Jessamine looked at his picture. Was it possible he and Cassie were having an affair? If she was working as a prostitute, was he one of her clients? She checked the duration of each call. They all lasted for no more than a few minutes. Too short for any meaningful exchange. Then Jessamine considered another possibility. Had they been having an affair and Miguel had called the relationship off? Were these the calls of a spurned lover, trying to pursue him by phone?
She clicked on Miguel’s email address and sent him a message asking to meet as soon as he returned from Shanghai, then continued with the rest of the log, but there was nothing else of interest.
She got up and was stretching her arms, trying to release the tension in her shoulders, when her phone rang. It wasn’t a number she recognised.
‘Hello?’
‘Jessamine. It’s Jimmy.’
Jessamine paused. The name didn’t mean anything.
‘Charlie’s friend.’ Then she heard it, the clicking at the back of this throat. Like a flipper on a pinball machine. Jimmy Laird. The detective on Cassie’s case.
‘Has something happened? Have you found her?’
‘Still nothing.’ Ping, ping, ping at the back of his throat. ‘You wanted the coordinates. From the WhatsApp.’
Jessamine noted them down.
‘The message will have originated from somewhere within a two-mile radius of that point. Most likely it came from the person who stole the phone or whoever they sold it on to, in a car travelling down the M4.’
She wanted to ask him about Miguel Hampson, to see if he’d come across the name before, but she didn’t get a chance.
‘Next time you see Charlie, you tell him this makes us square.’ Each word fired from his mouth at speed, ping, ping, ping. ‘You got that?’
‘Got it,’ said Jessamine, but the line was already dead.
2003
Rowena
Millie holds her hair behind her ears, leans forward and in one quick huff, blows out the fourteen candles on her cake. We all clap and start a chorus of ‘Hip hip hooray’ while her mum hands her the knife. ‘Make a wish, darling,’ she whispers, as Millie slices through the strawberries to the sponge below. When the knife meets the foil-covered base Millie closes her eyes and mouths something under her breath.
It’s Saturday night and I’m one of the ten friends Millie has invited to her birthday sleepover. So far this evening we’ve watched Bring It On while eating pizza and now, after cake, the plan is to watch another movie – probably Titanic if the DiCaprio chat from her mates is anything to go by – then go and settle into our sleeping bags on Millie’s bedroom floor.
I’m happy to be here – more than that, I’m proud. When Millie was told she was allowed to choose ten friends to come and celebrate her birthday, I was on the list. Still, when she’d first handed me an invite I’d been far from keen. Meeting up with her at the cinema or wandering round Abercrombie & Fitch was one thing, but going to her home, to where Leo would be, was strictly off limits. Not that I could tell her so. Then there was the thought of meeting her other friends. They all had names like Cecily and Amelia. One was even called Plum. Like the fruit.
When I told her I was sorry but I had other plans she got upset. Said that her birthday was already going to be rubbish on account of her dad having to be away that weekend.
I thought about it a while. Maybe I could go. Leo wouldn’t be there. All I had to do was make sure to keep out of any photographs that might be taken and he’d be none the wiser.
Her mum starts cutting the cake into neat squares and transfers them onto plates. I queue up for a slice, and as she hands it to me I study her face, trying to imagine her and Leo together. Her forehead is smooth and freckled, her hair the same frizz of ash and ginger as Millie’s. She smiles at me but as I continue to stare her smile wavers. I’m making her uncomfortable.
I back away towards the breakfast bar and am halfway through my cake when Millie’s mum goes up behind her and places her hands over her eyes. ‘I have one last surprise,’ she says, and Millie gasps in delight. Millie’s friends titter and stand by the Aga. They seem to know what’s coming. Gently, Millie’s mum turns her around until she is facing the back door. Through the glass I can see a shadow, the outline of a person. Her mum removes her hands just as the door opens. Millie blinks, trying to focus, and then, as she sees who it is, she shrieks.
‘Daddy!’
Leo.
‘Happy birthday, darling.’ He steps forward and sweeps her into a hug.
The cake I’m eating sticks in my throat.
Millie presses her face into his chest. ‘I thought you were in London.’
My first instinct is to run. But that would be pointless. Where would I go?
‘I couldn’t miss your birthday.’ His focus is still on his daughter. ‘Thought I might take you out hunting tomorrow, just you and me. What do you say?’ He mimes cocking a shotgun up against his shoulder, then surveys the room, pretending to look at us all through his crosshairs. He reaches me and stops. His arms drop back to his sides.
Without letting me out of his sight, he accepts a glass of champagne from his wife, necks it and slams the glass down on the side.
Millie opens a gift he has brought with him. A fat golden locket in the shape of a heart. She squeals and kisses him in thanks.
The other girls have drifted back into the living room. I hear the opening bars of Titanic. Maybe I could just slip away now without anyone noticing. When they ask later I’ll tell them I felt ill and decided to go home.
I take my chance and break off from the group, towards the front door. I’m in the boot room, putting on my trainers, when he grabs my arm. ‘What are you playing at?’
‘Let me go.’
‘Are you two friends now, is that it?’ He tightens his grip.
My arm hurts. ‘I said, let me go.’
‘Daddy?’
He releases me and I tumble forwards.
‘I think I left something in the car.’ He opens the front door and marches off, the crunch-crunch of the gravel marking his steps.
Millie comes closer, confused. ‘Rowena?’
I replace my trainers next to Plum’s Nikes and rub my bruised arm. Millie stands there, waiting. I can’t meet her eye. In the moonlight her new birthday locket flashes, fat and gold.
Tuesday 10 January
Present day
Jessamine
Loughton Army Reserve Centre. A modern red-brick building with a car park out front, a field, climbing wall and AstroTurf pitch at the back; this was Luca Scolari’s detachment. On the day Cassie had disappeared, Luca had said he’d come here after work, just as he did every Friday, to volunteer with the young cadets.
Jessamine stood on the field’s floodlit sideline and waited for Officer Martin Cooper to finish issuing instructions to the twenty or so teenagers in his care. The field was frozen solid and she had to stamp her feet to keep warm.
‘Thanks for agreeing to talk,’ she said, when he returned to her side.
He shrugged, his eyes fixed on the cadets now engaged in a set of gruelling press-ups. ‘I’ve already told the police everything I know.’ Dressed in camouflage trousers and a white short-sleeve T-shirt, Officer Cooper didn’t seem to feel the cold. ‘Luca was here that night, just like he said.’
Jessamine nodded. She wasn’t here to check out his alibi. ‘I’m trying to get a sense of his behaviour these last few months. Notice anything out of the ordinary?’
The officer’s response was instant. ‘Nope.’ He reached for the silver whistle on a string around his neck and blew it twice. The cadets switched from press-ups to star jumps.
‘Are you guys friends?’
‘Nope.’
Again, his response was instant.
Jessamine decided to try a different tack. ‘How long has Luca volunteered?’
‘At Loughton?’ He kept his focus on the cadets while he talked, his face twitching in displeasure whenever he spotted any wave
r in form or effort. ‘Nine years.’
‘Do you need an army background to volunteer?’
*
‘Some do, but most, myself and Luca included, are civvies. You start as an AI, an adult instructor, and go from there.’ The warm-up complete, he blew his whistle and pointed at the cones arranged on the floor by the climbing wall. ‘Bleep test!’ The group jogged into position. ‘Luca is a good instructor. Better than good, actually. He cares about the kids, takes a proper interest. Some of them have issues at home or school or whatever, and when that happens he’s there for them.’ He started to walk away. ‘Look, it’s awful about his wife, but you’re wasting your time.’ He bent down and righted a cone that had toppled onto its side. ‘Luca had nothing to do with it – he couldn’t have.’
*
Back in the car, Jessamine saw that while she’d been inside the centre her windscreen had become obscured with a thin coating of ice. She turned on the heater and waited for the glass to clear. Officer Cooper hadn’t told her much but she was intrigued by his description of Luca: kind, caring, adept at pastoral care. It was at odds with everything she’d seen and heard about the man so far.
The screen cleared, revealing the entrance to the Army Reserve Centre, its double doors picked out in orange light. Jessamine was about to leave when she saw a woman who gave her pause. In a padded black jacket, she approached the building, then stood to one side, as though she was waiting for someone. There was something familiar about her. The woman shifted slightly on her feet and the orange light hit her face.
Marnie.
What was she doing here?
Jessamine beeped her horn, trying to get her attention, but Marnie was focused on a group of teenage girls now emerging from the entrance. She stepped in front of them and said something. The girls stopped briefly, laughed and continued on their way. Again Marnie said something. This time one peeled off from the group and came over to where she stood. The girl was in army fatigues and a hoody, a backpack on her shoulder.
They hadn’t talked long when Marnie’s body language changed. She started jabbing her finger close to the girl’s face and then back, towards the Centre. The girl went to walk away but Marnie wasn’t done. She grabbed her shoulder and the girl twisted, trying to shake her off. As she turned towards the car park Jessamine realised she’d seen the girl once before, last week, at Luca’s house. The babysitter.
The teenager finally extricated herself from Marnie’s grip, rearranged her backpack on her shoulder and walked away. This time Marnie let her go.
Jessamine guided the car to the double doors, towards Marnie. She’d offer her a lift, ask what had just happened. But in the short time it took to get there Marnie had already disappeared down a footpath cut into the woods at the side of the Centre.
Jessamine was wondering what to do next when Officer Cooper emerged from the building, a giant pack strapped to his back. Seeing Jessamine, he stopped and raised his hand in salute, then jogged off, his breath huffing white on the night air.
2003
Rowena
I wake up just after three a.m. in my sleeping bag on Millie’s bedroom floor. I’m thirsty, my throat dry from too much salted popcorn and party food. All I can think about is water. Everyone around me is asleep. In her bed, Millie snores gently. There is no way I can wait till morning, and the bathroom is right next to the one place I want to avoid: Millie’s mum and dad’s room. I’ll have to go downstairs.
I still don’t know what the fallout of my being here will be, but I do know that, whatever it is, it won’t be good. After Millie caught me and Leo arguing I lied and told Millie her dad was angry because he’d thought I was going outside to smoke. She knows I like a cigarette and I think she bought it. In the morning Millie’s mum has promised to make us all pancakes before Millie leaves to go out shooting with her dad. I’m planning to be gone way before that, as soon as it’s light.
I unzip my sleeping bag and, taking care not to step on anyone, slowly pick my way over to the door. Millie stirs. Worried I may have woken her, I stop. She snuffles, grinds her teeth and turns onto her side. I wait a few seconds more, just to be sure, then venture out onto the landing.
The cottage is cold and soon I’m shivering in my pyjama shorts and vest.
I creep down the hall and am almost at the kitchen when I hear a noise. It’s coming from the living room. Someone is in there, watching TV. I peer round the door and see Leo sprawled asleep on an armchair, a half-drunk bottle of Scotch at his side. I consider going back up the stairs, to the safety of Millie’s room and the others, but I’m so thirsty. I’m just about to cross the threshold into the kitchen when I step on a warped floorboard. Yarrrp. It’s not that loud but in the still of the cottage it feels deafening. There is no sign of any movement in the living room so I go to the sink and run a glass of water. I gulp it down greedily, some of the water splashing out of the sides of my mouth and onto my cheeks. Feeling better, I refill the glass and head back upstairs.
I’m just making my way back past the living room when he appears in the doorway.
‘Rowena?’
I pretend not to have heard and keep going.
‘Come in here a moment.’
Reluctantly, I do as he says, and follow him into the living room. The news is on low and balloons, streamers and empty Coke cans – rubbish from the party – litter the floor.
‘I suppose you think you’ve got one over on me?’
I shrug.
‘Inveigling your way into my daughter’s life.’
‘Millie is nice. She’s my friend.’
He laughs. ‘You think she’s your friend?’ He shakes his head. ‘She feels sorry for you. That’s all. You’re her charity case. Those other girls who were here tonight, they’re her friends.’
I go to leave but he comes and stands in front of me, blocking the way. His shirt is undone, his eyes red.
He takes the bottom hem of my pyjama vest between his thumb and forefinger and, testing the fabric, he sneers. I try to step around him but he grabs me by the hair, turns me around and pushes me against the back of the sofa. Some of the water I’m carrying sloshes over the side of the glass onto my wrist. As he pulls down my pyjama shorts, I try to focus on a picture of Millie on the mantelpiece. The one of her in her school uniform, a gap in her front teeth. She looks shy, as though she’s not quite sure of the person behind the camera. In the hall I think I hear the floorboard and ask him to stop but he won’t listen. I try to hold the water steady but eventually it starts to spill. Beneath me, the water blots the cushions and sofa. The stain spreads across the fabric, dark and wide.
Thursday 12 January
Present day
Jessamine
Jessamine ran her finger down the line of buzzers until she found the one she was looking for: Flat 4a. Some of the residents had written their names on the thin strips of cardboard alongside the buttons. She checked the cardboard next to Flat 4a but it had been left blank.
No matter. She’d find out who they were soon enough. She pressed the buzzer and, behind the door, somewhere deep inside the building, she heard a corresponding bell ring.
No answer.
She tried again. Again, there was no response.
The door was sheltered by a stone porch, ballasted by fat stone pillars. Jessamine retreated a few steps, onto the pavement, and looked up, searching the windows in the mansion block for any signs of life. But the net curtains remained still, the front door locked.
She crossed to the small garden square on the other side of the street, took a seat on a bench, and tried to work out her next move. This was the forwarding address that had been given to the bed-and-breakfast proprietors, Hugh and Malcolm, by the previous occupants of their house. Situated in a grand crescent just off Gloucester Road, it was accessed by communal front doors skirted by black and white tiles. Whether the same occupants were still living there nearly ten years later remained to be seen. A Google search had told her that the flats inside
were worth millions. It hadn’t been able to tell her who lived in Flat 4a as the owners had set their names to private on the electoral roll.
At a loss as to what to do next, she decided to give Marnie another call. Puzzled by the encounter she’d witnessed between her and the babysitter outside the Army Reserve Centre, Jessamine had spent the last two days trying repeatedly to get in touch. But, for the third time today, Marnie’s phone rang out to voicemail. She’d try again later.
She looked back at the mansion block. It seemed she wouldn’t be talking to the inhabitants of Flat 4a either, at least not today. She was about to leave when, across the street, she saw a man with a number of tiny dogs approach the building. A mixture of Bichon Frise, Pugs and Chihuahuas, the dogs and their leads kept getting tangled round the man’s ankles, almost tripping him. Sensing an opportunity, Jessamine crossed the street, and watched as the man herded his charges towards the block.
He fumbled with his keys and was about to open the door when he seemed to become aware of Jessamine’s presence. He turned briefly and scanned the pavement. Jessamine braced herself for some kind of confrontation about why she was loitering in the street for no apparent reason, but it was as though she was invisible, and the man, either not seeing her or not considering her a threat, turned back to the door and wrestled his dogs over the threshold.
Being a gorilla in a supermarket had its advantages, after all.
Jessamine waited till the man was out of sight and then, just as the door was about to click shut, she leaped forward, caught it and slipped inside.
The man with the dogs was already gone, disappeared into one of the ground-floor flats. Jessamine assessed the grand staircase that looped up to the top of the building. The banister was broad, carved from smooth oak, the stairs marked by brass spindles, there to keep the carpet in place. She made her way up to the third floor and soon found the door for Flat 4a, tucked into a mini-vestibule at the back of the building.
The Dangerous Kind Page 21