felt invaded. He shuddered, recalling another poem that had always haunted him: ‘The Last Chantey’ and the words, Shall we gather up the sea?

  What if the lake dried up completely? As he stared at the waters and saw the clouds reflected, it was as though he could peer right down, down, down. To the bottom.

  Barker scooped in a panicky deep breath. He still didn’t know what to do with the rucksacks. It was a problem that still sat on his shoulders, a bird of gloom weighing him down. He had the wild idea of hurling himself down the lawn, straight into the mud and the water to lie on the bottom himself. He was frightened. Thank goodness the police had left him alone. He wasn’t sure his nerves would have stood another visit. The big guy had been intimidating but, in spite of her attractive face, the woman had been even more so. The way she had fixed him with her cold blue stare had seemed to pierce his brain like a bolt of electricity and shatter it into a thousand brittle shards. He had been convinced she could read his mind. He stood, still on the lawn, motionless for minutes, his mind swimming through the waters, and then he heard a noise from inside the house and turned. Now he had a new guest. Charlotte, she had said her name was, and she was travelling alone. He had put her in the twin-bed room where he and Supi-yaw-lat could watch over her. Barker turned away from the lake back towards Mandalay. He must not neglect his new guest.

  Upstairs, he pressed his eye to the hole in the wall. Charlotte had returned to her room and was now simply lying on the bed, her shoes thrown off. They lay as they had been thrown, drunkenly between the two beds. Her feet were bare, the small toe nails painted. She was still wearing her jeans and sweater. The window was open and she was reading from a Kindle. She looked peaceful and relaxed, as though she didn’t have a care in the world. Barker watched and envied her.

  She wasn’t exactly a beautiful woman but she looked strong and yet feminine. Hard breasts, flat stomach, long legs. But it was her little jewelled toe nails that held his attention. Barker had felt a fascination with women’s feet ever since he had read an account of foot binding in China. The idea of the tiny bones smashed – all for the weird desires of men – was quite disgusting. These feet were healthy and beautiful. There was a tiny tattoo of a rose on her ankle bone, and her toe nails were red as though blobs of blood had been dropped on them. Charlotte had the most beautiful feet he had ever seen in his life. Barker smiled. This would console him for his recent difficulty.

  He wondered about Supi-yaw-lat’s feet and decided that they would be small, undamaged and decorative.

  Thursday, 3 October, 2 p.m.

  It had taken them ages to find a place to hang their picture. Waterfall Cottage was not big and the slanting ceilings upstairs robbed them of hanging wall space, but the wall facing the front door had been available. When they had finally decided to hang it there Matthew had banged in a picture hook and then stood back to admire his handiwork. He turned around and grinned at her. ‘It’s a lovely day,’ he said, ‘I’m surprised you’re not out on your bike.’

  ‘I just fancied being at home for a change,’ she said. ‘And I’m owed so much overtime that the force don’t want to pay me for I thought I may as well have an afternoon at home.’

  Matthew raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

  Friday, 4 October, 11 a.m.

  Charlotte was tackling her first climb. It wasn’t an arduous one – no need for ropes and crampons. Simply good handholds and footholds. And confidence.

  Joanna and Mike were working in their office, not only cramped but with the depressing view towards a brick wall that made Joanna feel closed in. ‘Mike,’ she said tentat
ively.

  He swivelled his chair around to face her.

  ‘What if I don’t like the child?’

  He grinned at her, reminding her of a big grizzly bear. Big square shoulders, dark eyes, black hair and a wide grin. He was the sort of man who would crush you in a bear hug. ‘’Course you’ll like it, Jo,’ he said. ‘It’s like a feeling of warm honey – the minute you look at your own flesh and blood blended with Matthew’s. It’s magical. And,’ he added, ‘the love, it just happens. I keep telling you but believe me, Jo, it just does.’

  But she didn’t feel reassured by his confidence. She continued to frown into her computer screen, tense and anxious. Then the call came.

  ‘Madame Piercy?’ She recognized the voice at once.

  ‘Madame Bellange,’ she responded politely. ‘I thought you had returned to Paris.’

  ‘I have, madame detective. I am calling from Paris now.’

  ‘Then what can I do for you?’

  ‘We have heard nothing more,’ she said, ‘from either Annabelle or Dorothée.’

  Joanna’s heart sank. She gave Korpanski a quick, despairing look.

  ‘But, madame, the girls were in London. You should speak to the Metropolitan Police now. There’s nothing I can do from up here.’