The Perfect Girl

by Lorna Dounaeva

  Stavely pursed his lips. “Well, if you remember anything, anything at all, please give me a ring. You’ve got my card.”

  Jock watched as he got up and walked towards the door. Just before he opened it, he turned back and addressed the room.

  “Constable Wesley’s down at the village hall organising a search party,” he said. “It would be great if you could show him some support.”

  He didn’t fix on anyone in particular. His comment seemed to be directed at everyone in the room. Yet Jock felt like he was probably the intended target.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, jumping to his feet. At last, something he could do.

  I walk among the search teams; brush shoulders with the locals as they hunt for their missing May Queen. I hug my secret to my chest. I like being here, among them, knowing what I know.

  It’s starting to grow dark as we move down the footpath towards the canal. The villagers are raucous and hot-headed, disinclined to listen. Despite Wesley’s attempts to separate us into groups, there are still way too many of us. I get kneed in the back by a woman with a baby strapped to her chest. She smiles apologetically and I pretend to coo at the baby, but honestly, I can’t understand why she’s making such a martyr of herself. She ought to be sitting at home in front of the TV with half a bottle of wine in her belly, and that baby ought to be tucked up safe in bed.

  I smother a laugh as someone stumbles over a mooring rope. The water down there is cold and bleak, just perfect for a drowning. We are getting close now and the feeling of adrenaline is building up inside me. I expect the police dogs to sniff it out right away. They stop right outside the lock keeper’s cottage. But then one of the handlers spots another trail and they are off, leading the dogs further and further away from the truth.

  “Wrong way!” I want to shout after them.

  Only one solitary figure lingers beside the canal path and I’m betting he has no idea of the significance. Someone should take pity on him, throw him a bone. But he won’t get it from me. Because I’m not telling.

  “They’ve found something!” someone yelled. “Down on the railway tracks!”

  Jock watched in amazement as the entire party surged towards the railway. He stood in the doorway of a little cottage and waited for them to pass. It was only as the last of the group scurried off that the words reached his brain. Had they found the body?

  “What is it?” he asked a woman at the back of the throng.

  “Do I know you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes with suspicion.

  He opened his mouth to reply but her friend butted in. “Whatever it was, it was small enough to fit in one of those evidence bags,” she said.

  They hadn’t found her then. That was all he needed to know. He looked up at the heavens. The promised rain had never come. Instead, the sky was splattered with stars, far more than he had ever seen in London. Part of him wanted to stay out all night. How could he possibly rest until he knew Sapphire was safe? But another part of him had already admitted defeat. His presence here wasn’t adding anything. He was cold and miserable, and sick of the way the locals kept staring at him. He might as well call it a night.

  He turned back, trying to remember which way he had come. He had never had much sense of direction. He spotted a road sign up ahead, but it was in Welsh. There ought to have been an English equivalent, especially given that this was the English side of the border, but it had probably been stolen. He tried the GPS on his phone, but that was useless, too. He would have to go with his gut. He took the country lanes at a pace. He wasn’t built to rush. He rarely even broke a sweat. But the panic was growing inside of him, billowing out like the endless darkness. He should never have left the group. There was no knowing who or what was out here.

  Sapphire’s tea shop was still open when he finally reached the village. He peered in. Angie and Bronwyn were making drinks and sandwiches to fuel the search teams. Bronwyn’s tears were all gone now, he noticed, as she carried a tray of pastries out of the kitchen. She looked strong and determined, managing a smile for the weary volunteers. Angie’s eyes, by contrast, were red and raw, as if she had spent the entire time since he had last seen her peeling onions.

  “Any news?” he asked, helping himself to a paper cup of lemon squash.

  “No, nothing,” she said. “They found a shoe down on the railway tracks but it turns out it belongs to a member of the search party.”

  “How did they manage to lose a shoe?” he asked.

  “Some of them were carrying hip flasks. I think they got a bit tiddly.”

  “Ah.”

  He hung around, staring at the wall as he nibbled on a slice of Battenberg. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he needed something to occupy his hands. He looked round as the last of the searchers came in and devoured the food like a plague of locusts. PC Wesley was amongst them. Jock watched as he accepted the cup of tea Angie pressed into his hands.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “That’s it for the night,” he said. “We’ll resume the search in the morning.”

  “By then it will be too late,” she said, a tear rolling down her cheek. “The longer she’s missing, the less likely it is she’ll be found. Isn’t that true?”

  “We’re doing our best,” he told her.

  If only that were enough.

  Jock felt a strange ache in his stomach as he left the tea shop. Probably, it was caused by eating too much cake, but the rest of his body ached, too. He walked across the cobbled street and saw that the lights were still on at the Dragon.

  “Lock the door behind you,” said Neil. “We’re closed.”

  Jock did as he was told.

  “You’re welcome to have a drink, all the same,” he said, pouring himself a pint of ale.

  “Thanks.”

  Jock was dog-tired but his body still buzzed with adrenaline.

  “Been out on the search?” asked Dylan, the only other person at the bar.

  He nodded.

  “I hope they find her,” he said, “but I don’t like the chances.”

  “It’s only been a few hours,” Jock argued.

  “Long enough for a May Queen.”

  Jock rubbed his eyes. “You think Peter Helston was innocent?”

  “Anything’s possible.” Dylan looked at him with scrutiny. “You look like crap. Can I get you a pint?”

  Jock attempted a smile. “I’m in a pub aren’t I?”

  “So what are you drinking?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  “OK. Two pints of Welshman’s Ruin, please,” Dylan said to Neil. “And a couple of shots of Venom.”

  Neil smiled a sadistic smile as he produced a bottle with no label from under the bar. Jock watched as he poured the dark liquid into two shot glasses then filled two pint glasses with beer: half larger, half brown ale. Good, he could drink ale. But now what was he doing? He watched as he took two more shot glasses and filled them with scotch, dumping one neatly in each pint.

  “Here you go, lads.”

  Jock grimaced at the choice, but dutifully accepted his pint and shot.

  “You’re buying the next round,” Dylan informed him, as they clinked shot glasses. He held his nose and downed it. Jock did his best to match him then took a big slug of his pint.

  “Well?” Neil asked. “How is it?”

  Jock shuddered.

  “Tastes like dragon’s piss,” Dylan said, laughing. He glanced wickedly at Jock. “We’ll have another round.”

  “I haven’t finished this one yet,” he protested. “And can’t we just have a normal pint?”

  “Not on your Nellie. We’ve started with the shots, so that’s how we’ll go on.”

  “Can we at least make them Sambucas?”

  “Are you wimping out on me?”

  “Yeah, I think I am.”

  Dylan shook his head, but he was probably bluffing. No one could drink a second round of that stuff. Not unless they had a second liver.

  The suitc
ase is a dead weight as we wheel it along the canal path towards the boat. I almost jump out of my skin as a man approaches us, carrying a broom.

  “Morning!” he calls, blocking our path.

  “Morning,” we chorus, neither one of us making eye contact.

  “What you got in there?” he asks nosily. “Must be heavy if it takes two of you to push it!”

  “Books,” I smile condescendingly. “Lots of old books.”

  “You look like you could use a hand.”

  “No, it’s fine. We can manage.”

  “Really, it’s no trouble.”

  To my horror, I realise the May Queen is moving, squirming about inside the suitcase. The idiot doesn’t appear to have noticed, but the moment he does, it’s all over. I fight the urge to shove him into the canal. But it’s not in my nature to be careless. I’ve been so meticulous. I’m not about to slip up now.

  He hovers at my side, not actually helping at all in any real sense. He just wants company, I suppose. Fleckford has turned into a village of gimps. I don’t know where they’ve all come from; it’s as if someone popped the lid off the sewer and they all bobbed up to the surface in a flood of human excrement: the May Day anarchists, the rubber-necking tourists and the worst of the lot, the journalists. They’re just about everywhere, taking up so much room I can barely breathe.

  Between us, we heave the suitcase onto the boat and our helper ‘helps’ further by untying our mooring ropes and flinging them back to us in a pale imitation of a cowboy. Why do people take it upon themselves to interfere like this? He’s still watching as we pull away. Watching and waving, because he clearly has nothing better to do. I sit down on the suitcase, to keep it still as the boat starts up. The May Queen is wriggling inside. Must be time to knock her out again.

  6

  Jock awoke with a bad case of Welsh flu. The alcohol had put him into a heavy sleep, which he wouldn’t otherwise have managed. But now he could feel it stripping away the lining of his stomach. He drank one pint of orange juice and one of liquid aspirin, then settled down in front of the toilet to disengage with his insides. He emerged weak and empty.

  He traipsed downstairs, past Dylan, who was inexplicably still at the bar where he had left him.

  “Man, you look like you’ve just given birth to a ferret!” Dylan chuckled.

  Jock grimaced. “How come you’re so chipper?”

  “I can take it, my friend. I can take it.”

  He glanced up at the TV, which was tuned to the BBC. “Have they found her?” he asked.

  Dylan shook his head. “They haven’t even drained the canal yet.”

  Jock swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

  “She’s been missing for twenty-four hours,” Dylan said. “Trust me, something’s happened.”

  He might have had more to say on the subject, but Jock couldn’t bear to hear it. He walked across the cobbles to the tea shop. The window was boarded up with wooden planks. They were like bandages, covering the gaping hole where the glass had been. Out here in the sticks, it would probably take days to repair. And just to add insult to injury, one of the letters had fallen off the sign, further contributing to the derelict appearance. You wouldn’t even know the shop was open if it weren’t for the words ‘Open as Usual’, written in large, spidery letters across the wood.

  He felt compelled to go in, but once inside, he just stood in the middle of the shop and stared. It no longer felt quaint and kitsch. It wasn’t just the shattered window; something fundamental had changed in the atmosphere. It was no longer a cosy, English tea room. It was poignant and tragic; the home of the missing May Queen, a voyeur’s paradise.

  “Has there been any news?” he asked when he got to the front of the queue.

  “No, nothing,” Angie said. “I don’t know any more than you do.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  She wiped her brow. “It’s not you, Jock. It’s all of these journalists badgering me with their bloody questions. They seem to think if they ask me enough times, I’ll trip up and tell them something. Except I don’t know what happened any more than they do. I wish I did.”

  “Are you sure you want to stay open?” he asked. “You must be under a lot of pressure.”

  “It’s what Sapphire would want,” she said, with an inadvertent glance at the cash register. Sapphire’s disappearance was good for business, he guessed. Too bad she wasn’t around to enjoy it.

  “Sorry, Jock. What can I get you?”

  “I’ll just have a glass of orange juice, please.” It was about all he could manage with a dicky tummy.

  She pasted a smile onto her face and poured his juice.

  “Here you go. Sorry about the wait.”

  He looked around for somewhere to sit. Every table seemed to be taken. He had just resolved to neck his juice and go, when he saw an elderly woman rise to her feet. The old man with her was putting his coat on. It looked like they were leaving. He moved towards their table and hovered at a polite distance, pretending to examine the pictures on the wall. But someone else wasn’t quite as discreet.

  “You off?” Dylan asked the woman.

  “Yes, we …”

  Before she could even finish her sentence, he parked himself in her seat. The woman puffed out her cheeks in distaste, but Dylan had no shame. He put his hands behind his head and leaned back in contentment.

  “Alright, Jock?” he called out. “I thought it was you! What are you doing skulking in the corner?”

  Jock mumbled something incomprehensible and wished the elderly couple would get a move on.

  “Oh, waiting for a table, were you?”

  How Dylan could decipher his mumble, Jock had no idea. He wasn’t entirely sure what he had said himself.

  “I was loitering by the table in the middle,” Dylan went on loudly. “They said they were leaving, but they’ve been gas-bagging for the last five minutes. On and on and on, they go. Hey, are you going to sit down or what?”

  “Just a sec.”

  He pretended to struggle with the toggles on his coat while the elderly man shuffled away on his Zimmer frame. Oh, to be like Dylan and not have to worry about social graces! How easy his life must be!

  He sat down and drank his orange juice. A couple of minutes later, Morgan trudged over and dumped a pot of tea and a plate of teacakes in front of Dylan. She looked like she would have happily dumped them in his lap. Did she have something against Dylan, he wondered, or was she just feeling on edge after yesterday?

  “Another cup for my good friend here,” Dylan said brightly. “Go on, have a teacake, Jock. They’re scrumptious.”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” he protested, but Dylan plonked one on a plate for him anyway.

  He took a bite. It was nice: warm and buttery. Maybe it was just what he needed.

  “I bet she’s filthy,” Dylan murmured, as Morgan slinked away. “You can see it in her eyes.”

  Jock reddened. “Keep your voice down, will you? She’ll hear you!”

  Dylan shrugged. “Not really my type, anyway. Bit too sullen.”

  A bit too young, Jock thought.

  He took another bite of his teacake. “How did you get served so quickly anyway? The queue’s practically out the door.”

  Dylan laughed. “Well, for a start, I never queue. It’s against my religion.” He touched the side of the teapot. “Shall I be mother?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he splashed a little milk into each of their cups then poured the tea.

  “Cheers!” he said, toasting Jock with his cup.

  Jock didn’t have the energy to argue. His mind had drifted back to the last few moments before he lost sight of Sapphire. How fast she had gone, running as if her life depended on it. His best hope was that she was still out there, hiding somewhere, until it was safe to return. He couldn’t bear to think of any other possibility.

  Dylan slurped his tea and wolfed down the rest of his teacakes.
Once he had finished, he rose to his feet.

  “You off?” Jock asked.

  “Yeah, got to see a man about a dog. See you at the Dragon later?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Dylan’s departure seemed a little abrupt until Angie came over with the bill. It was only then that Jock realised he hadn’t left any money. Cheeky bugger! He would have to foot the bill himself.

  “You and Dylan are getting along then?” she asked, as she picked up the empty plates.

  “I suppose so,” he said.

  At least Dylan’s shenanigans helped take his mind off Sapphire.

  “You know him well?” he asked. He considered telling her what had happened, but he was too embarrassed. Best not make a fuss.

  “Oh, everybody knows Dylan,” she said with a ghost of a smile.

  “How come?”

  “Well, for one thing, he’s always in here.”

  “Doesn’t he have a job?”

  “Don’t you?!”

  He rolled his eyes. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

  “Sorry.” She tucked a strand of her honey-blonde hair behind her ears. “Actually, he’s on gardening leave.”

  “Why?”

  “He had a very stressful job. Are you always this nosey?”

  “Just got an enquiring mind.”

  “Ah, is that what it is?”

  He poured himself the last cup of tea from the pot and glanced towards the kitchen, remembering how Sapphire had walked out the first time he had seen her. How beautiful she had looked. How perfect. He had a sudden revelation that his sickness wasn’t just from the alcohol. He was suffering withdrawal symptoms. He was addicted to her and he had no idea if he was ever going to see her again. A fresh wave of nausea hit and he hunched over, waiting for it to pass.

  Once the sickness had eased off a bit, he fished a pad and pen from his bag. If anything could take his mind off her, it was his writing. He didn’t think he could bear to look at his laptop right now, but that was OK. Sometimes he liked to write freehand; it helped the creative juices flow. He wrote quickly, his mind forming words faster than he could scribble them down. He poured all his confusion and grief into the book, diverting it into the plight of his amateur sleuth, Audrey Winifred, as she grappled with her latest case.