The Shadow Man

by Helen Fields

  Sitting on the floor behind him, Connie put her arms around Cal, her chest against his back as he rocked backwards and forwards, raging and keening. She leaned her head against his shoulder and kept him pinned to her, grounded in the world between his dead wife and the living children who needed their dad.

  Connie looked at the window space that had held floor-length curtains. Angela’s murderer had hidden there, statue-still, and watched her. She’d bathed just before getting into bed that night, and he’d waited for the duration. Before that she’d cleaned the kitchen and put overnight washing in. It had churned away unaware in the utility room below as she’d fought for her final breaths.

  ‘What is it?’ Cal asked.

  Connie hadn’t even been aware that the man in her arms had stopped crying. He was staring at her over his shoulder.

  ‘You should go. The police will fetch the photos for me. You’re going to be exhausted for a couple of days. Sleep is essential. Lots of it,’ she told him.

  Cal nodded. She released him and he stood up, offering a hand to pull her off the floor, too.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I won’t ever come in here again.’

  ‘I get it,’ she said. ‘People who haven’t lost a loved one think you only say goodbye once at the funeral. But you don’t, you say goodbye in a thousand places. A favourite coffee shop, a road junction, while you’re eating a curry, wearing a special jacket. The goodbyes keep on coming. It’ll seem endless. You should know that it isn’t, but the process is long and sometimes it’s a roundabout not a straight road. Your children will get you through.’

  He gave a sharp nod. ‘I’ll leave the keys in the door, if you could have the police return them to me.’

  ‘Sure,’ she told his already departing back.

  Waiting until she heard his footsteps in the kitchen below, Connie went to stand where the murderer had. She put her back against the wall.

  ‘Why this room?’ she asked the empty space. ‘If you weren’t planning on raping her, it would have been easier to have taken her from the kitchen, avoiding the stairs. Maybe when she was putting the washing in. Anywhere downstairs.’

  But she’d answered her own question, and she’d known it while she was still holding Angela’s widowed husband. This was the version of Angela that he’d wanted to steal. In that moment, and in the place where she was all wife and mother. This was how he’d wanted her. He’d watched her preparations, seen her most private rituals and routines. The practicality of lifting an unconscious body down the stairs hadn’t even been a factor.

  Connie didn’t wait for a police officer to retrieve the photos from the loft. There were plastic boxes in a row, carefully labelled. Angela’s handwriting, she guessed by its curvy slant and small precision. The middle drawer gave her what she wanted. Pulling out three bulky albums, she climbed back down the ladder and sat with her back against the hallway wall.

  There was nothing unusual about what was contained in the albums. Photos from when Angela and Cal had met then married. Holiday photos, their parents and siblings, Christmases and birthdays. Then the children had come along, and page after page of snaps had been lovingly printed out in spite of the digital tendency simply to drop photos into desktop folders.

  Connie touched a close-up photo of Angela sitting on a park bench, both children on her lap, largest to smallest, like Russian dolls. A picnic was laid out beside them, complete with coloured plastic cups, tiny sandwiches and miniature cupcakes. They’d taken a series of images that day. These were the most recent photographs in the album. They’d had no idea what was coming.

  She stood up, taking the photo albums with her. It required more time than she felt was reasonable in Angela’s house to go through every photo carefully, and that was what she needed to do. To immerse herself in Angela’s life and persona. To find the common link, if there was one, between her and Elspeth Dunwoody.

  Sighing, she checked her watch then her mobile. The day had ended, and there was still no sign of Elspeth, or update on Meggy. No corpses either, which was the only good news. Hoping Baarda would be free soon, she decided to text him. It occurred to her that she hadn’t eaten for twelve hours, and breakfast had been fruit and coffee.

  ‘Meet me at my hotel bar,’ she messaged. ‘10 p.m. Debrief and plan for tomorrow over dinner and alcohol.’

  The yoga studio on East Broughton Place in Edinburgh’s city centre – iYoga – was midway through one of its evening sessions when Connie arrived. The police had already retraced Elspeth’s steps on the evening of her abduction, taking statements from everyone in her class. Who’d last spoken to her. Who’d seen her leave. What CCTV was available. All the normal stuff. Connie wanted something more personal.

  She roamed the hallways between studios, drank orange-and-cucumber water, and checked out the changing rooms as she waited for the classes to finish. It was a hypermodern space, dressed down to feel falsely cosy, in a period building on a street struggling to attract commercial tenants. The shiny hardwood floors and full-length mirrors were at odds with the grand facade and sense of history the place should have conveyed, and Connie liked that. Nothing had to be on the inside what you assumed it was from the outside. People certainly weren’t.

  The yoga teacher who’d taken the class the night Elspeth had been abducted was Darpana Chawla. Engaged in a final relaxation and meditation with her students, she was willowy and solemn-looking. Connie wished, in a rare moment of regret, that she could see the colours in the room. Darpana was wearing an eye-catching combination of sports Lycra with flowing scarves. Metallic fibres in the material glinted in the light as she waved her arms slowly in the air, hands wafting up and down. Inhale for three, exhale for three, Connie read her lips. Then the eyes of the class participants opened slowly, like some sprawling beast waking up and contemplating its existence. They stretched on their mats and brought themselves back into the moment. Some would be going home, others out to socialise, a few on to night shifts. For all of them, their slice of escapist exercise was over for the night.

  Darpana was the last to leave, bidding farewell to each student in turn and by name. She was good at her job, Connie thought. People wanted an acknowledgement from her, or a kind word, an encouragement to attend the next class. A man called out before Connie could approach the teacher and explain herself. Darpana’s mouth opened fractionally, and her jaw flickered instantaneously sideways. She knew him by voice, and was stressed by his presence. Better to wait until she’d dealt with him before making a further demand on her time, Connie decided.

  ‘I asked you to meet me at home,’ Darpana told him as she rolled up her own mat and put a water bottle and wrist weights into a training bag.

  He gave a lazy smile in response. ‘I thought we could get takeaway together,’ he said. ‘That vegan place you like around the corner is still open. I’m buying.’

  She continued jamming items into her bag.

  ‘You sure it’s your stomach you were thinking about?’ Darpana sniped.

  Connie had only seconds to decide to step up or step back. Darpana was in the middle of something private, and if she revealed herself it would be clear she’d overheard the conversation. Connie decided to remain in the space between overgrown yucca plants and a water dispenser. The yoga teacher had given a statement detailing the number of years she’d been Elspeth’s teacher. They’d become close acquaintances over the years – Darpana’s words – although that seemed more formal than was necessary for someone who saw you contort your body twice a week.

  ‘Don’t start,’ he groaned. ‘We agreed to put it behind us. That’s not why I’m here.’ He moved closer to her as she exited the studio. ‘You have to start trusting me again for this to work, otherwise we’re both wasting our time.’

  ‘I have to? Really? What if I can’t?’

  ‘Then this is over,’ he shrugged. ‘I can leave tonight if that’s what you want.’

  He sidled away, chin aloft and shoulders back to reveal a wide, taut
chest and enhance the slimness of his waist in the tailored shirt. He was peacocking. Darpana tried looking at him, and lowered her gaze quickly back to the floor.

  ‘You know that’s not what I want,’ she said. ‘It would just be simpler, easier to forget, if we could separate this place from our life. You coming here just makes me think about it.’

  ‘Hey,’ he said, softening, giving her the reward for backing down. ‘It was a one-off. I’m not stupid enough to risk losing you twice, am I?’ He cupped a hand under Darpana’s chin and kissed her softly.

  It didn’t take a psychologist to know he was lying about both parts of his assertion. Whatever it was, presumably an infidelity, he’d done it before – and given the opportunity, Connie decided it was entirely possible that he’d do it again. Only a woman in love would be incapable of hearing the silken deception and failing to notice his too-earnest frown and too-concentrated a gaze. He wasn’t a good liar, but with his body and looks he’d probably never needed to perfect the art.

  Darpana melted, sickeningly, in his arms, allowing him to wrap her jacket around her, throwing her bag over his shoulder like any well-trained twenty-first-century knight and leading her to the door. Connie cursed and went to the front desk, picking up a leaflet and checking the schedule for Darpana’s next class. Tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. If she could get here early, she might be able to catch the instructor while she was still in the right frame of mind to talk about Elspeth.

  Connie’s stomach rumbled. Even vegan food was inviting right now. Enough for one day, she decided. Baarda had returned her text to confirm he would meet her at the hotel. It was a short walk back and the evening was balmy. Trying to piece together her day, from Dr Ailsa Lambert to Melanie Chao, then the grieving Cal Fernycroft and the badly deluded Darpana Chawla, there was a clamouring inside her head for assessment and unravelling. Also for vodka. Maybe with tonic, maybe without. More likely, she decided, without.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bar Prince in The Balmoral was refined and hushed. Connie wasn’t sure the ambience was exactly what she needed, but the alcohol definitely was. She’d beaten Baarda there, and given that she was already running a few minutes late, it didn’t bode well for the sort of day he was having. There’d been progress, though, as she’d walked Edinburgh’s streets back to her hotel. Elspeth Dunwoody’s husband had provided a vast digital trove of photos to MIT, and a secure link had been sent to her inbox. Retrieving her laptop from her hotel room, Connie downloaded the files.

  Elspeth had a lot of media dedicated to her courtesy of her husband’s family. There were photos of her at galas, charity balls, cutting a ribbon somewhere. But those images, that public facade, wasn’t the version of Elspeth she was interested in. That wasn’t the link to Angela. She found what she was looking for after just a few minutes. It began with the baby photos.

  ‘Good evening,’ Baarda said quietly. ‘Can I get you another of whatever that was?’

  ‘Hey, I saved you a stool. Do you mind sitting at the bar, only I always feel like I’m with my parents if I sit at a table? I’ll take a frozen Grey Goose, as you’re offering.’

  ‘The bar is fine,’ he smiled, ordering a Château de Laubade Armagnac.

  Baarda had changed his usual white shirt for a navy blue version and rolled up the sleeves.

  ‘Did you spill something?’ Connie asked.

  ‘It seemed impolite to turn up in the same shirt I’d been wearing for the previous fourteen hours.’

  ‘I hadn’t figured you for the turned-up-sleeves thing. Letting your hair down?’ she smiled.

  ‘Are we back at Downton Abbey again?’ He raised his glass to hers, and they touched the edges of the crystal together lightly.

  ‘My timeline got messed up.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘I think maybe I jumped ahead a century or two. Who’s the guy who comes out of the lake in that Jane Austen movie? The one who either doesn’t speak, or when he does he’s just devastatingly polite?’

  ‘For the love of God, it really has been a long day. “The guy who comes out of the lake”? You’re referring to Fitzwilliam Darcy.’

  ‘Give me a break. I studied psychology, not literature from the dawn of time. And yeah, you’re a dead ringer for the Darcy guy.’ Connie raised her glass and rewarded herself with a drink.

  ‘Coming from anyone else that would be a compliment. How do you manage to be the opposite of everyone?’

  ‘Practice. The thing about Darcy in that book …’

  ‘Pride and Prejudice.’

  ‘Uh-huh, the thing is, he was closed off emotionally.’

  ‘I’m aware,’ Baarda said.

  ‘The reader has to assume all the passion. It happens out of view. His anger, the retribution, his feelings. You even have the Darcy curly hair and serious eyes. What colour are yours?’

  ‘Brown,’ Baarda sighed.

  ‘No, won’t do,’ Connie said. ‘How many shades of green do you think there are?’

  ‘I have no—’

  ‘Neither do I, but lots, right. Green is a category of colours, not a colour. You have to be more creative. Look, I have an app on my cell that lists colour shades.’ She flicked the screen. ‘Here you go, colour names with shades and little samples. Choose the right one.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’m going with burnt umber. Does this really help?’

  ‘Frame of reference,’ she said. ‘Facial expressions give me mental overload sometimes. Other things become less vivid, like items of clothing. But without colour, the minutiae of people’s faces become a movement of lines. Those lines form recognisable patterns. Trying to fake an emotion forms a pattern, too.’

  ‘So you can tell when people are lying?’ Baarda asked.

  ‘That kind of misses the subtleties of it. Sometimes people tell half the truth but conceal a detail. Emotions are considered absolute, which is how we teach children. Draw a happy face, a sad face, or an angry mouth. The best example is grief mingling with relief at the passing of a loved one who’s been ill. The eyes, forehead, and upper part of the cheeks shows the pain whereas the lower half – the mouth in particular – registers relief.’

  ‘Sounds like a useful skill,’ Baarda said, sipping the Armagnac and flexing his shoulders.

  ‘You’d hate it,’ Connie said. ‘It’s like being permanently wired. Sometimes I find it easier to talk to people by phone just so that I can’t see their faces. My brain needs downtime.’

  ‘Are you single?’ Baarda asked.

  Connie laughed. ‘Yes, and thank you for leaping ahead in that minefield of a conversation. It’s hard trying not to read the expressions of the people I’m close to. Like a tap you can’t turn off.’

  ‘Which when you’re emotionally invested would be complex,’ he noted.

  ‘You, on the other hand, are remarkably refreshing to be around because of your natural control and understated behaviour. I spent some time with Angela Fernycroft’s husband today. It was his first time back in the house. Have you ever drunk frozen vodka? It thickens, which should be gross, but the harsh edge of the flavour disappears so you can taste it properly. Here.’ She slid her glass a foot down the bar into his hand.

  Baarda took a sip. ‘It’s good. Are you okay?’

  ‘Nope, but I’m processing. It’s tough seeing people in that much pain, even when you’re trained to be objective. Tell me the deal with the missing girl.’

  ‘I helped as much as I could, but my job is to find Elspeth Dunwoody. I can’t get distracted. There are protocols, and Police Scotland officers are exceptionally well trained. It was important to get the jump-start. Thanks for speaking with the witness. The description she gave will be helpful.’

  ‘Yeah, a Jack Skellington lookalike. That’s messed up. That guy’s got to stick out a mile, right?’

  ‘I didn’t know the reference, although I’ve looked it up since then. Just images,’ Baarda said.

  ‘You have kids and you haven’t seen that movie? It’s amazing. The thing about
Jack Skellington is that he’s actually a good guy. He just makes errors of judgement.’

  ‘Like shoving a girl in his boot and driving off with her?’ Baarda asked, motioning for the barman to pour them fresh drinks.

  ‘That would be where the similarities stop. Where did you get to with Meggy’s mother?’

  ‘Living in Guernsey, airtight alibi. Carmen – Meggy’s stepmother – claims her car was tampered with so she couldn’t drive to the school to pick up Meggy. We have no idea if that’s true, a coincidence, or an excuse and she’s involved.’

  ‘Poor kid,’ Connie said. ‘I need to go back to Elspeth’s yoga studio in the morning to speak with her instructor. They’ve known each other for years. If Elspeth was being stalked or felt concerned about walking from yoga to her car, her teacher might have noticed something.’

  ‘There was nothing in her statement,’ Baarda said.

  ‘I know. Might be that the police officer taking the statement didn’t see any value, but it bears chasing up. It really hit me when I was reading through the evidence folder.’

  ‘After that we should go and see her family. They’re desperate for an update and without any further leads, it feels as if we need to go back and see if there’s anything we missed,’ Baarda said.

  ‘Agreed,’ Connie said. ‘Although I hate the sense that we’re chasing our tails, hence the downtime now. I’ve immersed myself as much as I can. The only link I can find between the victims is that both Angela and Elspeth regularly took their kids to parks.’

  ‘Them and several million other parents,’ Baarda said.