‘When I first went away I cried every day. Wet the bed. But they have a policy where you aren’t allowed to go home or to see your parents for the entire first half term. When it eventually came time for them to pick me up I was so overwhelmed that I hugged Mum and threw up my breakfast, right there on the lawn.’
I wonder if Leo has ever tried anything with Millie. Or if he does the things he does with me so that he doesn’t do them with her.
‘So let’s talk about more interesting things,’ I say. ‘Boys. What’s your type?’ I look around the diner. ‘Is there anyone in here you like?’
‘What?’ She blushes again.
‘Go on. It’s just a bit of fun.’
She takes a sneaky look around. ‘Maybe.’
‘Interesting.’ I start checking each table in turn, trying to guess her choice.
‘Rowena, don’t,’ she says, worried. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’
I grab a napkin and lay it flat on the table.
‘Okay, show me where he’s sitting on here.’ I sketch the rough layout of the room. ‘Go on, just like in the film.’ I hand her the pen. ‘Show me where the treasure is buried. X marks the spot.’
She takes the pen and marks an X in the corner by the door. I wait a beat, then turn to look. I see a boy sitting with his parents. He has short black hair, parted to one side, and is pretty in a DiCaprio kind of way. I wolf-whistle under my breath.
‘Stop. You’re too obvious.’ She starts to slide low in her seat. ‘I mean it.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I say, holding up my hands in surrender.
‘What about you?’ asks Millie, once she’s recovered. ‘Anyone in here to your taste?’
‘I kind of already have a boyfriend,’ I say, without thinking.
‘Oh?’
‘He’s a bit older.’ I don’t know why I’m telling her this. The words seem to fall from my mouth.
‘So have you, you know?’ she asks, suddenly eager.
I think of Leo’s face, the way it hovers above me, his breathing quick. The fries I’ve just eaten rise to the back of my throat. ‘Did you tell your mum and dad you were seeing me today?’ I ask, changing the subject. The question has been on my mind all day. If Leo is going to find out about us I want some kind of warning.
She hesitates, wrong-footed by my change of subject. ‘I told Mum. She’s glad I’ve got a new friend.’ She stops as though she’s only now remembered she has a message to pass on. When she next speaks, her voice is brighter, higher, like she’s delivering a line in a play. ‘She said you’re to come for tea, any time you like.’ Her message delivered, she returns to normal. ‘Dad’s in London a lot at the moment. It’s supposed to be this big secret but everybody knows. He’s standing to be an MP. Bo-ring.’ She splits the last word into a two-part singsong.
I relax. For the time being, it seems, I’m safe. ‘So,’ I say, putting on a pretend-serious voice. ‘We’re obviously going to go and see it again, right?’
Millie draws her eyebrows down into a V-shaped frown. ‘Obviously,’ she says, copying my tone. ‘At least twice.’
‘Orlando-oh-oh-oh.’ This time Millie joins in. Our voices ring out across the diner and the woman serving behind the counter gives us a look. We burst into laughter and then we bite down on our milkshake straws, teeth bared, as we try in vain to stifle our giggles.
Jessamine
Jessamine pulled off her headset. Her mouth was dry, her hands twitchy. She knew she’d spend the rest of the night wondering what had happened to Nicky and her kids and that, come morning, she’d still be wondering. She said a little prayer that, if and when Nicky did call back, a refuge space would have opened up and they’d be able to get themselves to safety, without incident.
She took another call and had just hung up when the phone rang again.
‘You’re through to the domestic-violence helpline . . .’
‘I was talking to someone. Before. I got cut off.’
Jessamine recognised the thick, bunged-up consonants. The sound of someone struggling to breathe through their nose.
‘Nicky.’ She failed to disguise her relief. ‘Are you safe to talk?’
Jessamine could hear crying. There were now at least two children in the background.
‘He’s gone out.’
It was highly unlikely but Jessamine checked the computer to see if any refuge spaces had opened up in the last half-hour. The search came back the same. Everywhere was full. ‘If you’re worried for your safety, you should call the police, or do you want me to call them for you?’
‘No police. They do nothing and it just makes it worse.’
Jessamine didn’t push her: Nicky was right. ‘Are you sure there’s no one you can stay with? Or maybe you could check into a bed-and-breakfast?’
‘I haven’t got a job. I have no money. He doesn’t let me have a debit card.’
The children’s wails were getting louder. One of them was doing that hiccupy, panicked crying that happens when a person can’t get their breath.
‘Nicky, can you bear with me a second?’
Jessamine put Nicky on mute, half stood and waved until she caught Jackie’s eye. ‘I have a lady who’s been assaulted once already this evening. She needs out. Tonight. I’ve done a search but everywhere is full.’
‘Again?’ Jackie shook her head. ‘The police?’
‘Not keen.’
She shrugged. ‘Then there’s nothing we can do.’ She paused. ‘You know that.’ Her reprimand needled, small and questioning. ‘Ask her to call and check in again first thing.’
Jessamine bridled. She wanted to tell Jackie that she wasn’t sure the woman would last the night and she was frightened for her. But there was no point. Whatever she said, Jackie’s answer would remain the same. Keep to the script.
She returned to Nicky. ‘You said you live in Cambridgeshire.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Huntingdon.’ She took a quick breath. ‘Near the hospital.’
Jessamine checked Jackie was out of earshot. She had retreated to the other side of the room and was helping one of the volunteers with a faulty wire on her headset. ‘I’ve explained your situation to my supervisor. Sometimes, in exceptional circumstances, we can place women in a hotel.’ Jessamine thought of her helpline conversations with Tasha, of all the missed chances she’d had to urge her to get away to safety. And then she thought of Tasha dead on the pavement outside the Bullring Shopping Centre, the white gauze pads stained with her blood, flip-flopping in the wind, and her baby, in the neo-natal intensive care unit at Birmingham City Hospital. She reached down into her bag and fished out her purse. ‘While you wait for a refuge space to come free.’
She slid her credit card onto the desk and brought up Google. The rules be damned.
She found a reasonable hotel, selected a family room for the next seven nights and inputted her credit-card details.
‘Pack a few things, get the kids together and leave. Only the basics. Do you understand? You can charge food and drink to the room.’ She relayed the hotel details. Jackie had fixed the headset and was now moving back in her direction.
‘The room is yours for the next week.’ She gave Nicky her extension and told her the next day she’d be on shift. ‘Call back then and I should be able to find you something more permanent. I promise.’
They weren’t supposed to make promises.
‘I will. Thank you.’
Jackie was within a few feet of her desk. Jessamine reduced the booking on the screen and replaced it with an innocuous database window.
Then she started to say goodbye to Nicky, to wish her luck.
But, for the second time, the line was dead.
Monday 26 December
Present day
Jessamine
Boxing Day in Somerset, and Jessamine was up early, her father and Sarah still asleep. Kneeling on the living-room floor at the cottage, she drew her dressing-gown tight and huddled close to the e
mbers of last night’s fire. The contents of Cassie Scolari’s file were spread on the rug. At the last minute she’d decided to bring it away with her to appease Sarah’s interest in the case, but also because she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Whether she’d have a show to broadcast her findings on or not, she wanted to know what had happened.
She looked again at the CCTV stills of Cassie walking down the Strand towards the Thames. In the pictures her mouth was pursed, her brow pinched – but that could have been down to anything: a cold wind nipping at her ears, the worry that she didn’t have enough spuds in for dinner. Jessamine selected the clearest shot and studied it up close. Cassie looked concerned, yes, but suicidal?
Outside, Wells Cathedral rang the hour, its dong muffled by the inches of snow that carpeted the ground. She reached for her coffee, steaming on the hearth, and took a gulp. Usually the lack of Wi-Fi and inability to get more than one bar of signal in her father’s cottage drove her crazy but this year she had found the lack of connection a blessed relief.
Grabbing her pen and notebook she wrote down a list of what she considered the biggest questions about Cassie’s disappearance. First was the phone call Cassie had said she’d received from Matteo’s school. If the school hadn’t called Cassie that day, who had? Or had Cassie lied about the call? Next up was why, when she’d left work, she had headed towards Embankment Tube. Was that her usual route home? How had she managed to disappear so completely from CCTV? Were there more images in the sequence not included here or was the group of cameras near the station not working that day? Who had sent the WhatsApp to Marnie? Cassie, a thief, or someone else? Why had she taken so many sick days from work of late? And finally, most critical of all, did she have a secret second phone and, if so, why?
Putting the CCTV to one side, she picked up the date diary she’d found among the papers. She had planned to return it to Marnie so that she could hand it in to the police, but after her suspension she’d forgotten about it. She made a note to give it back as soon as possible. In the meantime she decided to make a copy of every page. She turned on the camera, laid the diary flat and took a picture, then turned the page and did the same thing, until she had worked her way through the whole year. All done, she was about to return it to the padded envelope in which it had arrived when her finger felt a small lump on the inside of the diary’s back cover. A cream storage pocket. She hadn’t noticed it before. She opened the diary wide. The pocket seemed unused but when she poked her finger under the cardboard flap she could feel something. Carefully she pulled out a piece of white paper, folded into quarters, and set it on the rug. She was about to open it when she heard footsteps on the stairs. Her father.
‘Good morning, darling.’
The stairs curved slightly into the living room, and as he tried to follow them round, he stumbled and grabbed for the banister. Jessamine jumped to her feet and ran to help. He accepted her arm and let her guide him to the sofa.
Her parents had downsized to the cottage from their terrace in Twickenham not long after Jessamine had left home for university. Mum had grown up in Wells and had always wanted to return to the place of her birth so it had seemed like the natural spot in which to retire. She’d fallen in love with the house as soon as she’d laid eyes on it, delighted that you could see the cathedral from every window on the north side. But she’d only got to enjoy it for a short time. Within a month of moving in she’d become ill. Bone cancer. Stage four. She’d been dead within the year.
‘Tea? Breakfast?’ asked Jessamine, keen to get her father sorted out so that she could return to her find.
‘In a minute.’ He patted the space next to him. ‘Come, sit.’
She did as he asked. Up close his dressing-gown was rough, the coarse check bobbled at the elbows.
‘I wanted to ask. Is Sarah okay? Are you two okay?’
He was alluding to Christmas Day. In the morning Sarah had been her usual self, laughing and joking and full of hugs as she’d opened her presents. But then, as the day had progressed, she’d become more and more twitchy, snapping at her mother and grandfather, until finally after lunch she’d gone for a walk alone only to return an hour later, distraught. Jessamine had asked her what was wrong but she had refused to talk and dashed upstairs, where she’d remained for the rest of the day. After the last few months Jessamine had grown used to such erratic behaviour and so, not wanting to worry him, she tried to shrug it off. ‘She’s a teenager.’
He’d thought for a moment. ‘It feels like more than that.’
Sarah was his only grandchild – Jessamine had no siblings – and she had adored him from day one. Jessamine had first brought Sarah to stay at the cottage six months after her adoption. On the way Sarah had suffered terribly with car sickness and she’d had to stop several times. When they’d reached Wells it had been way past Sarah’s bedtime and the then two-year-old had been fractious and grumpy. But as soon as she’d seen her new grandfather, Sarah had transformed and, having allowed herself to be scooped into his arms, was soon giggling and standing on his slippered feet while he walked her around the kitchen, like a penguin.
‘Boyfriend trouble?’
‘Maybe. Even if it was, she wouldn’t tell me. She never tells me anything any more.’
‘Talk to her.’
‘I will.’
She made him some tea and toast, turned on the TV news and then, once he was settled, she returned to the piece of paper she’d found at the back of the diary. Carefully, she opened it and spread it flat.
A5 in size, it was yellowing in places and had the buckled, uneven texture paper acquired after it had been exposed to water, then dried. There was no writing. Instead there was a single sketch: a collection of lines and shapes outlined in blue biro. It seemed to be a diagram. One of the lines was bisected with a cross, and the only other vaguely identifiable thing in the picture was a crudely drawn face: a circle with two eyes, a nose and a straight line for a mouth.
Jessamine turned it on its side, then upside down, trying to make sense of the image. It was the only thing Cassie had stored in the pocket of her diary so it must have been significant. A drawing from her son? No. Jessamine remembered the type of thing Sarah used to scribble at that age. It was too abstract. She took a picture of it on her phone and was about to return it to the diary when she noticed a black mark running along the top edge of the paper. She moved to the lamp next to the sofa and turned it on. The light illuminated a line of text. The water damage seemed to have washed away the surface ink but under the light you could just make out the sequence of printed letters and numbers. It was a postcode. Somewhere in Oxfordshire, by the look of it. It could be nothing or it could be a lead, her strongest yet.
Her father came to stand behind her where she crouched and placed a hand on her shoulder. His dressing-gown sleeve smelt of Olbas oil and toast. ‘Sarah will be fine. She loves you and you love her.’ He kissed the top of her head lightly. ‘You’re a good mother, Jessamine. Know that.’
Sarah
Sarah stalked through the cobbled streets towards the archway at the end of Vicars’ Close. Beyond was Cathedral Green, the most private place she could think of. Her route was clear of snow, the main walkways having been gritted with a soft brown salt that left malty smears on the sides of her new Vans. Still, now and then she’d find herself blind-sided by a hidden patch of ice and have to grab for one of the stone walls, her feet doing a kind of cartoon caper slip and slide.
He was supposed to have called the day before, on Christmas Day. He’d promised. Cross his heart and hope to die. It was to have been their first actual conversation. But the call hadn’t happened. This despite Sarah having done everything she was supposed to: going out to the Green at the allotted time, having her phone turned on and fully charged, keeping it a secret from her mum.
She’d waited an hour in a temperature of minus four before finally giving up and returning blue with cold to her granddad’s cottage. There she’d retreated to her room and, afte
r messaging him to find out what had gone wrong – he had yet to give her his number – had spent the rest of the day crying quietly into her pillow.
He’d eventually messaged her this lunchtime. He’d told her he hadn’t been able to get away like he’d planned and it had made talking to her impossible. He’d asked if they could rearrange their call for later that day. Of course she had agreed.
She reached the edge of the snow-covered Green and was about to march into its mix of slush and ice when the clock struck four. The cathedral’s bells boomed the hour and with each clang Sarah felt her ribcage vibrate, the sound rippling through her body like a series of tiny earthquakes. She thought of the science experiment they’d conducted during the last week of term. The teacher had dropped a bowl of sand onto a metal plate and then, using a violin bow, she had strummed the side of the plate, one simple movement in which she had drawn the bow from top to bottom. The action had created a beautiful, completely symmetrical pattern in the sand that had made the class gasp. Then the teacher had strummed a slightly different part of the metal plate, creating a different frequency, and an entirely new pattern had appeared in the grains. The teacher had explained that the movement of the sand made visible the otherwise invisible effects of the vibration.
Sarah liked to think of the man’s mouth as that bow. He might be hundreds of miles away but today, when he got to speak to her for the first time, the vibration of his voice would travel across the surface of the earth, and when it reached her, she would feel the shiver of his words against her skin.
Silence returned to the Green. The lamps that lined the edges of the grass picked out the shapes of people walking dogs, their breath white on the air.
In a way, being sequestered upstairs after her disappointment yesterday had been a kind of relief. She’d always loved coming to stay at Granddad’s cottage but as she’d got older she’d found the cascade of framed family photographs on the wall next to the stairs hard to stomach. It wasn’t as though she didn’t feature in any of them, she did, more than any other family member. No, the thing that bothered her was how all she could see when she looked at them was lack. The physical resemblances, so obvious between everyone else, were not there when it came to her.
The Dangerous Kind Page 15