A Cry in the Night (20 page)

Magda, the nanny-cum-housekeeper, was in the kitchen, placing a casserole dish into the oven as Sam entered. She was twenty-something with a boyish haircut that did not suit her. She wore baggy, shapeless clothes and seemed to move in slow motion; everything was a dull grind for her. Sam liked the lack of fuss she brought to the house, and she never complained or laughed or did anything beyond the exact duties asked of her. At first it was rather off-putting, but soon everyone just got on with life around her.

‘Hi, Magda.’

‘Hello, Mr Taylor.’

‘How are you today?’

She pulled a face that seemed to say, today is just the same as every other shitty day. She never looked at him. Then she
went to the sink and started washing up. Sam wanted to slob out at the table, open a beer, go through his reports, but she made him feel guilty. Shortly before she died, Andrea had done up the kitchen, and it felt sparkling and beyond the sort of thing that a man like him could afford. Magda’s miserable drudgery seemed to reinforce this sense that he wasn’t worthy. He considered asking her about her family back home, but couldn’t bear the silence and the next ‘whatever’ face that he’d get in return. He left her to her duties and went upstairs.

It was tattier here, and all the more homely for it. The money had all gone on the kitchen, and the carpet upstairs was threadbare. He knocked on a closed door and heard the small call for him to enter.

Jenny’s bedroom was neat and dainty. His twelve-year-old daughter was sensitive and studious and had buried herself deep in her books after her mother had died. Whenever Sam had tried to talk about Andrea with her, he had always hit a wall.

‘It’s fine, Dad,’ she’d say sadly. ‘There’s nothing we can do, anyhow.’

It seemed true, but he wished there was a way that he could make her laugh in the way she used to. The way her head would fall back and her body would shake.

Jenny was sitting at her desk, and although her head was bowed over her work, the sight cheered him immediately.
He was also grateful for the small smile she offered. She was still wearing her school uniform and didn’t push him away when he kissed her, although she remained seated at her desk.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Geography, then history.’

‘Can I help?’

She gave him a look that said, not unkindly, ‘Fat chance.’ He sat on her bed. Nothing seemed to have changed in years. Small teddies were neatly organised by her pillow, a stack of books lay by the bedside table. Everything was ordered and just as it should be.

‘Can I help you?’ she said, with a voice and tone that was much too mature for her age. Sam blinked, caught snooping.

‘I’ve hardly had a chance to talk to you in ages.’

‘Well, here I am.’

So she was. Sam’s mind went blank.

‘School?’

‘Fine.’

‘Your friends?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Your sister?’

‘She’s an idiot, Dad.’

He liked that. And she was pleased that he did.

‘And how’s Gran?’

‘We don’t see her, really.’

‘How come?’

‘She’s always locked away in her room.’

‘Well that’s not right. I’ll go see her.’

Her shoulders rose and fell, her eyes still on her school books. He sat there and felt stupid.

Sarah Downing popped into his head: her quiet, steely gaze as she was led from custody.

‘Dad, I really need to get this done.’

Her words pulled him back.

‘Sorry, yes, sorry. Maybe we could do something on Saturday? Go out, do something.’

‘I’ve got netball.’

‘Oh. Right. Sunday then.’

Another shrug. He decided to take it as a positive. Then he stood up, brushed down the neat duvet to get rid of his heavy imprint, and left her to it.

He shut the door quietly behind him. Below he could hear Issy and her friends shrieking away. He looked along the landing, but didn’t want to go to his own cold, lonely bedroom, so instead he followed the narrow stairs up to the top where his mother lived. The loft was the warmest part of the house, and while they worried about the stairs, his mum seemed happy up there with an ever-burning radiator. Sam knocked, waited for an answer and decided to enter anyway.

Elaine was asleep in her armchair. Her head had slumped to the left and she breathed heavily in her sleep. The television was on. Sam found the controls on her lap and switched it off. He looked at his mother, still wearing a smart, pleated skirt, white blouse and a cardigan just as she’d done all her life. Her hair was a brilliant white. He leaned forward and squeezed her hand gently. It woke her and she looked at him and, for a moment, her face lit up with delight.

‘Are you back?’

‘I’m back.’

‘I missed you, darling.’

‘I missed you too, Mum.’

That last word kicked her, he saw it. The sun set behind her eyes and was followed with a gentle nod. She tapped his hand with hers.

‘Why did you switch off the telly?’

‘Were you dreaming of Dad? Just then, when I woke you?’

‘No, why?’

‘I just thought …’

Elaine pushed his hand away from her as though he’d said something unpleasant, then straightened her skirt. He found that he was kneeling in front of her. She used to read to him like this when he was a little boy. He remembered listening to
Swallows and Amazons
, rapt.

‘How have the girls been?’

‘What girls?’

‘The girls. Jenny and Issy.’

‘Oh them.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘They’ve got no time for me.’

‘Mum, you’re meant to be watching out for them.’

‘And who looks out for me?’

He sighed and said nothing. Elaine brightened again.

‘That Magda girl is a dumpy old misery, isn’t she?’ she said, and laughed. ‘And her cooking’s atrocious. I tried to tell her how to do a decent stew and she got all hot and bothered. And have you seen her with the Hoover?’

‘Mum …’

‘When you’re away, I’m in charge. Isn’t that right? You need to tell her to do what I say.’

‘Okay, Mum.’

‘What’s that racket?’

‘That’s Issy and her friends. Karaoke.’

‘God help us.’

‘I know.’

‘What’s she doing messing about like that? She’ll wake the baby.’

‘What baby?’

‘Her baby! For God’s sake, Archie …’

He saw her look at him, and then a terrible flicker of doubt clouded her features.

‘Mum. It’s Sam. And Issy—’

‘I know who you are. And I know much too much about that daughter of yours. Acting as she is. She’s grown up too fast.’

‘You said she had a baby.’

‘I was confused.’ Her voice stung with anger. ‘Just a bit confused. Just for a second. Don’t jump down my throat.’

‘Sure, Mum.’

He tried to take her hand again, or pat it just to show that he was on her side, but she was stiff now and had turned herself away from him.

‘And turn the telly on. It’s too quiet, locked up here with no bloody visitors. How am I meant to cope when you won’t let anyone visit me?’

There was no point answering. He felt so hot in here, his throat was dry and prickly. He muttered an apology and stood up, relieving his cramped legs.

‘Have you eaten, Mum?’

‘She’ll bring it up,’ Elaine replied tartly.

‘Well maybe we could eat together.’

‘You don’t need to worry about me.’

‘Mum.’

‘You need to be worrying about those daughters of yours. The things they’re getting up to, Sam. It’s disgraceful.’

‘Like what?’

Elaine just pulled a face. And then, for no discernible reason, she smiled again.

‘You were such a good boy. A little tyke, but good as gold, really. I remember Mr Drayson coming round after you’d smashed those panes in his greenhouse and I wouldn’t let him come across the threshold. You hid in my skirt. Do you remember?’

Sam didn’t, but he nodded anyway. Elaine switched on the television and it roared into life. Her gaze fixed onto the screen and once again she was lost to him. He shut the door behind him and the corridor outside was cool and gloomy.

He went back down to the first floor. Issy was singing now – he recognised her voice and he could hear the lyrics – heavily sexualised and inappropriate. He heard her begging someone to ‘sex her up’ and he felt nauseous. Her friends screamed with delight.

He went to the doorway of his own bedroom. Magda had tidied up and it looked neat and proper. A stranger’s room. He backed away.

He saw Jenny’s door and thought about going in again but found that he was unable. So instead he retreated to the bathroom, shutting the door, then locking it and sitting down on the loo. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes, slumping against the towel rail. He wondered how long he would have in here before one of the girls came banging on the door.

This was stupid, he told himself. This was his house.

The porcelain was cold on his back but he didn’t get up. He looked at the grout that needed replacing and at the tatty shower curtain that was stained brown at the bottom. He listened to a drip form inside the toilet cistern that hinted at repairs, and wondered and worried.

The case slithered around and he took comfort in its escape. And then he remembered Ashley’s crooked smile as they fucked in the woods and he felt dirty and stupid. Never do that again, he told himself. Now back at home, such promises were easily made. He resolved to buy a new shower curtain at the weekend. He’d go watch Jenny then let her chose one after the netball. He tried to fix his mind on such matters, but Helen Seymour kept knocking. He didn’t want her here, not in his home. Andrea had always guarded the door and kept their home safe. But Lily was still missing and no one could bring her back except him. There was too much to fix.

And then the phone rang.

Barely half an hour after hiding in the bathroom, Sam was once again striding through the police station.

A young woman in her late teens had tried to abduct the two children she’d been babysitting. Things had taken a turn for the worse when she was then spotted leading the boys onto a high bridge. A stand-off had ensued. The police were able to save the children but the woman had jumped, and died.

Woman, water, children. It was all Sam needed to have him racing for the door. He reached the police station and hurried to the soft interview suite. The walls were painted in sickly pastel blues and pinks. It was meant to be calming but Sam always thought it felt like a hospital.

In the interview room – a large space with cuddly toys, wooden train sets and sofas – two detectives sat on the floor talking gently to the two boys who had been abducted. Their parents sat with them, grey-skinned from the trauma. The
mother would occasionally pull one of the children to her, as if to reaffirm the truth that her little one was not dead, and hugged him tight to her to banish the darkness. The husband just sat still, listening to it all with that faraway look that people get when they’ve strayed too close to their nightmares.

Behind a two-way mirror, Mr Frey watched the proceedings. He nodded grimly at Sam as he came in.

‘Nasty business.’

‘Sir. Just heard about it.’

‘They’d used the babysitter several times before, apparently. Had no idea that she had any mental problems of any kind.’

‘Is that what this is, sir?’

Mr Frey just shrugged. He turned his attention back to the room. ‘Apparently the girl had been eager and keen, they liked her a lot, and then suddenly this. The parents are too shaken up to say much more.’

Sam looked at the two boys in the room. They seemed happy enough. A little wide-eyed with the attention, perhaps, but not fully aware of its import. The elder, Jamie, was seven years old and his younger brother was called Finn. They were still dressed in the pyjamas that they were wearing when the girl had taken them out of the house. They had been barefoot when she led them across the bridge, to the railings and to the terrible drop below.

The older of the detectives, Inspector Philip Bryce, sat on his heels facing the boys. He had grey hair and a worn-in face that made him excellent for such work. It was a face that people naturally trusted.

‘You know, I’ve got five grandchildren,’ he told the two boys. ‘But no boys. All girls, can you imagine that?’

‘Stinky!’ shouted Jamie, and Finn giggled. Weary smiles broke out from the parents at this.

‘It’s a joke in the house,’ the mother explained. ‘I’m the only girl so I get picked on.’

‘You don’t pick on your lovely mum, do you?’ Bryce asked, wide-eyed.

‘Yes!’ the boys screamed back.

‘You big meanies!’ he laughed. The DC with him, a smiley black woman in her twenties called Anne, laughed at this. The room was warm and safe. The children, easily distracted, messed about with the toys in front of them.

‘You had a bit of a busy night,’ Bryce said. The boys nodded back at him.

‘What’s happened to Tasha?’ Finn asked.

‘Nothing’s happened to her, she’s fine. It’s you guys we’re worried about.’ The boys looked up at him, confused. ‘Well, it’s not normal for big boys your age to end up on a bridge when it’s got so late, is it?’

‘Tasha said it was the only way to be safe,’ Jamie replied. Finn nodded.

‘Safe?’

‘Yes, safe from them.’

‘Who’s them, then?’ The cheerful tone kicked against the question.

‘She didn’t say.’

‘Did she seem scared of them?’

The boys both nodded vigorously.

‘But you weren’t scared, were you?’

‘I wasn’t, but Finn was. He’s a girl. Stinky!’

Finn wailed at this and scratched at his brother, but the chaos was soon quelled. Another cop came in with a tray of hot chocolates and after some chat about this and that, Bryce brought the conversation back to Tasha.

‘She’s great, isn’t she?’

The boys nodded happily. Unfortunately, some bright spark had put little marshmallows in the hot chocolates and Jamie was now more interested in counting how many there were in each mug to be sure that they both had the same and that it was all fair.

‘So Tasha was worried about “them”, was she? Did she ever mention them before?’