Backlash (12 page)

Anna had fallen asleep on the train and woke with a jolt as her mobile rang. It was Langton, impatient to know if there were any developments from Glasgow, but her phone
repeatedly cut out and so he suggested she came over to his flat straight from the station. As she had already told him that Oates might have worked at the stables and that this was basically the
only new information, she was loath to see him because she knew he would grill her on every part of her interview with Eileen. She received two text messages from him, the first asking her to pick
up some milk, bread and eggs and the second to also buy a bottle of vodka.

By the time the train arrived back at Euston it was early evening, so Anna bought the groceries from the first shop she saw in the station and caught a taxi to Maida Vale. She
stopped in Floral Street not far from Warrington Crescent where Langton lived and from an off-licence bought him his vodka. After keeping her waiting on the doorstep for five minutes, Langton
buzzed her in; when she reached the front door of the flat it was ajar. Someone had obviously cleared up as the main room was tidier than when she had been there previously. Placing the groceries
and vodka in the kitchen, which was also clear of dirty dishes, she called out, asking if he wanted her to make a coffee or tea.

‘Just bring in the vodka and some ice,’ he called back.

Anna opened the fridge, which she was pleased to see contained some bacon, lettuce, a cooked chicken and what looked like a dish of fried rice. She found where the glasses were kept, filled one
with ice and went into the bedroom. He was propped up on pillows with his leg stretched out on a square cushion from the sofa, and he was unshaven, wearing the same old dressing gown with a T-shirt
beneath it and pyjama bottoms with one leg cut out for the plaster cast.

‘You having one?’

‘No. I only had a sandwich on the train so I won’t stay long as I’m tired out. I didn’t sleep on the way there. The sleeper is comfortable but the rhythm of the train
kept on changing and—’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he interrupted, unscrewing the top from the bottle of vodka. ‘So take me through it all. What is she like, for starters?’

Anna drew up a chair and opened her briefcase to take out her notebook as she described Eileen. He listened without interruption, sipping his vodka with the ice clinking in his glass. She
explained how the most important information came up, the stable connection, that Oates could have worked there and met Rebekka up to a year before she went missing, but she obviously had not had
time to check it out. She added that she wanted to check out the boxing background to see if Henry Oates was still friends with anyone connected to the club, and that she had asked Joan to see if
Oates had ever held a driving licence or owned a vehicle.

‘If he kidnapped or snatched Rebekka off the street, he must have been driving something,’ Anna pointed out.

Langton drained his glass and topped it up again before replying. ‘He could have stolen a vehicle . . .’

‘Or if he was working odd jobs there’s a possibility he might have had access to a vehicle,’ Anna suggested.

‘Shovelling shit,’ he muttered.

She closed her notebook.

‘That’s it then, is it?’ he asked.

‘Fraid so. Do you want me to fix you a sandwich or something? I see there are some groceries in the fridge apart from what I brought.’

‘Nah, I’ll get something later.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘I don’t want a fucking sandwich, all right?’

‘Fine. I’m going to take off home, it’s been a long day.’

He reached out for her hand. ‘Sorry. Thank you, but I’m not hungry. Why don’t you make yourself something to eat?’

‘No, I’ll get back home, have a shower and—’

‘There’s a chicken.’

‘No, thanks. I see the flat has been tidied up.’

‘Yep, had a visit from Laura’s sister. She was not happy about the mess. Gave me a headache thudding around with the hoover and her duster, repeatedly reminding me how neat and tidy
Laura and the kids are.’

He paused and sighed.

‘Christ, my Kitty’s not much younger than Rebekka was when she disappeared. Time goes fast – not for that poor little soul though. Sometimes when I look at Kitty, the way
she’s growing up, I think of what it must feel like to be the Jordans; their child will never grow older, will always be exactly as she was the day they last saw her.’

‘They keep her bedroom as she left it.’

‘Yes, I know.’

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

‘I’m going off home now. Are you sure I can’t get you anything to eat?’

‘Nope. I’m fine. My wallet’s on the table over there so take whatever I owe you for the groceries and this.’ He picked up the bottle of vodka and topped up his glass yet
again.

‘On me, and maybe ease off on the vodka if you’re taking painkillers,’ Anna suggested cheerfully.

‘Go on, get out, you sound like my wife.’

Anna was surprised. He had never, as far as she could recall, ever called Laura his wife, which of course she was.

She put on her coat, eager to leave, and, picking up her briefcase, she couldn’t resist throwing a little dig.

‘Well I’m glad she’s looking after you.’

‘Get the money I owe you, Travis, or I won’t be able to tap you for doing anything else for me.’

Anna crossed to the living-room dining table and picked up his wallet. It was well-used, worn leather. Inside on one half were credit cards and on the other side a flap with photographs of his
children Kitty and Tommy. She took out a twenty-pound note and was replacing the wallet when she noticed that beneath the table was the doll’s house. When she had last been at the flat it had
been open; but now it was shut and she could recognize the exterior.

‘Good heavens. I hadn’t noticed that this is a replica of the Jordans’ own house.’

‘Yeah, Stephen made it. Kitty isn’t interested in it any more. Laura’s sister put it under there. I dunno what to do with it. I can’t throw it out.’

Anna bent down, drawing the doll’s house further out from beneath the table. It was exceptionally well made and beautifully painted. The front door and porch area with its two tiny pots of
plastic flowers were just like those of the Jordans’ house in Hammersmith. She eased it further round to see the back of the house.

‘It was made before the extension,’ Langton said.

Anna leaned forwards on her hands and knees. There was some kind of a back garden attached to the house. A tiny swing was still upright, there was a mock crazy-paved patio made of small cut-out
cork squares and close to the back door was a broken tree and some small squashed shrubs made of Plasticine. There were marks where there had been a fence and a hand-painted brick wall was still
partly upright, the paper torn.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Just looking at how well constructed this is, but I can see from the kitchen that as you say it was crafted before they extended the house. There’s no Aga cooker and it’s now
all white with painted floorboards. This must have taken hours of work. Have you seen the little stools and tables? Perfect.’

She closed the doll’s house and stood up, linking the hooks to fasten it shut. Beside the house was a plastic bag containing more furniture and some tiny dolls.

‘I’m going,’ said Anna.

‘Talk tomorrow.’

‘Yes, I’ll call you.’

As she left she could hear him switching on his television. She let herself out and closed the front door. Heading down the stairs, not paying attention, she almost tripped on
the frayed carpet.

There was something about the doll’s house that stayed in her mind, but she put it to one side because as she stepped out of the house the rain was lashing down. She ran along Warrington
Crescent to Maida Vale Tube Station, and then endured an uncomfortable ride to Tower Bridge, having to switch Tube lines, and did not get home until after ten.

Her coat was still sodden from the rain so she hung it over the heated towel rail in her bathroom before having a shower.

Anna’s own fridge was virtually empty. She sighed, knowing she should have bought some groceries for herself, never mind Langton. She made some beans on toast and a mug of tea, taking them
on a tray to eat in her bedroom. Her initial nagging thoughts about the doll’s house returned. Putting down the tray on the floor beside the bed, she reached for her briefcase and took out
her notebook. She flicked back a few pages, but nothing triggered a response until she got to the name Andrew Markham, the tree surgeon used by the builders for the Jordans’ extension. She
got off her bed and turned on her computer. Andrew Markham had a very professional website describing his company, with landscaping and tree surgeon qualifications alongside pictures of gardens he
had designed in the past few years. She knew he was away until the end of the week, but from the website she was sure he would have other employees she could talk to.

Still unable to stop her mind churning, she opened her bedside table and searched for a pencil. If the doll’s house represented how the Jordans’ property had looked before the
extension, there had to have been a considerable amount of earth removed to be able to lay down the new foundations. She recalled one of the Henderson brothers saying there had been a
sixty-year-old tree that needed to be removed, as well as shrubs, a fence and brick wall. It seemed to Anna that there must have been a lot of work for one landscape gardener to complete on his
own. She wondered if Andrew Markham might have used cash-in-hand labour to remove the debris from the Jordans’ back garden. Still unable to switch off, she sat on the edge of her bed,
checking the files to see if Andrew Markham had made a statement or had even been interviewed. There was no reference to him; perhaps due to the fact the work had taken place so long before Rebekka
went missing. Had Langton, unaware of the ground clearance work, missed the possibility that Andrew Markham could also be a suspect? She wrote his name in her notebook, underlining the importance
of talking to him as soon as she could.

By the time she turned off her bedside light it was after midnight, but it still took her half an hour to eventually fall asleep.

‘M
ind if I sit with you?’ Anna asked Barbara the next morning. She’d decided to get to work early and have breakfast in the
canteen.

‘Good heavens, no.’ Barbara put her
Daily Mail
to one side, eyeing up Anna’s loaded tray, piled with eggs, bacon, sausages and fried bread, plus coffee, in stark
contrast to her own bowl of half-eaten bran cereal. ‘Not on a diet then?’

Anna smiled and shook her head.

‘I’ve been on one for twenty years. I hate bran, it’s like chewing cardboard, but I reckon my system has got used to it. I crave a big fry-up, but I get terrible indigestion.
I’ve got packets of Rennies in all my handbags and pockets because if I’m not careful I get this heartburn after anything fried.’

Anna tucked in, not really paying any attention to Barbara’s stomach condition.

‘How did it go in Glasgow?’ Barbara eventually asked.

Anna gave her a sketchy outline, ending with the one new possibility that Henry Oates had worked in a riding stable.

‘Well, shovelling shit could mean anything, road sweeping even.’

‘I know.’

Barbara sipped her green tea and pulled a disgusted grimace. ‘I hate bloody green tea as well.’

‘You have anything from yesterday?’ asked Anna.

‘Not that much. Trying to piece together a character build and last known sightings for Fidelis Flynn. We had her flatmates in, nice girls, both at art college when Fidelis answered the
advert for sharing. They said she was younger than them and from what I could gather they didn’t want to know that much about her. She was behind with the rent and was always very
argumentative; you know the type of thing that happens with flat-sharing.’

‘I don’t actually.’

Barbara gave her an odd look of surprise. ‘Well it’s who takes the last of the butter, uses your shampoo and doesn’t clear up after themselves that starts the friction. They
said she was always a few quid short for the rent . . .’ Barbara leaned forwards. ‘She didn’t intend leaving – well I don’t think so, because we found her make-up and
a purse in one of the suitcases she left with her clothes, and in it were two twenty-pound notes and some loose change.’

‘But did she take any other belongings with her?’

‘They didn’t really know what was missing, if anything, because they didn’t know what she had in her wardrobe. All they recalled was that the evening Fidelis went missing she
left their flat to go to work and didn’t appear to be worried about anything. They thought she might be working late as the garage stays open until midnight, but what they did remember was
that she always carried a rucksack-type bag. When she didn’t return, they did nothing.’

‘Doesn’t quite make sense. Why did they think she’d done a runner without paying the rent she owed if she’d left her make-up behind and the wardrobe was still full of her
clothes?’

‘No, they were packed into the suitcases and zip-up bag that local police seized later.’

‘Still sort of doesn’t sit right. Also, if there was money and she was short of it, why leave it behind if she didn’t intend returning?’

‘A workmate at the garage was questioned when her parents reported her missing. He said that he had an on-off relationship with Fidelis and although she had started seeing a male nurse
they were still friends. He had expected her to come to work the night she went missing.’

‘Was this the first time she’d failed to show up for work?’

Barbara nodded and said that she and Joan had talked about it and what they came up with was that Fidelis had maybe intended leaving, perhaps was even going to meet someone to rent another room
somewhere. But as she’d left her belongings and money behind, they thought she must have been planning to return, at least for that night.

‘Did you get anything further from her phone calls?’

Barbara’s eyes opened wide and she smiled. Anna knew that she was at last about to be told something encouraging.