Dark Corners

Home > Mystery > Dark Corners > Page 11
Dark Corners Page 11

by Alex Walters


  She'd settled him down in the living room and returned with an opened bottle of red wine, which she emptied into two glasses. Wickham was already looking slightly the worse for wear, although she thought he'd only knocked back two or three pints across the evening. Sue was several glasses ahead of him, and felt cheerful and boisterous but otherwise unaffected. 'It won’t be anything special,' she said. 'Just what’s in the fridge. Pasta OK? You’re not vegetarian or anything, are you?'

  Wickham shook his head. 'Pasta’s fine.'

  As it turned out, it was more than fine. They’d eaten in Sue’s dining room and then returned to the living room to polish off the rest of the wine. Sue had wondered whether to continue her gentle interrogation about his past, but she'd sensed he was reluctant to talk and she was happy to let that lie for the moment. Instead, she talked about the village and the larger town up the hill—some of the local characters, the best shops, where to eat.

  They ended up slumped on Sue’s cavernous sofa, working their way through the wine while Sue picked out a DVD for them to watch. She grabbed a handful of cases from the shelves by the TV. 'What do you fancy?'

  'Up to you.'

  Sue gazed at the boxes as though she’d never seen them before either. 'Dunno,' she said. 'They’re all a bit girly. Do you mind?'

  'Whichever you think’s best.'

  Sue picked out a recent British rom-com. She'd seen it a couple of times before so wasn't too worried about paying it much attention. She was becoming increasingly focused on the proximity of Wickham's body to her own. She’d moved herself so that she was resting against him in a manner that, for the moment, she hoped suggested comfort rather than anything overtly sexual.

  During a lull in the movie, she poured the final dregs of the wine into their glasses, taking the opportunity to press herself even more openly against him. He moved himself away slightly, looking uncomfortable, and Sue glanced up at him, quizzically. 'Am I being too forward again?'

  'No. Of course not. It’s just—'

  She sat more upright. 'I’m very straightforward,' she said 'And, frankly, too old and single to spend time going round the houses.' She laughed, as if a thought had just struck her. 'Or beating about the bush. As it were. Sorry—bit tipsy.' She took a mouthful of wine as if it were an antidote to that condition. 'The thing is, you’re an attractive man. I hope you find me an attractive woman.' She didn’t allow him time even to think about responding to that. 'I won’t be offended if you say no, but I was wondering whether you’d like to stay the night?'

  He'd responded with apparent surprise and some hesitation, but she had the impression, thinking about it later, that he’d never been likely to say no. She could already sense his arousal. After a while, they swallowed the last of the wine, watched the final few minutes of the movie—where everything ended happily, more or less, at least for the lead characters—and, with the awkward ease of the semi-drunk, made their way up to Sue’s bedroom.

  Wickham hadn't been the best lover she'd ever had, not that the competition was very extensive. At first, he'd seemed gauche and clumsy, as if he hadn’t had much of an idea what he was doing. But, in fairness, Sue had thought that about most of the men she’d been with. At least Wickham seemed willing to listen and learn. In the end, they'd had a pretty enjoyable time. Even so, she thought, the best part wasn’t the sex itself, but the aftermath—the point where, exhausted and still woozy from the wine, they’d nestled together under Sue’s weighty duvet and, after only a few moments, had fallen deeply asleep.

  It was the same now, waking in the half-light the early morning, feeling the pressure of his body against hers. It was something she'd missed more than she'd realised.

  'What sort of noises?' he asked finally.

  She wrapped herself around him, and pressed the weighty curve of her breasts against his chest. 'Last night or just now?'

  'Just now,' he smiled.

  'I wasn’t very awake myself. But you sounded—I don’t know—breathless. Scared. As if you were afraid of something.'

  'Just a dream, I suppose.'

  'I can put up with you dreaming, as long as you do it quietly. At least you don’t snore.' Again, in her experience of men, Wickham was close to being unique in this respect.

  'I do my best to please.'

  'Your best was pretty good. At least once I’d licked you into shape.' She paused, then gave a winey giggle. 'As it were. God, I’m going to feel so hungover in the morning.'

  'What time is it?'

  She pulled away from him and sat up to peer at the luminous face of the alarm clock by the bed. 'It’s only four-thirty. If we get up at nine, we can grab a quick breakfast in the cafe before I open up.' She lay back down and rolled over to face him. 'That is, if you can still bear my company by the morning.'

  There was a moment's pause. 'I ought to go back really,' he said. 'I wasn't expecting to be away all night.'

  She sat up in bed, suddenly feeling anxious. 'You're not about to tell me you've someone waiting for you back at home?'

  'No. No, of course not. Nothing like that.' He was silent for a second, as if he couldn't think how to explain. 'I'm just a bit of a creature of habit, you know?'

  'Well, I reckon in that case it's about time you picked up a few new habits, then.' She lay back down and moved her body against his, more purposefully this time. 'Tell you what,' she said. 'Give me a few minutes and then see how you feel about going home.'

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  'Why would she lie?' Milton had asked on the way back to the MIR.

  'Who knows?' Murrain said. 'Most likely nothing to do with anything we're interested in. That's what makes this job so difficult. As you say, everyone has their secrets.'

  'You don't think that, though, do you? I know you. You think it's relevant.'

  'I don't know. I'm pretty certain young Charlie was telling us the truth, as best he could. Someone tried to grab him yesterday. He thought he recognised the man's face, for whatever reason. And there's something the mother doesn't want us to know, which may or may not be significant. That's all.' He paused for a moment, staring out of the car window, trying without success to recapture those sensations.

  Milton felt there was more, but there was no point in challenging Murrain further. He'd say more when he felt able to. 'So what next?'

  'I'm nervous about deflecting effort from the murder,' Murrain said. 'But I think we can justify some door-to-doors among the Morrisons' immediate neighbours. Just in case there were any other witnesses to what happened to Charlie—someone watching from a window or someone further down the street who might have seen the van drive off.'

  'With the odd discreet question about the Morrisons' thrown in?'

  'You've got the idea. But very discreet. Make sure we use someone with some sense. Bert Wallace, maybe. She's good at extracting information without you really noticing.' DC Roberta Wallace was a young member of Murrain's team whom he regarded with increasing respect. 'She does it to me all the time.'

  'Fair enough. And I'll get all the usual CCTV checks and suchlike in train,' Milton said. 'If the van went on to the A6, there's a chance we might have got the reg on one of the ANPR cameras. Bit more likelihood here than where Ethan Dunn was snatched.'

  Back at the MIR, the desks had already begun to fill up. DCs Bert Wallace and Will Sparrow were in on authorised overtime, heading out to complete door to door interviews with neighbours who had been unavailable during the working week. Dave Wanstead was at his desk carrying out some unfathomable bot no doubt essential case administration task on his computer. Marie Donovan was apparently entering data into the system, working painstakingly through pages of notes. Murrain noticed the smile she gave Milton on their return, and forced himself not to exchange a knowing glance with Wanstead.

  'Christ,' Murrain said as he sat down. 'Don't any of you lot have homes to go to? I can't afford to pay you all overtime, you know.'

  'Lots to do, boss,' Wanstead said. 'And we all want to catch this bastard,
don't we?'

  There was no shortage of work, even discounting the countless other competing cases that members of the team would still be juggling. But the murder was the priority—making progress while there was still progress to be made.

  Murrain felt distracted—one of those all-too-frequent days when his sensitivity felt more like a curse than a gift—but managed to use the day productively. Around lunchtime, he called an impromptu meeting with those present to discuss where they were up to. Not very far, was the honest answer. Masses of data but precious little intelligence. Calls were still trickling in following the television appeal. A handful were worth following up, but most were going nowhere. The forensics were still being processed, but nothing looked promising.

  By mid-afternoon, Murrain was in the mood to call it a day. Wanstead was still beavering away at something that only he understood. Wallace and Sparrow had long ago left the building to kick off their interview schedule. Milton and Donovan were reviewing interview notes together. Murrain himself had fielded four calls from senior officers, including the Chief, seeking updates, knowing he'd left each caller more dissatisfied than the last, for all their words of encouragement. Something was buzzing behind his eyes, as irritating as an errant bluebottle. He couldn't tell whether it was something significant or an incipient migraine.

  He was about to call Eloise to say that he was on his way back, when he saw Wanstead, talking on the phone, suddenly sit up and gesture to him. The expression on Wanstead's face indicated some significant development. As Murrain rose, Wanstead finished the call.

  'Something from the TV appeal?'

  Wanstead was stony-faced. 'Wish to hell it was.'

  'So what then?' Though Murrain hardly needed to ask.

  'That was the control room. We've another one. Another bloody missing child.'

  ***

  The rain had arrived unexpectedly. It had been a fine early autumn day, with the promise of clear skies and the threat of a first frost before dawn. But late in the afternoon the clouds had rolled steadily in from the west. Dark, heavy clouds with the scent of thunder. Sitting in Sue’s immaculate front room, waiting for the phone to ring, they heard the first scatterings of rain against the window.

  'We should be out there,' she said. 'Doing something.

  She'd called Wickham without really thinking. She wasn't really thinking clearly about anything, and she'd dialled his number in panic almost before she knew what she was doing.

  'Kevin?' She felt barely in control of her words.

  There was a long pause and, for a moment, she thought she hadn't recognised her voice. 'Sue? Are you OK?'

  'Can you come round? You need to come round. Shit—'

  'Sue, what is it?'

  'Oh, Jesus, Kevin. You need to come round. It’s Luke.'

  'What’s the problem, Sue? What is it?'

  'He’s gone missing. They can’t find him.'

  Another silence. 'Who’s gone missing? Who are we talking about?'

  'Christ, Kevin. It’s Luke. He’s gone missing.'

  'Luke?'

  It had taken her another moment to realise that Wickham had no idea what she was talking about. 'Oh, God, Kevin. I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry.' Her head was struggling to try to find the right words, but in the end all she said was: 'He’s gone missing, Kevin. Luke. My son. My little boy—'

  Wickham turned up at the house ten minutes later, shortly before the two uniformed police officers arrived. The officers' initial words, at least, had been reassuring. The disappearance of a child was always a concern, they said, and particularly so at the moment, but so far Luke had been missing for scarcely two hours. There could be countless reasons for his absence. Nevertheless, it had been clear to Sue that they were taking this very seriously indeed.

  'The fucking idiot,' Sue spat. 'This is just bloody typical.'

  This was her ex-husband. She'd already told Wickham that she was divorced. She hadn't deliberately withheld the information that she also had a young son from the marriage, but she supposed she hadn't wanted to raise the topic until she was sure that something more serious might be developing between the two of them. Nine year old Luke divided his time between Sue and the ex-husband, Tony and his new wife, Caitlin. In practice, in recent months the boy had been spending more and more time with Tony and Caitlin.

  'That’s Tony,' Sue said. 'He’s engineered it, step by step, slowly but surely. Stretching it a little each time so you seem petty if you object. That’s the way he is. Devious but irresponsible. Typical man. Nothing personal.' She was conscious that she sounded more bitter than she'd intended.

  However devious Tony might be, it seemed his irresponsible side had been to the fore that afternoon. 'I can’t believe even he’d be that stupid,' she said. 'He was due to drop Luke off tomorrow night, so he’d be here for the week. But it always has to be what's most convenient to Tony.'

  Wickham had sat and listened patiently since the police had left. Sue knew she was coping with her anxiety by venting her spleen against her ex but couldn't stop herself talking. 'So, of course, bloody typical, this afternoon he phones to say it's not convenient to come over Sunday so he wants to drop him off Saturday. I told him I'd arranged so go out, so he starts up with the "well, if you've not got time for Luke..." stuff. It was going nowhere, and in the end I told him to do what he bloody well wanted.' She paused and took a breath, realising she was talking too much. 'I didn't expect him to take that literally.'

  'But you weren’t here?' Wickham asked.

  'That was the thing. Tony dropped him off at the end of the road like he usually does. Anything to avoid having to come into contact with me. He just assumed I’d be in the shop. But I’d shut early to get my hair done, because—' She stopped and, for the first time since he'd arrived, met Wickham's eyes. 'Well, because I was supposed to be meeting you later.'

  His face showed no expression. 'So what happened to Luke?'

  'We don’t know. Tony dropped him off and saw him walking along the road to the shop. I got back half an hour later, and a bit after that Tony phoned to say Luke had left his coat in the car. It was only then I realised he was supposed to be here.'

  'There’s nowhere he might have gone?'

  'He’s got a few friends locally he might have gone to, but I’ve tried all those. The cafe was already closed. The post office was still open, and I thought he might have gone there, but they hadn’t seen him. The police have been talking to the others along the street but no-one has any recollection of seeing him. Oh, Jesus, Kevin. What’s happened to him?'

  Wickham shifted awkwardly across the sofa and placed an arm around her shoulders. 'He’ll be fine, Sue,' he said, though she thought he sounded unconvinced himself. 'He’ll have found his way somewhere. Probably won’t even have realised we’re missing him. You know how kids are. They get caught up in something and don't think about anyone else.'

  She lacked the energy or the will to respond. She lay back for a moment on the sofa, feeling the weight of his arm around her. Then, unable to keep still, she rose and stamped over to the window. She pulled back the curtain and peered out into the wet gloom, as if Luke might be waiting in the street outside. It was still only early evening, but the rain was coming down harder now, lashing at the glass, and it was barely possible to see over the road.

  Wickham had moved to stand behind her, resting a comforting hand on her arm. On the opposite side of the street, beyond a substantial stone wall, the River Goyt flowed through the village, sandwiched into a narrow gully as it passed below the road bridge before widening in the open land beyond. His face was blank but, for a moment, he grasped her arm more tightly as if he'd been struck by a sudden anxiety. Sue glanced up at him, accepting the gesture as a sign of his concern. 'I’m glad you’re here,' she said. 'It’s the one thing keeping me sane.' She'd thought at first that she'd made a mistake in calling him—she'd have been better calling one of her girl friends—but now she felt reassured by his presence.

  She was
about to say something more when they were both startled by the loud buzz of the mobile on the table. A moment later it was followed by the shriek of the ringtone, some 1980s pop-hit, grotesquely out of the place in the circumstances. She jumped across the room and clumsily thumbed the call button. 'Yes? Yes, of course. Oh, thank Christ—' She looked up at Wickham and mouthed: 'He’s all right.'

  Wickham nodded, smiling, and offered her a silent thumbs up.

  Sue was still gabbling into the phone. 'Yes, Tony called to say he’d dropped him off and I didn’t know what— No, God, no, not your fault at all. Bloody Tony’s fault. Thanks for taking care of him—I’ll get up to you straightaway. Thanks again.' She ended the call and, in the same movement, threw herself into Wickham’s arms, sobbing against his shoulder. He held her awkwardly, as she felt the emotion and tension draining from her body. Eventually, she calmed herself and lifted her head. Her face was blotched and tear-stained but she was smiling. 'Oh, Jesus. Maybe I’m not an atheist any longer. If that’s what praying can do.'

  'He’s all right?'

  'He’s fine, apparently. Doesn’t even know he’s been missed.'

  'Where is he?'

  'Would you believe at bloody Finlan’s?' She moved herself away from Wickham and sat herself down on the sofa, feet curled under her. She felt vulnerable and child-like, scarcely old enough herself to be out on her own.

  'Finlan’s? How?'

  'He was walking home through the village when he saw Luke hiding in a doorway a few houses up, apparently. Luke had been waiting outside the house, but got scared because he thought someone was following him. He can be a bit like that. Full of bravado one minute, scared of his own shadow the next.' She took a breath. 'He knows Finlan a bit—seen him in the shop a few times—so Finlan offered to take him back to his place until I got back. Just as well, I suppose. It started raining after that.' She paused, as the significance of all this hit her once again. 'I’m going to have Tony on toast for this. Stupid fucking bastard.'

 

‹ Prev