Dark Place to Hide (30 page)

I am bereaved all over again. There is no other living thing in the house. From now on I’m going to find more and more excuses not to be here; already I eat most of my meals on the hoof – sandwiches from corner shops, snacks from chip shops and vending machines. Apart from the supper at Marion’s and the one Tara made, I can’t remember when I had a proper meal. I’ve spent a few evenings in The Eagle, but I won’t be going again. Whenever anyone mentions
family or home life, the conversation inevitably disintegrates into awkward silences that slice into the atmosphere like a guillotine.

For something to do, I vacuum the entire house and do a circuit of the back garden, pulling off the dead heads on the dahlias and lupins. Some of these flowers you’ve never seen, Dee; you’ll miss them altogether.

The ringing of the phone brings me back inside. To my surprise it’s Dr Swann. I’m touched that he’s calling when I am no longer his patient.

‘I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you,’ he says. There’s a lot of machine noise in the background: bleeping and sporadic tapping. ‘I was filing away your notes and remembered…how is…has your wife returned?’

I clear my throat. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I can’t imagine how dreadful that must be. You hear this kind of thing on the news and never think it could…well…’

‘I know.’ I appreciate the way he’s struggling to find the right thing to say.

‘I rang to say that if you wanted to consider resuming the treatment, it’s not too late.’

For a moment I wonder if Dr Swann is banking on me as some kind of guinea pig in his research and by dropping out I’ve messed up his results.

‘I’m sorry if it’s letting you down. I can’t face it at the moment.’

‘I do understand. That’s fine. Insensitive of me to ask. Sorry. I wish you both well.’

He rings off and part of me is disappointed – he sounds like the kind of man I could have more of a conversation with – like he’d listen and understand, without asking too many questions. Anyway – it’s too late; he’s gone.

To take my mind off my solitude, I note down the times I’ve met Clara and try to recall what she’d been doing and what she said. It’s the words children use sometimes and the way they say things that can make adults think they’re making things up when they’re not. Like when Clara said her father flew without wings. As I jot down places and dates, I write down her last statements to me word for word.

Your mother rings before lunch wanting to know if there is any news. She talks about your disappearance as though it’s my fault. It’s not long before your father becomes the centre of the conversation.

‘He went missing on Wednesday,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t find him anywhere.’

I find it hard to respond when ‘missing’ means ‘temporary absence’ in your father’s case.

‘Turns out he’d found his way to the chess club. Caught two buses – the first one going in the wrong direction. He doesn’t have a membership card anymore and they rang me as soon as they recognised him.’

‘Must be a worry for you,’ I say dryly. I must curb my annoyance; one of these days he may get himself lost for good.

‘Absolutely.’ Her breath catches in her throat.

She seems to have done a magnificent job of relegating your disappearance to a separate part of her brain, so she doesn’t have to acknowledge it. She doesn’t ask how I am or what I’m doing. She has to go – Ted has switched on the lawnmower and it’s out of bounds.

I call Alexa – for no other reason than to check she’s not hiding anything from me. She’s inevitably frosty, but claims she’s not heard from you. I can’t bring myself to ring back all the people who have left messages on the answerphone – it’s too painful to go into your disappearance over and over again. I call my mother instead. Life is too short to stay angry with
her. I find myself inviting her and Bruce over for supper at some vague point in the future when this is all over. She’s delighted to hear from me. It makes me think she’s been waiting for this call for some time. It’s heart-warming to make someone happy.

I’m washing up the bowls I used for Frank, when Tara rings to see how I’m coping without him. She’s remembered and I tell her how grateful I am.

‘At least I know he’s safe,’ I say.

‘No news about Dee or Clara, I suppose?’

‘No. I’ve just been going over everything.’ As I’m talking to her, I watch Clara’s butterfly come to life in the breeze from the back door. ‘You remember what Clara said to me…?’

She waits.

‘“He’s not a wizard, he’s a wolf – and a very bad one.”’

‘Oh, yeah – I still don’t get it.’

‘Marion said that when Clara came away from the hospital with an apple, she told her the Wizard of Oz gave it to her.’

‘Okay – I’m still none the wiser.’

‘Clara was talking about him again, but saying he
isn’t
actually a wizard…’

‘Right – he’s a
wolf
– whatever that means…so this ties up with
Little Red Riding Hood
somehow?’

‘I think it does, but—’

Tara breaks in: ‘“He’s not a wizard, he’s a wolf – and a very bad one” – it’s like she’s saying he tricked her or did something to shock or harm her? Which is exactly what the wolf
does in the story – all the kids in my class know it. He disguises himself as a lovely old grandmother, then pounces on the little girl.’

‘That’s it. Maybe Clara was identifying with the story,’ I say. ‘That’s why she was stuck on that particular fairy tale.’

‘You think it’s someone pretending to be nice who is actually very nasty?’

‘Maybe. And by reliving the story, she can keep going back to the beginning where everything is innocent and she’s walking through the woods to go and see her grandmother.’

There’s a short silence. ‘It’s a bit tenuous, isn’t it?’ she says.

‘I know,’ I sigh, realising it sounds ridiculous. ‘It’s just a theory.’

‘It’s possible, though.’ She sounds like she’s humouring me. ‘You should run it past Marion – see if it triggers any connection.’

‘And I need to see Gillian Morrell,’ I add. ‘See what she has to say about the retirement party.’

‘Let me ring Stephen Morrell,’ she jumps in, ‘I’ll find some pretext about school and call you back.’

Within minutes, Tara is on the line again. ‘Stephen’s playing golf today, somewhere near Chichester and Gillian is at home packing. They’re off on holiday tomorrow.’ Her tone is urgent. ‘She’s on her own. We’ve got to go today.’

‘We?’ I laugh.

‘Of course. I’m coming with you.’

As soon as Gillian Morrell opens her front door, she strikes me as belonging to a superior league when compared to her husband, in several ways: looks, social class and people skills, for a start.
She exudes elegance, wearing a silk kimono-style dress that shows off lean long legs and her hair is coiffured into a blonde chignon. She looks at least five years younger than the grumpy Morrell. Her accent is upper crust and polished. She swings the door wide and welcomes us in as if we’re lifelong friends. I hastily wipe away the frown that is querying what she sees in him.

We’re offered the choice of tea, coffee, homemade biscuits or toasted teacake before we even get over the threshold. ‘I’m sorry the choice is limited,’ she explains. ‘We’re going away tomorrow.’ Her accent wouldn’t be out of place in the royal family. ‘I’m packing. The children, of course, have disappeared off somewhere, leaving it all to me,’ she chuckles.

‘A glass of water is fine,’ I say. Tara nods. We don’t want to be wasting time while Gillian faffs about in the kitchen putting together a full-blown Michelin-star platter.

‘You work with Steve, I understand,’ she says to Tara, as she sweeps us into the lounge and indicates the not-so-comfy low chairs without armrests, by the highly decorated fireplace. I see now that the white surround has been added; it looks far older than the house. I also understand how the décor would work around Gillian; designed solely for sophistication with a total lack of crumpled cosiness. I assume the children aren’t allowed in here. You’d hate it, Dee. I think back to the first day Frank arrived with us, soggy from a rainy-day romp and paws sticky with mud. He bounded in through the front door and leapt up onto the sofa to lick your face. You laughed and embraced him, giggling at the messy crumbs of mud he was leaving on the fabric. I dread to think what kind of reception Frank’s antics would get in this sitting room.

‘And Harper is Diane Penn’s husband,’ Tara says.

Gillian covers her mouth in polite horror. ‘Such a terrible situation. I can’t imagine…’ Her words go with her as she drifts off into the kitchen. She returns with a tray holding two tall
glasses, a jug containing water with ice and slices of lemon, beside a plate of chocolate-chip cookies.

‘Where are you going on holiday?’ I ask for openers.

‘Oh, Monaco,’ she says dismissively. ‘It’s a favourite haunt of mine. We’re all going – Ben and Cherie, too.’

I let out an involuntary moan as the chocolate-chip cookie crumbles and melts in my mouth.

‘They’re my favourite,’ she acknowledges, gratified, perched on the edge of the sofa, her knees together and slanted to one side, as though she’s ready for a fashion shoot. She discretely glances at the clock over the fireplace. ‘Steve said you wanted to borrow his book on marine archaeology for the start of term,’ she says. She reaches into the bookshelf behind her and hands the heavy volume to Tara. ‘And you wanted to ask about Doreen Passmore’s retirement party?’

‘Diane was there and you were too, I believe,’ I say, watching her intently.

‘Yes. I spoke to your wife – really lovely woman – about swimming. Ben is doing well in the pool and so I asked about private tuition and training for a boy his age.’

‘Do you remember what she was drinking?’

‘Drinking?’ She tucks a loose strand into the back of the otherwise perfect twist of hair. ‘I’ve no idea.’

‘How did Diane seem?’ I ask. ‘Was she getting a bit tipsy or was she completely sober in your view?’

‘Gosh… I don’t really know your wife. That was only the second or third time we’ve met – always at that kind of school do. She seems so chatty and friendly. Laughing a lot, you know.’

I’m too agitated to be pussy-footing around like this. I get to the point. ‘Did you give her a cocktail?’

She tosses the thick gold bracelet around on her wrist and speaks without looking up. ‘It was…many weeks ago, now.’

Tara chips in. ‘Elaine took several photos at the party. She said you handed a fresh drink to Diane.’ I know for certain there was no photo showing Gillian handing over a drink to you, but Tara is clever, implying there is.

Gillian appears to be caught off balance and rests her finger across pursed lips.

‘Oh, wait - I know what you mean. Yes – there were some non-alcoholic cocktails being passed around at the beginning – blue mocktail things. I do remember passing one over to Diane, now you mention it. I had the same, before I moved on to the Chardonnay.’

I ask about the rest of the party and Gillian’s version tallies with what Elaine said. Her husband left first in a taxi – then you and she took a taxi together. ‘It was nearer for me to be dropped off first, so I gave her some cash for her part of the fare and waved her goodbye. She hadn’t looked too well. I assumed the taxi driver took her straight home.’

I ask for the name of the taxi firm she used and she hands me a business card without prevarication.

‘Can you remember what time the taxi came to collect you?’ I ask. I’ve already checked this with Elaine, so I’m waiting to see if the times tally.

‘It was ten past eleven – or thereabouts.’ That’s what Elaine had said. It shouldn’t be too hard to track down the driver.

I ask as tactfully as I can about the photos on the kitchen noticeboard. I point out that you and Tara are in nearly all of them.

‘Stephen likes keeping a record of work events,’ she tells me, assuredly. ‘He always has.’

‘They seem to be only of female members of staff,’ I point out.

She smiles. ‘Stephen is a discerning man. He likes attractive women,’ she says, without any apparent irritation. ‘I have no problem with that!’

Before we arrived, Tara suggested that we should settle on a signal I could give her to indicate she should distract Gillian, so I could have a subtle poke around the place. I put my empty glass on the coffee table and pull my phone out of my pocket as if it has buzzed against my leg.

‘Sorry, I need to make a quick call.’

Tara responds to the signal and stands up. ‘I’d love to see your conservatory,’ she says, turning on the enthusiasm. ‘I caught a glimpse of it when we came through the gate.’

‘Of course, but I can’t be too long. I’ve got so much to do.’ They head out into the hall. ‘We’ve just had new French windows put in.’

I go through the motions, pacing by the fireplace, pretending to make a call. As soon as I hear the back door click shut, I creep upstairs. I’m calculating that anything incriminating is unlikely to be left downstairs, although I have no idea what I’m looking for.

I find the study and step inside. I pull open drawers in the filing cabinet – everything is neat and labelled – and look for the most benign-sounding files: family, household, drains. I check inside these folders, but everything is what it claims to be. I can see nothing in the room that is locked or inaccessible.

I slip into the master bedroom and press myself against the curtains by the window. Tara is doing a great job of admiring the flowerbeds. There’s a half-filled suitcase open on the king-sized bed and another on the floor. I check Stephen’s bedside cabinet – there’s an appointment
diary, so I turn back the pages to the day you went missing. The words
Speech for PET Awards
are written in for 8pm that day, but I make a note to check to be sure. I look inside his briefcase behind the door, check the top of the wardrobes, the shelves, slide my hand under the mattress. Everything looks inordinately above board, but I have a feeling about Stephen that irks me. The guys in the Hampshire Constabulary call it ‘the itch’; that sixth sense that someone is hiding a dark transgression.

At the bottom of his sock drawer, squashed at the back are a stack of dirty magazines. No big deal – it’s what I would expect. I give them a cursory flick through until a voice below alerts me.