“Have you actually seen anything of the area?” Simon asked. “As far as I can gather, you’ve spent the whole time in here, typing away on your laptop and eating cake.”
Jock reddened. “I’ve been to the library! And Pepper Hill.”
“The Black Mountains are quite spectacular,” he said. “You can walk all day and not meet another soul. It feels like you have the entire mountain to yourself.”
“A bit too solitary for me,” Jock said. In fact, the idea of climbing up a mountain almost made him choke on his tea.
“I’d be happy to take you up there. Looks like I’ve got time on my hands.”
“I really don’t …”
Simon leaned closer. His eyes seemed to bore right into him. “Have you ever seen a red kite in its natural habitat?”
“No.”
“Nor have I, but I’d certainly like to.”
“You could try pony trekking,” interrupted Angie, setting Simon’s tea down in front of him. Jock let out his breath as Simon’s attention switched to Angie.
“There are some lovely rides over the Brecon Beacons,” she said brightly.
“I’m not much of a rider,” he confessed.
“What about the abbey?” Simon asked. “It’s really quite remarkable. It’s the final resting place of King Llewellyn, you know.”
“Maybe I’ll take a look,” he said, stifling a yawn. He wasn’t sure abbeys were really his bag either, but Simon had a point. He owed it to his readers to give them a proper flavour of the area. Maybe he could incorporate the abbey into his murder scene. The acoustics would be ideal for a high-pitched scream.
A little later, Simon excused himself to go and talk to Angie at the counter. Jock was glad; he wanted to speak to Dylan and he still wasn’t sure what to make of Simon.
“I think I’ve found something,” he confided, “about Sapphire.”
“Tell me,” Dylan said.
“You’re going to think it’s stupid.”
“Knowing you, it probably is.”
“Just listen, will you? I’ve looked at the documentary footage, along with the newspaper articles and anything else I can get my hands on. It looks to me like Sapphire is actually the sister of Claire Scutter, the last May Queen to go missing.” He paused. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
Dylan’s face was unreadable. “I didn’t say that; I just need to see some proof, that’s all.”
“I haven’t been able to find any proof. It just … looks that way.” He took a long sip of his tea and waited for Dylan to say something.
He didn’t.
“So what do you think?” he persisted. “Should I take this to DCI Stavely?”
Dylan narrowed his eyes. He actually looked kind of angry, though Jock had no idea why. “Absolutely not,” he said.
“Why not?”
Dylan rolled his eyes. “Because he’ll just sit on it, like the complete dipstick that he is.”
Jock frowned. “I know the police must get a lot of leads, but I might actually have something here …”
Dylan shook his head. “Don’t you get it, Jock? Stavely was the detective in charge of Claire Scutter’s investigation. And you heard him in that interview. This case is not linked to the others. He was emphatic. Do you really think he’s going to do a U-turn?”
“But don’t you think he’ll want to know the truth?”
“Not necessarily, no. He might be more concerned about covering his own arse.”
“Wow! You have a really cynical view of the police, don’t you?”
Dylan laughed darkly. “I think I have a right to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
But Dylan just shook his head and pulled out his iPhone. The conversation was over.
Claire brought food and drink down to the cellar every day. But there was never enough to go round and rarely any conversation to go with it. More often than not, she managed to slip in while they were sleeping and leave before they awoke. Then one morning, just before dawn, Sapphire heard the key turn in the lock and saw the door softly pushed open. She thought about rushing forward and shoving her sister to the ground. But then she caught sight of the large dog behind her and decided against it.
“Claire?” she called, quietly enough so as not to wake the others.
Claire froze in the doorway.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“Just for a minute,” she pleaded. “I haven’t seen you in so long!”
“What is it, Gertrude?”
She winced at the name, but she couldn’t mind now. “I’ve been wondering,” she said. “When you came to the May Fair, why didn’t you escape? I mean, why didn’t you just run off into the crowd?”
Claire raised her face to look at her. “It wasn’t that simple. You don’t understand.”
“Explain it to me. Please …”
Claire drew a sharp breath. “They could have killed me five years ago,” she said. “And yet I’m still here.”
“You call this a life?”
“I’m living and breathing, aren’t I?”
“Wait!”
Claire was backing towards the door and Sapphire hadn’t said half of what she wanted to say.
“We need some things,” she said, desperately. “It’s so cold down here. Could you get us some blankets? And a bucket?”
“I’ll ask,” Claire said, “but I can’t promise anything.”
The door locked behind her.
Jock stood on platform 1, waiting for his train. His editor, Hilary, was in the area and wanted to see him. When she had asked about the best place to meet, he had suggested the cafe opposite the abbey. That way, he could pop in after, thereby killing two birds with one stone. It shouldn’t take too long to soak up the atmosphere of the place or at least enough to impress his readers. But he had to be careful that he didn’t let anyone talk him into taking a tour. He lived in mortal fear of guided tours; they bored the pants off him in much the same way as football matches and classical concerts.
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He would have liked to sit down, but a group of youths occupied the only bench on the platform. They were passing round a plastic bottle of drink and smoking something that smelt sweet and sickly. One of them poured some of the drink into a dish for the dog and they all laughed raucously as she lapped it up.
A train arrived and a young boy got off, trailing his bag along the ground behind him. Jock watched as he wandered up and down the station, stopping to look at various notices. The youths noticed, too. One of them stuck out a foot to trip him, but the boy just walked round him. The loudest one took off his baseball cap and Jock recognised him as Gold Tooth, the kid Dylan had fought with that day at Sapphire’s.
“Hey, what’s your name?” Gold Tooth called out to the young boy.
Don’t answer, thought Jock. Better to pretend you haven’t heard.
The boy pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’m Anthony,” he said.
“Too long. I’ll call you Ant,” said Gold Tooth.
“It’s just Anthony,” the boy said.
Gold Tooth got up and walked towards him. He was a few inches taller than Anthony and he pulled himself up to his full height.
“Are you stupid?” he asked.
“Actually, I’m in the top set for all my subjects,” Anthony informed him. “Except PE.”
The teenagers on the bench sniggered.
“Are you giving me attitude?” Gold Tooth asked. He took another step towards him, causing him to step backwards, towards the edge of the platform.
Jock swallowed. One more step and Anthony would fall off the edge. Anthony glanced round to see how close he was and his glasses slipped again. Before he could catch them, they had fallen down onto the train tracks.
“Go and get them!” Gold Tooth hissed.
“What?”
“You heard me. Go and get them.”
Anthony glanced desperately around, looking for a responsib
le grownup. But there was nobody but Jock. It was down to him. And he was paralysed with indecision. If he yelled for help, someone might come. But the teenage boys might turn on him instead and who knew what they might do. He zoomed in on the rusty, metal train track and shuddered. He started walking, heading purposefully towards the exit. Maybe there would be someone out there who could help.
He didn’t intend to look at Anthony or Gold Tooth; didn’t want them to know he was aware of their stand-off. But somehow, Anthony got to him. His young, vulnerable eyes screamed at him for mercy. He couldn’t just walk by. Heart pumping like crazy, he strode purposely towards the two boys.
“Have either of you got change for a twenty?” he asked. His voice came out louder than he had meant it to. He sounded more confident than he felt.
Gold Tooth spun round at the mention of money. “I have,” he said, his eyes narrowing. Leaving Anthony alone, he followed Jock towards the ticket machines. Jock had no idea what he was going to do next. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.
Gold Tooth leant towards him. “Hand it over!” His knife glinted in the sunlight.
18
“Are you deaf? Hand it over, Fatso!”
“I haven’t got it on me.”
“Don’t bullshit me!”
“I’m not! If you’ll just let me …”
Gold Tooth held the knife inches from his left eye.
“I’m going to count to three. One, two …”
“Three.”
A large shadow fell across them and suddenly, Gold Tooth was on the ground. The knife clattered to the floor beside him and a large foot kicked it hard, sending it all the way over the side of the platform and onto the railway tracks.
“Go and get it!” he boomed.
“It’s the May Queen Killer!” one of the teenagers shrieked, recognising Simon’s face. Despite his fear, Jock felt a twinge of satisfaction as the entire group legged it out of the station.
“Thanks, Simon!” he managed.
“No, thank you,” he said. He turned to Anthony. “Now, are you going to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”
Anthony looked down at his feet. “I was worried about you, Dad.”
Dad?
“What about your mum? She must be worried sick.”
Jock shook his head. “If you didn’t know he was coming, how did you know he was here?”
“He texted me as he got off the train,” Simon explained. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled. The voice on the other end was so loud, the phone seemed unnecessary.
“No, no I did not know he was coming! No, it was a complete surprise. Kym. Kym! Yes, yes, of course …”
“Here, she wants to speak to you,” he said to Anthony, without sympathy.
Anthony took the phone and nodded, even though the person on the other end couldn’t see. There were a lot of ‘but’s and ‘why can’t I’s and finally, a barely audible, “Sorry, Mum.”
“She says I’m to catch the first train back tomorrow,” he said, slipping the phone in his pocket. “Can’t I stay for half term?”
“I’ll speak to her,” said Simon, “when she’s had a chance to cool down. But I’m not promising anything, Anthony. What you did was really irresponsible.”
Jock didn’t hear the rest of the conversation because his train arrived at that moment. “Bye then. I’m just off to the abbey,” he called over his shoulder. But he wasn’t sure if Simon even heard.
Jock’s editor, Hilary, stood up as he walked into the cafe and shook his hand a little too firmly.
“I’m concerned, Jock,” she said, foregoing the usual pleasantries. “This book is nothing … nothing like anything you’ve written before. Your readers have come to expect a certain style, a certain pace. And this isn’t it.”
“I just think it’s time to shake things up a bit,” he said. He didn’t quite know how to explain it. How could he go back to writing cosy, suburban mysteries when Sapphire’s disappearance had thrown a shadow over his every waking moment? There was no going back. He was going dark and gritty and psychological. And he liked it.
Hilary flipped through the manuscript again. “It’s just not like you …” she muttered.
“But it is!” he insisted. “This book is more me, more real than anything I’ve ever written before.”
“It’s certainly very … raw,” she conceded. “I have to ask, Jock, are you feeling OK?”
“I’m fine,” he said, knowing with dread what was going to come next.
“Your mother rang me yesterday …”
“She has no business ringing you anymore,” he said through gritted teeth. “I represent myself now and that’s how it’s going to be from now on.”
“What about if I were to give you the number of a really great agent I know? Someone who represents several of the top authors in your genre?”
“Not interested,” he said. “I don’t need anyone else telling me what to do.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t do that, Jock. Don’t you want someone to help make your life a bit easier?”
He folded his arms. “I appreciate the suggestion, but I can manage.”
She smiled wryly. “It’s clear you’ve made up your mind.” She gave him one more quizzical look, as if sizing up his sanity. “Well, I must confess, Jock, I’m intrigued to see how this new direction of yours pans out.”
The bar was empty when Jock arrived at the Dragon that evening.
“Dylan not in tonight?” he asked Neil, who was watching women’s rugby on TV.
“What am I, his keeper?”
Jock shrugged. “Just asking.”
The smell of pine hung in the air as he trudged up the stairs to his room. He heard Dylan’s voice, loud and accusatory, coming from the landing:
“You’ve been in my room!”
Another voice, this time female: “I was just cleaning!”
“Well, don’t!”
He quickened his step, curious to see what was going on. Dylan had the look of a petulant toddler.
“Alright?” he asked, looking from Dylan to the cleaning lady.
“No!” Dylan snapped. “She’s messed everything up!”
And with that, he stormed up to his room and slammed the door.
Jock offered the cleaning lady an embarrassed smile and let himself into his own room, which now stank of bleach. His bed had been made and the dirty socks and underpants he had left in a heap on the floor were now folded in a neat pile on his pillow. He would have to change that pillowcase before he went to bed. He wondered if he should go and check on Dylan, but something told him to leave him alone. If Dylan was in a paddy, it was probably best to steer clear.
Claire pounces on me the minute I arrive. From the look in her eyes, you’d think it was years since my last visit.
“Where have you been?” she cries. “I thought something had happened to you.” Tears well up in her eyes.
“I’m fine,” I assure her, settling myself at the table. “Put the kettle on, will you?”
“Of course.”
“Make sure you wash the cups thoroughly,” I add. “I don’t want to catch anything.”
While she makes the tea, I open a packet of digestives and spread them out on a plate. Claire’s eyes light up. I suppose this is a bit of a treat for her.
“Well?” I ask. “How is she settling in?”
“Just as expected.”
I attempt eye contact, but there is too much hair hanging over her face. I eye her lank tresses with distaste. If I didn’t know she was a natural blonde, I would never have believed it.
“Has she said anything?” I ask.
“She’s still really confused.”
“Good. The less she remembers the better.”
“When are you coming again?” she asks with a shiver. She wraps her arms around herself. There is no heating in the warehouse, no way of keeping warm.
“When I can,” I say. I refuse to put a timescale on it. Claire can be so needy. Sh
e reminds me of a little puppy I had as a kid. He used to cling to my ankle every time I tried to leave the house. Granddad cured him of that with the butt of his rifle.
“Have you spent much time with her?” I ask her.
“I just bring her food and drink like you said.”
“And you take care to lock up after yourself?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Because if she gets out …”
“I know, I know. I’m very careful.”
Strangely, I believe her.
I watch in disgust as she takes a second biscuit, cramming it into her mouth before she has swallowed the first. She reaches for a third, but I slap her hand back.
“Now, greedy. Make sure you save some for our guest.”
The whole time I’m talking, her eyes flicker back and forth between the floor and the plate and I’m sure she’s just plotting to eat the rest of those biscuits. Just in case, I wrap up the remainder and pop them back in my bag.
“What about Sapphire?” she says.
“Here.” I place one solitary biscuit back on the plate. I’ll leave it to her discretion what she does with it, but I’d be surprised if it ever finds its way down to the cellar.
19
Jock switched on the news while he was getting dressed the next morning. It paid to know what kind of world he was about to step out into. For a moment, he couldn’t place the woman on the screen, but then he remembered. It was Gabriella’s mother, Daphne Helston, looking solemn but respectable in her dark green trouser suit.
“I think this is a vindication,” she was saying, “for us and for Peter. Peter is gone and yet May Queens are still going missing. Doesn’t this tell you something?”
The interviewer adjusted his tie. “But the police have repeatedly said that Sapphire Butterworth’s disappearance is not connected to the other missing May Queens. They’re looking for someone else.”
“But what if they’re wrong?” Daphne asked. “There haven’t been any May Queens for five years, so the killer’s had to wait that long. Someone that patient would be meticulous, someone who plans every last detail, someone who rarely makes mistakes. That’s the real reason they’ve never been caught. They planned to frame Peter and they did it well. It bought them a lot of time, but now they are ready to kill again.”
The Perfect Girl Page 13