Seven Days

by Alex Lake

  ‘Yes,’ Martin said. ‘You know him?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Did he teach you?’

  He didn’t, but Wynne knew she couldn’t say how she knew Best. An unproven allegation of interest in underage girls – Wynne happened to believe it, but that was irrelevant – was not something she could share with the general public. It was slander.

  It was also a coincidence.

  And Wynne did not like coincidences.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s a small town. I’ve come across him a few times. He seems a pleasant man.’ She hesitated. ‘I was wondering whether you would be OK with me talking to James? About the night he was brought home?’

  ‘Why?’ Martin said. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Probably nothing,’ Wynne said. ‘But it’s better to be thorough.’

  There was a silence on the line. ‘Then feel free,’ he said.

  2

  James sat on the couch. His hands were folded in his lap, his fingers moving nervously.

  ‘Am I in trouble?’ he said. ‘For underage drinking?’

  ‘Not with me,’ Wynne replied. ‘Although I imagine your mum and dad aren’t too pleased.’

  He sat back on the couch. ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘I want to talk to you about what happened that night. Why don’t you take me through it?’

  ‘Is someone else in trouble? For selling us alcohol?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not really interested in that kind of thing. And I can promise you I won’t do anything with any information you give me. I want you to speak as freely as possible.’

  ‘OK.’ He paused. ‘Me and Andy went – we went to see a film. We saw Pirates of the Caribbean. Andy had some White Lightning cider and he snuck it in. We drank it and we were pretty loud – laughing, that kind of thing – and the usher kicked us out. So we went to the park, and on the way we bought some Mad Dog—’

  ‘Mad Dog?’ Wynne said.

  ‘It’s a drink: MD twenty-twenty. We call it Mad Dog. It’s cheap.’

  ‘And you drank it in the park?’

  He nodded. ‘We bought four bottles. I drank a bit more than Andy, I think.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I was sick, and I lay down by the roundabout. Andy said we should go home and after that I don’t really remember anything until I woke up at home.’

  ‘And Mr Best?’ She leaned forward. ‘Do you remember seeing him?’

  ‘No. I think I’d passed out before he showed up.’

  ‘You didn’t see him before you passed out? In the park?’

  ‘No. Why would I? Has he done something?’

  Wynne shook her head. ‘Just checking.’ She got to her feet. ‘Thank you, James. That was very helpful. I can see myself out.’

  3

  DI Wynne walked up to Best’s front door and rang the doorbell. She stepped back and waited.

  It opened a few moments later. Best looked at her. He was dressed in a pair of old jeans with grass stains on the knees and a loose-fitting sweater. He folded his arms.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You again. How can I help you this time?’

  ‘I have some questions.’

  ‘I’ve given you all the information I have.’ Best shook his head. ‘What’s your name again? I’ve a mind to report you. This is tantamount to police harass—’

  Wynne glanced around then shoved him hard in the chest. He stumbled backwards and she stepped into the hall. She shut the front door, her heart beating hard in her chest, and swung her right foot hard into his shin. There was a loud crack. Best bent over, his hand clutching at his damaged leg.

  ‘You shut the fuck up,’ she said. ‘And listen to me.’

  Best looked up at her, his eyes wary.

  ‘What were you doing last night? With Maggie Cooper’s brother?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He stood up, wincing in pain. ‘It was a simple coincidence.’ He gestured at the front of the house. ‘The park is there. I was walking home and I saw him come out. I didn’t know he was related to the Coopers.’

  Wynne stared at him. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe a word you say. You’re a lying piece of shit.’

  He shrugged. ‘He was in the park getting drunk. How could I have had anything to do with that? He was drunk on the street outside my house and I was concerned. That’s all there is to it, Detective Inspector Wynne.’

  It was true: James had confirmed it. But still. Why was he watching? And would he have done the same for another teenager?

  ‘So you took him home?’

  ‘I did. Like I said, I was concerned.’

  ‘Do you make a habit of that? Driving drunk young boys home?’

  ‘No, I don’t. This was the first time it has happened.’

  ‘And by coincidence it was the brother of Maggie Cooper.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whose mother you taught.’

  ‘Yes. I taught a lot of the people in this town.’ He sighed. ‘I’m afraid you’re chasing shadows. I saw a young man in need of help. That’s all. I look out for my fellow citizens.’

  ‘Especially the young girls.’

  ‘This again.’ He ran his hand over his face and shook his head. ‘I told you last time, it’s not true. My wife and I had a very messy break-up and she invented the whole thing to discredit me. It was scurrilous nonsense. And it cost me a lot of money in the divorce. She threatened to spread her lies to more people if I didn’t give her whatever she wanted.’

  ‘But you paid,’ Wynne said. ‘Didn’t you? You settled with her. Why would you, if it wasn’t true?’

  ‘Because people would have believed her. She is a very unpleasant and unstable woman and I was happy to be rid of her.’

  Wynne shook her head. ‘You’re lying to me.’

  ‘I hope you can prove it.’

  The problem was, he was right. She was skating on thin ice. She had no right to be here – his wife had dropped the charges against him and they had found no photos at the time. Wynne was sure he had been taking them – and that he continued to do so – but she had no proof. Best was too clever to leave any evidence in the house.

  There wasn’t much she could do.

  Best rubbed his shin. ‘This is harassment, and if it continues I will report you to the Police Complaints Commission.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ Wynne said.

  ‘I will, and you’ll be in all kinds of—’

  Wynne prodded a finger in his chest.

  ‘Go to the PCC,’ she said. ‘Go and tell them what I did, and when you do, I’ll explain why. There’ll be all kinds of attention on you – and I think that’s the last thing you want, Best.’

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I understand what you’re thinking, and I have every sympathy with you. You think there is a coincidence here – because you believe my wife’s accusations you think I may have something to do with the disappearance of this young girl. Then you discover I brought her brother home, and I taught her mother. But there is no coincidence, because those accusations are untrue. I have no …’ he paused, searching for the right word, ‘… unnatural interest in young girls, and I had nothing to do with whatever happened to Maggie Cooper. Once you discount my wife’s accusations then you’ll see all that happened is I helped out a young man – remember, I was a teacher, so I understand teenagers – who is the son of someone I taught … And there are many sons and daughters of people I taught in this town.’

  She looked at him, keeping her face expressionless. What he said was perfectly plausible, but only if you accepted that his wife’s accusations were false. And Wynne didn’t.

  ‘Moreover,’ Best said. ‘If you return here, I will not let you in unless you have the correct legal status, by which I mean a warrant. And then, even if you have one, when you fail to find anything, I will lodge my complaint.’ He looked at her. ‘I imagine you are quite proud to have achieved your rank, Detective Inspector. No doubt you are considere
d promising and talented. What you lack is the wisdom to know when you are mistaken – as you are now.’

  Wynne put her hands behind her back. She dug her fingernails into her palms. She wanted to grab him by the throat and squeeze the truth out of him. Squeeze the life out of him.

  But she couldn’t. That would end her career.

  And there was always the possibility that she was mistaken. All she had to go on was a feeling, and that was not enough, at least not in a court of law.

  She turned, and walked to the front door. She closed it behind her and walked away. It was her only option, but she could not shake the feeling that she was making a terrible mistake.

  Twelve Years Earlier, 31 July 2006

  1

  Maggie lay on her side, her knees to her chest. She didn’t know what to do, whether to sit or stand or lie down. Even the choice between keeping her eyes open or closed was beyond her: if she opened them, she was reminded of where she was, the horror of her situation. If she closed them, images of the man in his bathrobe came to her.

  And it had only got worse.

  She had stomach cramps, cramps she recognized. Period cramps. She felt bloated and lethargic and soon she would need a tampon.

  There were none, of course. The man had not thought of providing any. She would have to ask him for some, but if the blood came before he did then all she had was the washcloth. She would have to use that.

  In amongst it all, though, was relief.

  She was not pregnant.

  He had raped her four times, each time without using a condom. Each time she had wondered if she was pregnant.

  So the cramps were welcome. They also meant – she hoped – that he would leave her alone, that there would be some respite from the door opening and him standing there in his blue bathrobe, his thin, hairless ankles above his sandals.

  She clutched her stomach and groaned. She always got bad period pains but the cramps were worse than usual this time. She’d have to ask for something to help. Paracetamol, maybe.

  Then she heard it. The scraping sound that meant he was on his way. She’d been awake awhile; it was probably lunchtime. He’d bring one of the awful meals he made but she wouldn’t eat much of it. She had no appetite. Maybe she’d drink something.

  The handle turned and the door opened. The man was standing there holding a tray. He stepped forward and put it down; he was moving awkwardly, like he was in pain. His jeans had grass stains on the knees. She had an image of her and her mum and dad and brother in the garden, mowing the lawn and sunbathing, and a wave of longing washed over her.

  ‘I need something,’ she muttered.

  ‘What? Are you ill?’ His voice was low, and clipped.

  ‘I have – I have my period.’

  He looked at her blankly. ‘I see. I hadn’t thought of that. What do you need, exactly?’

  ‘Paracetamol,’ she said. ‘For the pain. And Tampax. I need two types: heavy and regular. Heavy for the first few days.’

  ‘I have ibuprofen,’ he said. ‘I had to take some myself earlier. I had a bit of a’ – he glanced at his shins – ‘a run-in with something.’

  ‘That’ll be fine. But I need the Tampax more.’

  ‘Where would I get them?’ he asked.

  ‘Supermarket. Or chemist.’

  He nodded. ‘But why would I be buying – those things? It’ll look strange.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I need them.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Now.’

  He looked at the tray. ‘Here’s your dinner. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  2

  Maggie didn’t know exactly how long it was before he came back. Hours, certainly, but how many she could not tell. Time was different in here. She had no way of knowing whether it was morning or afternoon or evening. All she had to go on was the man. He came with breakfast, and then he came with dinner.

  And sometimes after that, in his bathrobe.

  In the mornings she marked her calendar. Another day gone. Over three weeks, now. Over three weeks in here, in this place where there was nothing to do but sit and stare at the walls.

  It felt like a different life. A different world. She was already finding it hard to picture her family, but she knew one thing.

  They would be missing her. More than missing her. They would be torn apart by her loss. By now they would think she was dead, and would be grieving for her. Had they held a memorial service for her? She pictured it, all her friends and family gathered in some room, photos of her playing on a projector.

  It was sick. She needed to help them, somehow. Get a message to them to let them know she was still alive. At least if they knew that they would not have to worry she was dead.

  But there was no way she could contact them. The room was totally isolated; the only way would be telepathy, and she’d tried that. She’d sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the day and closed her eyes and concentrated, hard, on her brother and mother and father, beaming messages to them.

  Nothing came back. Was it possible they had felt her presence for a moment? Maybe, but she had no way of knowing.

  She wondered how James was taking it. She missed him with an intense, physical ache. Yes, he was annoying – he was a younger brother – but she loved him, and she knew he loved her. Adored her, in fact. On her twelfth birthday he had made her a sculpture of a crab out of clay; they had been on holiday to Brittany and eaten crab, which they had all loved, so he had honoured the memory in art. Sculpture, it turned out, was not one of his gifts and she had laughed at it; James had snatched it back, hurt.

  Afterwards her mum had taken her aside.

  Be kind to him, Mags, she said. You’re his big sister and he looks up to you. He always has. He was an anxious toddler, and often the only way we could calm him down was if you were there. He needs you. And he was hoping you’d love that sculpture.

  Her words sank in. Maggie fished the sculpture out of the bin and put it on her shelf. It was still there.

  The thought of James looking at it in her empty room made her head swim with nausea.

  She yawned and lay on the mattress. How could she be tired? She did nothing but sleep and lie around. She needed to start doing some kind of exercise, if only for something to do.

  She heard the scraping noise. The door opened and the man came in. He placed two boxes on the floor.

  ‘Is this what you need?’

  He prodded the boxes towards her with his toe and she picked them up.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘These are fine.’

  ‘I had to go far away to buy them,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want anyone to see me. That’s why it took a long time.’

  She nodded. She pictured him in a supermarket in some out-of-town retail park, a cap pulled low on his head, buying the tampons in silence then hurrying to his car and driving back on the motorway. For the first time she wondered what would happen to her if something happened to him? What if a truck hit him and he was killed? How long would it be before someone found her? Presumably wherever she was was well hidden, so it could be days. Weeks.

  Months.

  He nodded at the food he had brought earlier. It was untouched.

  ‘You’re not hungry?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You need to eat.’

  Maggie looked away. She didn’t need a lecture on nutrition from him. ‘Like you care,’ she said, aware she sounded like a surly teenager.

  She wasn’t too bothered. She wasn’t normally a surly teenager, but she had a pass this time. She had plenty to be surly about.

  ‘Of course I care,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Maggie said. ‘If you cared about me you wouldn’t keep me in here.’

  ‘That’s why I keep you in here. Don’t you see that? I told you. I have to keep you safe.’

  ‘How is this safe?’

  ‘Because it’s not out there.’ He pointed above his head. ‘Out there will corrupt you, Maggie. And
you must not be corrupted. I can’t let that happen to you.’

  ‘It won’t,’ Maggie said. ‘I promise. I’m a normal teenager, really.’

  ‘You are not a normal teenager. You’re special. Like I told you before, I’ve been following you Maggie, keeping an eye on you until the time came to save you.’

  Maggie shrank back on the bed. This was crazy.

  ‘I’ve been watching over you. Like a guardian angel. Ever since I saw you. You never knew, but I was there.’

  ‘How long,’ she said, gesturing around the room, ‘how long have you been planning this?’

  ‘The room?’ the man said. ‘I built this years ago, I knew I’d need it one day – for someone – and I was right. Because you started to go down the wrong path, and I had to step in.’

  ‘What do you mean, the wrong path?’ Maggie said, her head spinning. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘That boy,’ the man said. ‘He was taking you in the wrong direction.’

  ‘Kevin?’ Maggie said. ‘He was – he was only a friend. I was going to break up with him!’

  ‘He was a dangerous influence,’ the man said. ‘And he was the first of many. There would have been others, I could tell. You’re susceptible to men, Maggie. It runs in your family. I couldn’t let it happen again.’

  ‘Again?’ Maggie said. ‘Kevin was my first boyfriend. There’s no again.’

  ‘I’m not talking about you,’ the man said. ‘I’m talking about your mother.’

  3

  ‘My mum?’ Maggie said. She felt dizzy. She had assumed that the man had seen her alone and taken the opportunity to kidnap her. All the stuff he’d said when she was first here, about rescuing her and keeping her safe, was his way of justifying it.

  But now it seemed there was more to the story.

  A lot more.

  Maggie blinked, trying to focus. ‘What has my mum got to do with this?’

  ‘Everything,’ the man said. ‘I failed her. She, too, was special, but I did not do what I should have done. I wasn’t ready. I won’t make the same mistake again.’

  He said it emphatically, as though proud of the strength of his resolve.