He put the cups down.
‘Sorry, Sean. I’ve got to go. There’s another body on the Chasebridge Estate.’
Chapter Ten
As she turned the corner, Karen checked her messages. There was a text from Max to say he was cooking Sunday lunch. He had sent it at noon and it was now two o’clock. She walked into a silent house. The kitchen looked like foxes had broken in and burgled the place. The stripped chicken carcass lay on its side on the chopping board, the plates and glasses were still on the table, covered with cold, picked over food, and Arnold, the ginger cat, jumped down when he saw her and skulked away under the boiler.
It was nearly dark when they came back, muddy shoes running through the hall to greet her.
‘Take them off! Max! For goodness sake, they should take their shoes off on the front step!’
And it unravelled from there. Her voice was too harsh. She heard it too late. Ben started crying and Sophie sulked.
‘Welcome home, dear wife.’
Max hung his coat up and went into the front room. She followed him and stood in front of the television.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ve just cleared up, washed up and there’s a slice of cheese-on-toast, turning to rubber on the kitchen table, which I haven’t even got round to eating.’
‘Big deal’, Max counter-attacked. ‘I’ve had twenty-four hours of looking after the children, cooked a Sunday lunch, which you didn’t appear for, run round the park with a kite like an idiot, when frankly, I would rather have put my feet up and watched the rugby.’
‘Stop it, you two!’ Sophie walked into the living room. ‘You’re like a fucking soap opera.’
‘Don’t swear!’ They said together.
Sophie laughed first, then Max joined in. Karen told herself to smile, but she wasn’t feeling it. At bedtime, she tried to make it better with a story for Ben. He wanted ‘Owl Babies’, with its beautiful pictures of wide-eyed owls who miss their mummy. His hair smelled of shampoo, floppy and dark, soft under her nose.
After turning Ben’s light off, she stood in Sophie’s doorway, watching her daughter flick through a teen magazine. Sophie had become untouchable. Karen could sit on the end of her bed, if she was lucky, but only if Sophie was in the mood for a chat. Her skin reflected the pink shade of the bedside light and her lips were red from the wind, like a hand-tinted postcard of a silent starlet. There were girls of Sophie’s age on the files at work. Unaccompanied children, who’d slipped through the net, sometimes disappeared altogether. Names, ages, country of origin. Karen shivered. She tried to keep the two worlds apart but they seemed to be getting closer.
‘Mum? You can sit down. You’re really worried about Uncle Phil, aren’t you?’ Sophie pulled her earplugs out. The tinny whine of the MP3 player was still audible.
Karen sighed. ‘Yes. I am. But…’
‘He’ll be all right, won’t he? I couldn’t bear it if anyone else in this family was to die.’
Karen sat on the end of the bed and looked at Sophie. ‘Do you think about your sister?’
‘Sometimes. But I feel terrible Mum. I don’t really remember what she looked like.’
There was one picture of Cara on the mantelpiece. A tiny silver frame that often disappeared behind greetings cards or the children’s artwork. It was not a particularly good likeness. Cara asleep. Gone to sleep. The graveyard euphemism. There was a photo album, but Karen kept it in the back of the desk drawer. She knew its contents by heart: Cara in the hospital, red and slick from the birth, wrapped in blue; Cara’s eyes open, dark pools of unknown thought; Cara balanced in Sophie’s arms like a piece of precious porcelain; Cara beginning to smile. Whenever she felt strong enough to drill down into her soul – for it was excruciating - she would take it out. It was a beautiful pain actually, one that reminded her she was still alive, still feeling something.
‘Mum. You’re miles away.’ Sophie put down her magazine.
‘Remind me tomorrow, and I’ll show you the photo album.’
‘Of Cara?’
Yes. She needed to share it. Perhaps it would release the grip it had on her. She needed to make some space, now there was the potential for a new pain. If Phil wasn’t coming back, she would have to let Cara fade out, join the grandmother she never saw, in the shadows where we put those who’ve been dead the longest.
‘Does that mean I don’t have to go to school tomorrow?’
‘Oh my God, it’s Monday tomorrow.’ Uniforms, packed lunches, had Max even put the machine on?
By the time she’d finished all the Sunday night chores Max had gone to bed. Karen felt restless. She poured a large glass of red wine and headed for the little study next to the bathroom. She thought about the young PCSO in Doncaster and his confusion that she was something to do with a Chinese girl. She searched the Internet and it was all there on the Doncaster Gazette website: Mystery of Unknown Woman, and a sub-heading, Tragic Chinese Drug Death. There was a stiff police request for information about ‘a former refreshment vehicle in which the deceased had been living at the time of her death’. She wondered what that meant. The Chinese link was interesting; she might mention it to Jaz or his friend, Charlie Moon.
In bed, Max stirred and then woke fully. He held her tightly to his chest and kissed her head. She knew he wanted sex. She didn’t, not really, but it had been a while. Max pulled her on top of him and she hoped she didn’t give herself away. She tried hard to concentrate, to banish the faces and voices of her weekend. An image of the fat detective popped into her head. Burger, that was what the young officer had called him. She smiled at the rubbish pun. Max smiled up at her, and she closed her eyes. Eventually she let herself go with it, smoothed by the wine. As long as she kept her eyes closed, she could be held in the spell. But she couldn’t resist. Like Lot’s wife turning round, the shock of Max’s pale skin and his gaze, fixed on her left breast, nearly turned her to salt.
The next morning she was early for work, so she decided to walk. As she passed under Bootham Bar, the sun broke through the cloud and the Minster came into view. She never tired of it, especially at this time of day with nobody around. In the Minster Gardens a sign reminded the public that drinking alcohol was forbidden. She sat on the edge of one the benches, which was still damp from last night’s rain, and watched a man in a quilted anorak, shiny with dirt, begin his day with a long drink of Diamond White. Head-back and bottle-up, he almost breathed it in. She wondered if he’d been there all night. The dead girl in Doncaster was a heroin addict. She wondered about Phil. She knew he’d been into drugs, but not that sort. He smoked cannabis and she had to assume he’d done ecstasy, or something like it. He’d been into the dance scene for long enough. It had all passed her by somehow; she hoped it would pass Sophie by too.
Jaz wasn’t in the office. She looked at her ‘to do’ list and tried to clear a space in her brain for paperwork, but her mind kept slipping off elsewhere. The alcoholic in the park had begun a thread of ideas, which she couldn’t switch off. It kept leading her back again to a dead Chinese girl. Finally, Jaz blew in and went straight upstairs. After lunch she decided it was time to test a few ideas out on him.
‘Got a minute?’
‘Of course.’ He gestured to a pile of boxes, where she perched uneasily and began by telling him about the unidentified girl.
‘The thing that bothers me is the heroin overdose. I may be way out of line here, but is it a common drug for young women in the Chinese community? I just wondered whether you friend Charlie Moon might be interested, if there’s a trafficking link.’
‘What else do we know?’
‘That she was a sex worker.’
‘Do you think she could be connected to the haulage company in Grimsby?’
‘That’s what I was wondering.’ she said. ‘Do you think we should ask Moon to see if there’s a D
NA match between the girl and the samples from the lorries?’
‘I always said you had a good nose. Fancy a brew?’ He led the way downstairs. ‘Do you mind me asking what you were doing down there anyway? Doncaster doesn’t strike me as your ideal weekend-break location.’
She began to tell him about Phil. He came back to her desk with two mugs.
‘And you didn’t say anything? Come on, Karen, I could have pulled
some strings, I know a few policemen, and women, come to think of it.’
‘I know, but…for all I know, my sister-in-law is right and he’s just gone off.’
‘Cherchez la femme?’ He sounded like Inspector Clouseau and Karen laughed despite herself. ‘Leave it with me,’ he continued. ‘I’ll have a dig about, Charlie owes me one.’ He handed her a coffee and perched on the edge of her desk. ‘You could be on to something with the trafficking link. I wonder if the guys in Doncaster have still got the girl, or some of her DNA at least. I hope they haven’t cremated her already and burnt the evidence.’
Early in the afternoon, the phone rang.
‘Karen? Charlie Moon here. Tell me about your brother.’
Jaz hadn’t wasted any time sharing her story. Moon listened briefly, then interrupted. ‘You know that the first forty-eight hours is crucial in any missing person’s enquiry?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, don’t get your hopes up.’
It was as if he had thumped her, hard, in the solar plexus. When she finally breathed in, her throat ached with the effort of trying not to cry.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Look, while you’re on, I want to talk to you about something else.’
She coolly discussed the body of a dead woman, a suspected drug overdose, and gave him the name of the police station in Doncaster. She imagined her tone to be measured, professional, while underneath she was screaming. You bastard. My hopes are all I’ve got.
Bonfire Night: 11.30am
Phil slowed down for the roundabout and took the second turning, away from the estate where Carole had her lock-up garage. He was on a dual carriageway but kept his speed down, watching out for the left turn on Len’s hand-drawn map. Level with the flats at the top of Carole’s estate, he passed a lay-by where a piece of blue and white plastic tape fluttered in the hedge like a kite tail. Just beyond it he spotted the lane. Len had put a letter T on the map and, sure enough, there was the sign, a red and white T on a blue background. A dead end. He turned in.
The van jerked as the front wheel swished through a deep puddle. He would have to watch out for more potholes; the road surface hadn’t been repaired for years. On either side spindly hedges banked up above the grass verge, stalks of decaying rose-bay willow-herb stood to attention and a dumped fridge had attracted an island of rubbish all around it. The road sloped up, away from the dual carriageway. Where the sun had reached, the frost was melted and there was a surplus of colour; the deep brown of ploughed earth, blood-red berries, and thick green grass were saturated like an old Kodacolor snap. While on the frosted side the colours were calmed and delicate, as if a Christmas card painter had prepared them.
He almost missed the gateway in Len’s instructions and had to put his foot hard on the brake, immediately wishing he hadn’t when he heard the boxes shift behind him and thud against the back of the driver’s cab. Ahead the lane continued downhill and a pitted and rusty sign warned Danger: Quarry Workings: Keep Out! To his right a rough track skirted a line of trees. He put the van into first gear and swung right, up on to the track.
This must have been a proper road once, years ago. The stony surface gave plenty of grip, as long as he kept in the tyre-marked ruts, but it was a bumpy ride. He wondered why Johnny Mackenzie stored all this stock in such a God-forsaken place, when his own farmyard was full of barns and outhouses, but as the question formed in his mind, he tried to dismiss the obvious answer.
In the shadow of the trees a small, mucky-white caravan stood looking lost on the edge of a ploughed field. Phil glanced at it as he passed, not wanting to take his eyes off the track for too long in case the wheels caught the slippery mud at its edge. The caravan seemed to be abandoned, faded orange curtains pulled tight at the windows. The track followed the edge of the woods and there in front of him was an old Nissen hut, its corrugated metal hulk painted black and patched up in places with new sheets of metal, like a battle-scarred whale. This was what Len had drawn for him, a simple up-turned U-shape, marked on the map as ‘Mackenzie’s Hut’.
He unlocked the padlock with the key Len had given him and started to unload the van. Carole’s trays of drinks had to come out first before he could reach the boxes of microwaves. The ground around him was wet, so he placed the pallets on the floor just inside the hut. It was gloomy in there with no source of electric light, so he propped both doors wide open to see what he was doing. There were three rows of metal shelving units. They were battered and slightly rusty, as if they’d done years of service in a factory or a warehouse. Most of the shelves were empty, but towards the back of the shed a few boxes were stacked on the bottom shelf, covered with clear plastic sheeting. He lifted the edge and saw a label which read ‘Aviators: UV lenses: silver.’ Sunglasses. Wrong time of year for shifting those. Something caught his eye and he looked up quickly. Just for a moment it seemed as if the light had dimmed: as if someone or something was blocking the doorway. He stood still and listened. There was nothing but the wind, breathing through the leafless trees and a single bird, a thrush he guessed, singing close by. He went outside and looked around but the place seemed deserted.
Phil worked quickly, unloading the boxes from the van into the Nissen hut. It was late morning and he wanted to get out of there and back to Carole’s garage as soon as possible, then up to Hull by lunchtime. The bacon sandwich seemed a long time ago. When the van was empty, he lifted the drinks trays back in and slammed the van doors. He pulled the metal doors of the hut closed and clicked the padlock shut, tugging at it once to check it was locked. He turned to the driver’s door and that was when he saw her.
On the step of the caravan a girl was standing with her arms folded over a long dark coat. She was about fifty yards from him but in the quiet air her voice carried clearly.
‘You want cup of tea? I have made for you.’ Foreign, maybe Polish, he wasn’t sure.
A rook took off from the top of a Scots pine and circled, barking a greeting or a warning. He walked across to the caravan and took the warm mug in his hands.
‘Sorry. No milk.’ The girl said, reaching inside the caravan for her own mug. She leaned against the door, waiting for him to taste it.
He took a sip. The tea was black and sweet.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I needed this.’ And he meant it: not least for the shock of seeing this thin young woman watching him, and the realisation that she’d been watching him since he arrived.
‘So, you work for Mr Mackenzie?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Of course.’
He followed her gaze out over the field.
‘You work here?’ he said and pictured her picking potatoes like her ancestors in the Polish countryside.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I work here.’
It seemed miles from anywhere and there was no sign of a car or even a bicycle. The tea was cooling in his mug but he felt reluctant to drink up and leave. The girl continued to watch him with incredibly green eyes, ringed with hazel. Her hair was bright red. He was no expert, but he guessed it was dyed. He drained the mug and handed it to her.
‘That was great. I’d better go.’
‘Okay,’ she shrugged.
She was still staring at him as he walked back to the van and got in. He turned the engine over and put it in reverse, he didn’t fancy backing all the way down to the quarry road, so he p
ulled forward towards the trees in order to turn round. He shifted into reverse again and put his foot on the accelerator but the van didn’t move. A fountain of mud was being thrown up from the spinning front tyres.
‘Shit!’ The rear wheels were still on the stony track but the front wheels were on the soft, wet grass. He pulled the handbrake on and got out to take a look. The girl was coming over and he was relieved to see she wasn’t laughing at him.
‘You want I push?’ she said.
She didn’t look strong enough.
‘Can you drive?’ he said, but she shook her head. ‘Maybe if I show you what to do, then I can push and you can put your foot on the pedals and steer.’
‘Is very dangerous. Through the trees is quarry side. Is very steep.’
‘You’ll be going backwards, so it’ll be okay.’
It was about ten metres to the edge of the trees and he would be in front of the van. If it lurched forwards instead of backwards, he’d have to jump clear and hope she could stop it in time.
She looked doubtful but came closer. He helped her up into the driver’s seat.
‘Put your left foot on the clutch, that’s that pedal, okay? Now I’m going to move the gear stick. That’s reverse; don’t change it, whatever you do. Keep your left foot down. Then put your right foot on the accelerator and bring your left foot up when I say go, but not before. Got it?’
She nodded, her jaw clenched with concentration and he was distracted for a moment by the line of bone that traced her cheek. He would have liked to run his finger along it.
‘So?’ she said, ‘I’m ready.’
He went to the front of the van and braced himself, hands above the radiator grille. He could see her through the windscreen, behind a reflection of spindly-armed trees and a cloudless sky, staring straight ahead as if she was preparing for a cavalry charge.
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