Broken Places (35 page)

‘I get a bit confused, what with Seattle being eight hours behind the UK, and Hong Kong eight hours ahead.’ All the time-differences made him feel unsettled, and his body-clock hadn’t yet adjusted, so he was still finding it hard to sleep. When finally he did drop off, he’d wake after only an hour or two and wonder where he was. Crazy to sleep so badly in what must be the most luxurious bed in the whole of the North-West Pacific.

Once he’d rung off, he went upstairs to Christine’s office, deciding to email Stella again, just as a form of comfort. The messages they’d already exchanged had made him feel less isolated; kept him in touch with life back home. She had also given him the cheering news that Meryl Jones, no less –
the high-powered Assistant Head of the whole Wandsworth Library Service – had decided to champion their Remembrance Project and that, with such a formidable ally, they were now certain to get funding. He’d longed to pick up the phone and say how pleased he was, but knew Stella was bound to ask about his daughter, and felt too ashamed to admit that he was spending his time as a tourist, rather than as Dad.

And now, again, he was tempted to ring, just to hear her voice, but, again, thought better of it. In any case, he could hardly drag her out of bed at
5.55
in the morning, so, instead, he switched on the computer.

Four messages were waiting – all from her, in fact, although instead of the usual moans about some memo from management, or further details of Meryl’s support, these concerned a new post – just created – for an Outreach and Community librarian at the new Wandsworth Town Library, and how the job was perfect for him and he simply had to apply.

No way. His daughter’s barbs had made him extremely wary about risking further rejection. Why should anyone recruit a ‘totally weak’ and ‘freakish’ candidate?

Trevor thinks you’d be ideal and even Meryl’s rooting for you. She wanted to be sure you had the details, which must be a hopeful sign
.

Typical of Stella to be so optimistic. It was definitely straining credulity that someone as prominent as Meryl would be rooting for him personally. She probably wanted
all
eligible staff to have details of the post, to encourage competition. Yet Stella seemed to be assuming that he’d already got the job, since she went on to suggest that they make their Remembrance Project a joint activity with Wandsworth Town, so the two of them could still work together.

Despite his dismissal of the whole idea, he was touched by her belief in him; the way she always had his interests at heart. And the emails did remind him how valuable his work was in giving structure to his life, along with a sense of purpose and achievement.

However, he should be thinking of his daughter, not himself. She would be back in a matter of minutes now, so he decided to unfreeze one of the stash of pizzas and put it in the microwave, to be ready when she appeared. Once done, he rehearsed his lines: ‘I know it’s late, Carmella, but I thought we’d have a little supper together.’ The Carmella stuck in his throat, but no point alienating her further by refusing to use the new name.

By the time the pizza was bubbling-hot, there was still no sign of her. Having turned on the main oven to keep it warm, he made a salad and laid the table; even twisting paper napkins into swan-shapes, Mandy-style.

By 10.50, still no daughter, and no reply from her mobile – distinctly worrying, when he had given her strict instructions never to switch if off when she was out. Having left a stern message and also sent a text, he felt concerned enough to phone Barbie’s mother, Virginia, although the call was answered by what sounded like another teen.

‘It’s Eric Parkhill here.’

‘Hi.’

‘Is that Barbie’s brother?’

‘Yeah.’

‘D’you mind if I ask your name?’

‘Joe.’

‘Hello, Joe. Is your mother there?’

‘Nope.’

Of course – she’d be at the airport, picking up her husband. How could he have forgotten? ‘Any idea when she’ll be back?’

‘Nope.’

‘Well, do you know what time she left?’

‘Nope.’

‘When she does come in, could you tell her I rang?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Nope.’

‘Just say Erica’s Dad. OK?’

Neither ‘Nope’ nor ‘Yeah’ this time, just a grunt as he rang off.

God, he thought, teens were a pain! Yet their blasé mothers were almost as bad. If Erica had been delayed, why hadn’t either Virginia or Kimberley had the courtesy to let him know? Obviously, people were more permissive over here; didn’t share his view that not-quite-thirteen-year-olds should be back home by eleven.

It was actually 11.02, so he rang his daughter’s mobile once more.

The cell-phone you are calling is switched off
.

He left another message anyway, followed by another text, just hoping that when she picked them up, she would realize how concerned he was. He also decided to ring Kimberley, although adopting a deliberately casual tone, so as not to seem over-anxious.

‘It’s OK, Eric, she’s on her way. I’m afraid the taxi turned up rather late. A new driver was on and I guess he didn’t know the route. But she should be with you in less than fifteen minutes.’

‘Great!’ His relief was so overwhelming, he could have kissed the woman – even kissed her soppy dog. ‘How’s your wrist?’ he asked instead.

A grave mistake, since she launched into an endless disquisition on exactly what the doctors had said (doctors in the plural); how serious the sprain was and how excruciating the pain; what she could and couldn’t do with that debilitated arm, and how she intended to sue the gym, because she was bound to put on loads of weight without her daily session, and had to pay her private fitness-trainer, despite the fact she wasn’t using him.

By the time she had concluded, fourteen of the fifteen minutes had passed, and he began to rethink his plan of having supper with his daughter. It really was too late now and, in fact, if she didn’t turn up soon, it would be time to get her breakfast, instead. Maybe the taxi had got lost, if the driver was a greenhorn, or perhaps as clueless as the one who had brought him from the airport. No – Kimberley had told him she used a highly reputable firm, and no way would she entrust either Brooke or Erica to any but the most dependable of drivers. So what the hell was going on? May Creek wasn’t
that
far, especially at this time of night, when the roads were near-deserted.

He waited till 11.30, then rang Kimberley again, sick with worry now, although still trying to disguise it. Even Kimberley herself, however, sounded much less sanguine.

‘I just can’t understand it, Eric, unless – God forbid – there’s been an
accident
.’

The blood drained from his face as he pictured his beloved daughter lying mangled in the wreckage of some appalling pile-up.

‘I’m afraid Ted’s not here tonight. He’s away at a conference – back tomorrow morning – otherwise I’d ask him to drive the same route as the cab, so he could look out for signs of a crash. But let me call the taxi-firm, in case they might have heard something.’

‘And we ought to ring the police.
I’ll
do that, if you give me their number.’

‘No, leave it to me. It’s easier if I make both calls, then I’ll ring you straight back, OK?’

‘OK,’ he agreed, although rigid with fear. Suppose Erica were dead, or so badly injured she might never walk or speak again; spend the rest of her life as a vegetable – his only child; the one person in the world who shared his genes and was flesh of his flesh. In the last few months, he’d begun taking her for granted; confident she would always be part of his life, despite the miles between them and his own panic about flying; assumed he would
watch her graduate, walk her down the aisle, rejoice when she bore him a grandchild. It was probably Mandy’s influence that had made him so uncharacteristically upbeat, but now he saw – with terror – all that rosy future could be wiped out at a stroke.

Should he alert Christine? No. Cruel to disrupt her honeymoon until he had the facts. There was no hard proof of any accident – not yet, in any case. Besides, he mustn’t use the phone when Kimberley would be trying to get through.

Hurry, he urged her silently, each second seeming to take an hour to pass. Perhaps the taxi-firm required more time to investigate the matter, or the Mercer Island police failed to answer calls immediately. Or had Kimberley received such devastating news, she couldn’t bring herself to relay it?

He paced up and down, up and down, pouncing on the phone the minute it rang, yet dreading a summons from the hospital or morgue.

‘Eric, you’re not going to like this, but—’

‘
What
? What is it, Kimberley? Are you telling me Erica’s hurt?’

‘No, she’s safe. Don’t worry.’

‘I
am
worried. Where is she, for God’s sake?’

‘That’s the problem. We’re not exactly sure.’

‘Not sure? You said you’d put her in a taxi and—’

‘I did. At least, I thought it was a taxi, but when Brooke heard me calling the police, she all but wrenched the phone from my hand and begged me not to speak to them. She said she knew where Carmella was and that she was perfectly OK. I asked her
how
she knew, of course, but she said she couldn’t tell me. Well, that made me really furious, so I bawled her out, and eventually she confessed.’

‘Confessed? I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’

Long pause.

‘Apparently,’ Kimberley went on, now sounding both defensive and
embarrassed
, ‘she and Carmella – your Erica – cancelled the taxi, just on their own initiative, without telling me a word about it. And, instead, they arranged for Larry to pretend to be the cab-driver and come and pick her up.’

‘Larry?’ He had become a witless parrot, repeating Kimberley’s words. But he could make no sense of her account.

‘He’s a college friend of Spencer, my son. They’re both at the University of Washington. Actually, I’ve never met the boy, which is why I didn’t
recognize
him when he turned up at the house. I must admit, I did think he looked a little young, but he was so well-dressed and so polite and
charming, it never crossed my mind that he could be anything but a
bone-fide
cab-driver.’

‘You mean to say,’ Eric exploded, incandescent with rage, ‘my daughter’s out with some guy you don’t know from Adam? So what the hell are they doing?’

‘Calm down, Eric. She won’t come to any harm – I’m pretty sure of that. My Spencer’s a really lovely boy, so any friend of his is bound to be OK.’

‘That’s nonsense!’ he snapped. ‘Larry’s a completely unknown quantity, so how can you be sure of—?’ He broke off in mid-sentence, thinking out the implications: a college student at the wheel of a car – some feckless young stud, throbbing with testosterone. ‘Does my daughter know this – this’ – he all but spat the name out – ‘Larry?’

‘Brooke said they met him just one time, in Starbucks, and apparently he took a shine to Erica.’

Eric clenched his fists.
Took a shine
? Wanted to shag her, more like.

‘So the three of them hatched this crazy scheme. In fact, I suspect it was Larry’s idea – you know, to give him a chance to get to know your daughter. I was really mad with Brooke, of course, and when Ted hears about it, he’ll blow his top.’

‘Look,’ he cut in, unconcerned with Brooke or Ted or anyone but his daughter and her safety. ‘Can’t we phone the guy on his mobile? Ask him what the hell he thinks he’s playing at?’

‘Unfortunately not. Brooke doesn’t have his cell-phone number. And, as I said, I’ve never met him. I know most of Spencer’s friends, but this guy—’

‘Well, ring Spencer, then. He’s bound to have the number. And he may even know where he and Erica have gone.’

‘Good thinking, Eric! I’ll call him right away. I just hope he hasn’t gone to bed.’

‘Well, if he has, drag him
out
of bed! This is an emergency.’

‘Try not to worry. They may just have gone for a little ride round town.’

Was this woman barking mad? A twelve-year-old in a car with a stranger, at 11.30 at night, and she was talking blithely about a little ride round town. ‘Listen to me, Kimberley, if they don’t turn up within the next five minutes, I intend to ring the police.’

‘Please don’t do that, I beg you. Brooke would never forgive me.’

Bugger Brooke, he was tempted to say. Instead, he told the bloody woman to get on to Spencer instantly and also find out the make of Larry’s car, so he could watch for it in the street.

He waited in an agony for her to call him back; the clock’s second-hand moving unbearably slowly. ‘Ring, damn you,
ring
!’ he kept muttering to the phone, snatching it up the instant that it did.

‘Yeah, Spencer had his cell-phone number, but when I tried it, I only got the voicemail, so I had to leave a message.’

All the more suspicious. His daughter’s phone
and
Larry’s both switched off. Why, for heaven’s sake? He hardly dared answer his own question.

‘Still, I do have news – and good news, in a way. Spencer says that Larry mentioned taking Carmella to some pizza place at the South End of the Island. And that’s only a short walk from you, so if you could get yourself down there, Eric …’

He didn’t need a second invitation; only stopped to prompt Kimberley about the make of Larry’s car, in case the pair had already left the pizza place and actually passed him on the road.

‘A red BMW convertible.’

His fear ratcheted up yet another notch. A red sports car gave off the very worst of signals.

Not bothering with a coat, he grabbed his keys and wallet and dashed out of the house, running full-pelt along the street. No cars whatever passed him, although, when he reached the square, a fair scattering were parked there. However, he didn’t stop to look at them; instead made straight for the pizza restaurant, only to find it shut. Indeed, everything seemed closed except the supermarket; nevertheless, he double-checked every restaurant and coffee-shop. No joy, except for a solitary waiter – a gangly youth of indeterminate ethnicity – standing smoking outside El Sombrero’s.