A Cry in the Night (28 page)

The low winter sun dazzled their eyes as they headed further into the Lake District. It soon vanished again as they dipped down into a lush valley, empty but for the Jacobs sheep that littered its fields. He glanced at Zoe and was disconcerted to see that she was watching him. She offered him a smile, but he found he didn’t trust her face any more. He wondered when this had happened, this divide between
them. She had done nothing wrong that he knew of. Why did he feel like this when she had done nothing wrong?

Outside, a doe and her two young bucks looked up from a swollen stream. Sam watched their bodies tense, ready to bolt. The car raced past, and beyond there was nothing but bracken and gorse. He knew that Zoe was still watching him, but he didn’t look her way.

*

Zoe hated the silence. She stared out of the window and admired the great gulf of nature beyond, but always found herself turning back to Sam, wanting to talk to him. His eyes were narrow, shielded against the sun that would suddenly pierce the clouds then be blown away just as quickly. He looked filled with foreboding. Just as he had when they first met. Just as he had when he’d faced down those three drunks with machetes who thought that the cops were fair game in a back alley. Just as he had when a rotting plank of wood had given way and he’d pulled her to safety. He had always been there, always stood firm and resolute before her. A big brother, a line of continuity that couldn’t bend or break. She thought this was how it should always be.

The road meandered towards another small peak, and Zoe recognised the small cairns on either side of the road. They would reach Lullingdale in five minutes. It was a short, steep drop down from here. You reached the turn in the road and the lake suddenly appeared before you. It should
be a glorious sight, if you didn’t know about Arthur and Lily, or witches, or any of those other terrible tales.

She put a hand on his forearm, but he didn’t seem to notice. And then they made the turn, and there was the lake and it all seemed much, much too late.

They headed into the village. Zoe had called ahead and secured rooms at the pub. The tourist season had finished some time ago, and there would be little business until the spring. It was dark as they turned into the pub car park, and neither cop was expecting to see a pristine Mercedes parked in one of the ‘hotel guest’ spaces. A two-seater, fast and sleek.

‘Nice wheels,’ Zoe said with a whistle of approval.

She was surprised by the look that Sam gave her. He seemed angry. What had she said?

‘Who do you think it belongs to?’ Sam asked.

She flushed, as though she should know. His stare made her feel guilty.

‘No idea, someone richer than you and me. And someone with serious taste,’ she laughed back at him as best as she could.

*

Sam watched her for signs of the lie. He knew who the car belonged to. He’d done his homework and the number plate was etched in his brain. It belonged, of course, to Helen Seymour.

Zoe’s laugh was too loud.

‘So what’s the plan, boss?’ she said, pushing her door open. ‘Check in, then go see Mrs Downing?’

‘Sure,’ he replied. The idea of catching Helen and Sarah together seemed delicious. ‘Hang on, let’s go straight there. Stay in, we’ll drive.’

He put the car in reverse and spun right towards the Downings’ house. He imagined their faces when he caught them plotting.

‘Hey, slow down, Mister,’ Zoe said, her voice still sing-song and fake, ‘or you’ll run over one of those zombie kids. Then again, you probably can’t kill them just by hitting them with a car. You probably need to chop their heads clean off.’

But it wasn’t Zoe that slowed him down. It was the sight he trapped in the headlights. Fifty yards ahead were two women sheltering in the fading brickwork of the bus shelter. The girl looked up and her eyes widened when she saw Sam behind the wheel. He recognised the surprise in Ashley’s expression, but his attention was hooked on the woman stood next to her, stood over her, arms folded. Helen looked different out of her office clothes, now dressed in jeans and a purple coat, her features muffled by a hat. She turned more slowly and her eyes met Sam’s with equal, withering hostility.

He was wrong. Helen wasn’t plotting with Sarah. She
was plotting with Ashley. No, she was plotting with both of them.

The car crawled towards them and then stopped. Sam stared at Helen through the windscreen. She stared right back at him. His mouth formulated words, but nothing came out.

Inside the car, Zoe was saying something. It took him a while to register.

‘Boss. Don’t stop here, let’s go.’

He felt Zoe’s hand on his arm. He felt surrounded.

‘Seriously. Not here.’

Her words made sense, but that didn’t mean he should trust her. But without another idea in his head, he nodded and sped away, doing a quick three-point turn at an open field’s gate some three hundred yards further on. They stopped there for a moment, hidden by the thick hedgerow and the night.

‘What do you think she’s doing here?’ he asked.

‘Visiting her client, I’d guess, and checking witness statements,’ Zoe replied.

‘Sarah Downing was released without charge. She doesn’t need a lawyer, let alone a barrister. So how come Helen’s here?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘No,’ he said.

No. There was no obvious answer. Not one for lawyers and police and everyday people.

He turned the car left and headed back towards the bus stop. When they got there, the women were gone.

Sam cursed to himself. He shouldn’t have listened to Zoe. They should have questioned them while they had surprise on their side.

He parked up next to Helen’s car and marched into the pub, grabbing his things.

‘Hey!’ Zoe shouted as he left her behind. But he didn’t acknowledge the call.

Zoe let Sam storm off into the bar on his own. Now they were here again, all of her old fears rose up, and she remembered more clearly Sam’s previous sullen silences and avoidances. It made her happier about the decisions she’d made. Helen was right: Sam was out of control. She hated the idea that Sam was just another man who would disappoint her, but then it struck her that these were the kinds of words Helen would use, and she felt a jab of fear that she was being manipulated. Her love for Sam and her fear for him tore at her and she felt herself crumble in the rift. It meant that she stood by the car for a good few minutes before she followed Sam into the pub. She sniffed in the fresh, bitter-cold air. She heard a dog bark somewhere nearby, probably down by the lake.

The lake. It felt prehistoric in its grandeur. Zoe wondered about all of the people who had sailed on it, walked around it, gazed down on it from the adjacent fells. She thought
about the very first humans who ever reached the peaks and then gazed down at it. Once again, the thought made her feel small.

She went inside and the first person she saw was David. They almost bumped into each other and the surprise quickly twisted into a stiff, awkward recognition. David did not look down this time.

‘Hello, David,’ she said, aware of his mood.

‘You’re back then.’

‘I am. We are.’

‘So you know where Lily is?’

‘You know I can’t tell you that.’

He just shrugged. ‘Can’t do much, it seems. Can’t even keep hold of the bitch that did it.’ And with that he pushed past her and towards the men’s toilets.

Zoe walked on, found Bernie serving drinks and felt a flush of affection for her, and some relief that hers was the next face she saw. She took a key from her – the same room as last time – and was about to head upstairs when she saw a gang of men sitting in the bar. Amongst them, shoulders hunched, was Tim Downing. Zoe watched him with the others and recognised their disposition: angry drunks. A chair was empty at the table which she assumed belonged to David. Normally Zoe would have backed away and avoided the friction, but she couldn’t ignore Tim now that he was here in the same building.

He saw her and looked away, making her arrival at the table all the more awkward. David reappeared a moment later and took the empty chair, swigging deep on his pint.

‘Mr Downing,’ she said.

He was unable to ignore her for long. The basic politeness of the man forced him to look up and acknowledge her presence.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t call to let you know we were coming,’ she said. ‘It was all rather spur-of-the-moment.’

‘What have you found?’ he asked.

‘I thought we could come by your house later and discuss it with you,’ she said, alarmed by the thought that she didn’t really know if they had found anything at all.

He muttered something that wasn’t for her or for the stony-faced men at the table. She didn’t bother to ask him to repeat it.

‘When would be a good time for us to visit you and your wife?’ she persisted.

There were angry chuckles at this.

‘Mr Downing?’

‘You won’t find her with him,’ David said.

‘I see,’ she said, intrigued by this development.

‘I doubt that,’ David added. ‘You don’t seem to get anything at all. Do you, love?’

‘Mr Downing,’ Zoe continued, her voice calm and even. ‘Where would we find your wife, sir?’

‘Where do you think?’ Tim replied.

‘She’s run off with her doggy, Bud, hasn’t she?’ David added.

So Sarah was now with Bud. This didn’t feel right.

‘She didn’t run off,’ Tim corrected David. ‘I kicked her out. And he’s the only man in this village stupid enough to take her in.’

That made more sense.

‘Whose bloody round is it?’ Tim asked.

Zoe left them to it without bothering to excuse herself. She knew that any further conversation would only bring more rebukes. It wasn’t surprising that Sarah and Tim’s relationship had collapsed. Zoe and Sam had probably helped break it. Still, seeing Tim there, soaked in impotent rage, was a depressing sight. A boy was dead, a girl was missing. It was only natural for things to fall apart. But Zoe didn’t like the way the men were stagnating and rotting in its wake.

Upstairs, she dumped her bag on the bed and instinctively went to tell Sam her news. But there was no answer at the door when she knocked. Confused and then angry, she listened for any signs of him, but got nothing.

She left her bag unopened and walked down to Bud’s house. It was a ten-minute walk, but the exercise didn’t calm her down.

When she reached his house, she stopped at the road and proceeded no further. Bud’s house was just as she remembered it: sunk forlornly under the cover of thick trees, dank and awkward. His boots still lay by the door, and the curtains stayed drawn and protective. But across the door the letter ‘W’ had been sprayed in a crazy pink. W for Witch. Someone, Bud most likely, had tried to scrub it away, but had only managed to slur and smudge the letter, which remained as legible as ever.

Zoe stood there for a while, waiting to see if the curtains would move and worried eyes would peer out.

This bloody place, she thought. But then, again, the city was no better. It was odd to think that these ancient prejudices had reached so deep and still held so strong.

Whoever was inside was hunkered down, and Zoe realised that there was no noise inside or out. She kicked a stone, turned and walked away. She saw no one on the way, heard nothing, said nothing. Everything was black.

Sam found Ashley by the lake, as he knew he would. The water drew them together. When he saw her, she was leaning against a tree, as though inviting him into the wood, with a delighted, almost victorious smile on her face. The expression only irritated him further.

‘Miss me?’ she asked.

‘Who were you talking to back then?’ was all she got in return.

‘Eh? Some lawyer woman. I dunno.’

‘Liar.’

She pulled a ‘you what?’ face and crossed her arms, then switched emotions and pulled at Sam playfully, her face light and childish again. He pushed her hands away.

‘What’s your problem, Sam?’

His feet slipped on the pebbles and he had to steady himself slightly.

‘You’ve talked to her before,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘Helen Seymour.’

‘Who?’

‘The woman, the barrister, the, the …’

The what? Sam’s mind spun at words on the tip of his tongue.

‘She said there’s nothing to the case,’ Ashley said. ‘That’s what she said. So, if that’s right, then why are you back?’

The way she said it made it clear that she thought he had come back for her. Her hand snaked out, grabbing at his wrist. Again, he pulled away.

‘What else did she tell you?’ he asked.

‘Who cares? She’s boring and old.’ Her voice dropped. ‘I’ve missed you.’

She looked up at him and her eyes were wide and needy.

‘They’re all kids, all the others,’ she said quietly. ‘They’re so dull.’

He wanted to shout. He wanted to pull the lies out from the depths of her throat and dangle them before her. He knew that she and Helen were plotting against him. He’d seen them together. He wanted to drag her to the lake and hold her under the water until she confessed and he had finally, finally, found Lily and killed the case.

‘… And like, just hang out, you know, miles away from here.’

She rambled on, bashfully. Unable to determine if she was
for real or whether this was another elaborate performance, Sam took a deep breath and stuffed his emotions back down.

‘I can’t talk to you now,’ he managed, and trudged away.

He heard her shout something at him but the wind sucked the words away, so all he got was a muffled yell. He didn’t look back.

Sam hung a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door of his room and pulled a pillow over his head. A little later he heard Zoe pound on the door, but he didn’t move. Eventually she went too.

*

Restless and unable to sleep, Sam got up and pulled back the curtains, staring at his own reflection in the black windows. The ageing, sagging glass warped his features into something monstrous. Beyond his smudged features, there was nothing.

He snapped the curtains shut again and dropped onto the bed. Tomorrow he would go and see Sarah Downing again, sit down with her and make her face all the questions that Helen had stopped them from asking.