Dark Place to Hide (26 page)

‘Maybe you need to go back to college? Focus on being a student yourself?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

We walk towards the funfair where Portsmouth becomes Southsea. Jangling tunes from two, then three rides, chime together in a crazy fairground frenzy. Children emerge with candyfloss and fluffy dolphins they don’t really want.

‘Dee says you’re a brilliant lecturer – that you’ve given talks up and down the country. She says you’re incredibly organised and never get nervous.’

‘That’s not true. I fake it and try to look like I know what I’m doing. It’s an act. I’ve learnt to hide what’s really going on.’ Tara gazes at me curiously. ‘I am organised, though,’ I add. ‘Well, controlling really.’

‘Dee didn’t think so. She thought you were fun, candid, sincere, easy to be with.’

I feel my cheeks turn pink. ‘She always saw the good in everyone.’

I feel a glow of gratification until I realise we’re talking about you as if you’re dead. I bow my head and try to shake off the idea.

‘A friend rang this morning to invite me to Malta for a week,’ Tara says suddenly. We separate to avoid a boy on a skateboard. ‘But I can’t go…not with…not until…’

I reach for her hand and take it, fully aware of what I’m doing. ‘Thank you. It means a lot. I’m really struggling – and with you around, I feel like I’m not going through this on my own.’

She leans into my shoulder and I sense how easy it would be to put my arm around her and take in the smell of her hair. But, it wouldn’t be right.

‘You seem stronger, though,’ she assures me. ‘I got the feeling you were starting to slip away from us for a while, there.’ She laughs and I smell her sugary breath. ‘You’ve shaved!’ She turns my chin towards her and gives me a look of approval.

I laugh and use the shift in mood to pull away from her. ‘I’d started to wallow in self-pity and it was no good to anybody.’ I admit. ‘The girl going missing shook me out of it. Clara’s mother, Marion, needs support. Her cancer is untreatable and it’s only a matter of time. I’m trying to do all the things she isn’t able to do.’

We wander over to a wall overlooking the thin band of beach and lean on it. ‘What do you think’s happened to Clara?’ she asks.

‘God knows. It’s awful. The hospital seems to be at the core of it, though. Everything seems to lead back there; it’s where she was last seen.’ I watch a seagull dive towards a crisp packet left on an abandoned deckchair. ‘It’s hard for me to do much when I don’t have the powers of the police, but I’m going to see Marion later. See if I can shake things up a bit.’

‘Let’s go back,’ she says, sounding weary.

Nothing passes between us for a while, then Tara says, ‘I think I’m going to leave the school. I don’t think it’s me. Not now.’

‘Dee would be gutted if you left St Mary’s. You’ve been such a support to her.’

There is a silence the thickness of a steel vault between us.

My words come out like a plaintive cry. ‘You don’t think she’s coming back, do you?’

‘No…I mean…’ she quickens her pace. ‘No…I don’t think that, at all,’ she stammers.

Back at the cottage, I’m on the phone. Pressing my mates in the force for another favour. I bypass Neil, this time, and see if I can get a better response from DS Paul Whitaker instead. Despite my failing to show up for our squash match, Paul owes me. I stepped in to give a talk to his team recently, with only a day’s notice.
Eternally grateful
, were his exact words at the time. I remember we laughed at how formal he sounded.

I ask him to run Stephen Morrell’s name through the system. He comes back to me saying there are a series of speeding offences, but nothing more. He knows I’m involved in looking for Clara and brings me up to date.

‘We’re still looking into Dr Norman, a child specialist at the Queen Elizabeth – there seems to be a gap in his employment history. Also, he has no alibi for the time of Clara’s
disappearance. Although it’s been hard to pinpoint exactly who was where at the hospital, because of the mayhem following the fire alarm.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Wayne Right, the boyfriend of Marion’s sacked babysitter has a history of petty theft,’ he informs me.

‘Is that it?’ I moan, discouraged.

‘We’re still checking the police records of all the staff at the hospital. There are hundreds of locums and agency staff to wade through.’ He sounds tired. ‘Of course, it could be a patient or visitor we’re looking for – someone who came and went. Or not connected to the hospital at all.’

I thank him and ring off, my tone subdued as I recognise the pool of suspects is getting wider, not smaller.

I’m in the kitchen and as I replace the phone, the pretty mobile Clara made for me swings slowly to the left and the butterfly sparkles with twinkling silver light. It feels particularly poignant, because I know you love butterflies, Dee. It’s as if it belongs to both of you; joined together in your absence.

What really happened that evening you left me, Dee? Where are you?

I ring Tara. I don’t have much to say – it’s purely for solace; to hear a friendly voice. She’s about to go to a yoga class and says she’ll call me back.

In the meantime, I clear away a fresh pile of brick dust that has fallen into the hearth. Whilst I’m tipping the orange remains into the bin, I bring to mind the photographs on Morrell’s family noticeboard. Something else strikes me. When Tara calls me back, I have something to tell her.

‘Those photographs at Morrell’s place,’ I say, ‘you were in most of them, too.’

‘Really!’ she sounds disgusted. ‘Well – then maybe it doesn’t mean anything.’

I’m angry with myself. I thought I’d got a lead, but it could be nothing. ‘Maybe he just takes photos of pretty women,’ I say.

Tara grunts. ‘What does his wife think about that?’

‘I don’t know. He said she was upstairs – I heard someone – but he could have been lying.’

‘Maybe they’re separated or getting a divorce?’

We can speculate all we like; it isn’t getting us anywhere. An idea comes to me. ‘Would Elaine know?’

Tara’s voice brightens up. ‘It’s worth a try. I’ll call you back.’

Tara rings me two hours later while I’m making my way over to Marion’s cottage.

‘Elaine is coming over to your place later – she’s got a handful of photos from the retirement party – she says Dee is in a few.’

‘She’s coming to the cottage?’

‘Yeah – I thought I’d cook something – just an easy dish. Traditional Danish, if you like the idea – tasty, not too spicy?’

I haven’t had proper hunger pangs in days and my stomach rumbles in response to her suggestion. ‘Sounds great. Thank you.’

‘You know the best restaurant in the world is in Copenhagen? At least it got the most votes in 2012.’

‘I don’t need any persuading, honestly.’

Marion is sitting in the living room, making almost no shape at all under a blanket, when I arrive. Helen is there with her. Marion’s eyes stop blinking and her face opens out in anticipation as I stride in. I shake my head as I pocket the key she’s given me.

Helen gets up to make us all a cup of tea. Marion turns and stares out of the window as if something has caught her eye.

‘Today would have been perfect for one of Morris’s skydives,’ she says. ‘He loved the summer. He was in love with the sky; completely at home there. I was terrified the first time I saw him tumble out of a plane. He seemed to travel such a long way – time was passing so fast – and still he didn’t activate his chute. Then whoosh and it hoisted him up and transformed him into a feather so he’d float down and roll into the grass.’ She picks at fluff on the blanket. ‘He could never speak to me straight after a jump; he was too emotional. Being up in the sky was a powerful experience for him. He used to say it was a privilege that he had been able to do something so exclusive for a living.’

I know she’s still waiting for compensation for her husband’s untimely death. Her entire life has dissolved into a tragedy. Her husband, her illness and now her missing daughter. I can’t imagine anyone who deserves it less. She is such a warm-hearted and sincere person. Just like you, Dee. I wish you’d known her better.

Helen hands round a plate of digestives, but none of us take any. She looks deep in thought.

‘What about you, Helen? Ever tried any extreme sports?’ I say. Her hair is loose today and unexpected soft curls trail inside her collar, softening her face completely.

‘I’ve tried ice skating a few times. Does that count?’ She half smiles and lets her tongue linger against her teeth. It makes me think that perhaps she isn’t as prim as she seems.

‘It might,’ I reply with a smile. ‘Depends what you do. Any spins or triple salchows?’

Her lips break into a full sunny smile. ‘No way – both skates are glued to the ice at the same time,’ she says, ‘I usually manage to grab the arm of an accommodating bloke to get me round the rink. It’s the only way to stay upright.’ She holds my gaze for a moment, as if considering whether I’d be one of those accommodating types or not.

Marion looks like she’s dropping off; I imagine the doctor has given her something to keep her calm. It’s time to cut the small talk and get down to business.

‘I think we need to think back very carefully over the last few weeks and try to get together some kind of timeline of Clara’s movements and behaviour.’ I put the teacup back on the tray. ‘Maybe, by tracking her, we’ll discover something.’

Marion nods.

I take out my notebook. ‘We need a starting point,’ I say. ‘When, exactly, did Clara first seem to start acting out of character?’

Marion doesn’t speak, so Helen puts forward a suggestion. ‘When she was trapped in the oubliette?’

‘No – it was when we came out of the hospital,’ Marion says with assurance. ‘After she’d been checked over by Dr Norman. She got lost for a while and I found her near the main reception desk on the ground floor. One of the nurses, Natalie, caught up with us and apologised.’

‘How long was Clara missing for?’

She touches her cheek, trying to think back. ‘About twenty minutes. Half an hour maximum.’

‘Did Natalie say where she’d been?’

‘No. She had no idea.’

Marion is still hooked into the memory, so I continue. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. On the bus, on the way home – Clara was very quiet. When we were ready to get off I found out she had an apple core in her hand.’ I’m writing everything down and don’t look up.

‘Do you know where she got it from?’

‘She didn’t have any money on her, so someone must have given it to her.’ Marion sits forward, the most animated I’ve seen her in days. ‘That’s right. She said the Wizard of Oz had given it to her.’

‘The Wizard of Oz?’ exclaims Helen.

‘Yes,’ Marion’s fingering her top lip. ‘I gave her a telling off about it. You know – about accepting sweets and stuff from strangers.’

‘What did she say?’

She draws back. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘She didn’t mention anyone – a nurse, doctor, cleaner?’

‘No – I’m not sure she said anything else.’

I underline Wizard of Oz, because Clara had mentioned his name to me too, but I can’t remember when and in what context, so I don’t make a point of drawing attention to it.

‘It’s a start,’ I say, trying to sound upbeat.

‘She seemed less keen to go to the hospital after that,’ Marion continues. ‘Before, she was reticent about it, in a bored kind of way – you know, having to hang around and wait for me during my appointments. But then she started getting tetchy – even upset – about going.’

‘There’s Dr Pike, too,’ Helen chips in. ‘Does Clara like her?’

‘I’ve no idea – I’ve barely had any straight answers from Clara to my questions in the past few weeks.’ Marion lets out a sigh. ‘Dr Pike said she thought Clara’s condition was getting worse. If her “trauma” – or whatever it was – had resulted from the incident at the castle, you’d have thought that, with time, she’d have been getting better, not worse.’

The mention of Dr Pike reminds me that I saw her with Dr Norman when I was last at the hospital. I didn’t know at the time they had any connection with Clara; it was before she went missing and I was heading for Dr Swann’s room. I heard someone shout ‘Dr Pike’ and it made me smile, as I recalled seeing a Dr Trout when I was a child. Dr Trout didn’t look anywhere near as elegant as Dr Pike, however, who drifted out of a consulting room with a young boy as I walked by. She was an extremely attractive woman – blonde and poised; wearing a regrettably unattractive smile – all plastic.

She passed the child on to an adult with a few words and turned to a figure standing at the entrance to an adjacent office. She elbowed him inside and started arguing with him about something, without closing the door. I bent down to tie my shoelace nearby; I was early for my appointment and intrigued by the situation.

The doctor she was railing at – I discovered afterwards when I saw his name badge – was Dr Norman. I put him at around twenty-eight; he had thick floppy hair and round specs like an overgrown Harry Potter.

‘Why did you leave her there on her own?’ Dr Pike hissed.

‘I thought you had a patient – I didn’t want to disturb you.’ Dr Norman looked visibly shaken at being caught out.

‘You should have buzzed me.’

‘Anyway, she wasn’t on her own –
I
was looking after her.’

‘Well – I don’t want you
looking after
my patients,’ she said. She gave him a disdainful look, which suggested she knew more about him than she wanted to.

Dr Norman shook his head and stormed out into the corridor, so I backed away into the first door I could find – the gents’ loo – and waited for his footsteps to pass by.

Was that conversation significant? They certainly knew each other.

Marion yawns and I realise she’s waiting for me. I tap the pen on my book. ‘I can’t help thinking that in her own way Clara was trying to tell us something.’

‘You think she
knows
the person who took her?’ Marion asks.

‘She’s a very sharp child. We didn’t get her drift at first, when she said she’d seen a woman in the bell tower, but then we found the hairclip – and, more than likely, it was my missing wife she’d seen.’