Foxglove Summer (5 page)

‘They found a loophole,’ he said.

I asked what the loophole was, but Dominic said he made a point of not asking.

‘I get enough environmental distress from the boyfriend without wanting to get it from my mum as well,’ he said.

The parish hall was about a hundred metres up from the cowshed. It was an odd building with wooden shingle walls and a gambrel roof that looked like it had been shipped over from the Midwest of America and then, presumably, assembled by the Amish synchronised barn-building team. There was an asphalt parking space out the front which was empty except for a shiny new Vauxhall Vivaro in West Mercia Battenberg livery. A lone female PSCO stood guard by the road to make sure nobody else parked there and kept an eye on the scattering of press clustered outside the front entrance. Them being out front was the reason that Dominic had taken us in the back way.

The hall was just that, a big room that was open to the rafters with a stage at one end and doors off to a kitchen area and toilets. According to Dominic it was where you had birthday parties, amateur dramatics and the dreaded young farmers’ disco. ‘Feared for miles around,’ he told me. It was currently being used as a staging area for the search for Nicole and Hannah, which was why the media was outside. And since every available body was out searching it meant it was deserted. Sausage bags and rucksacks were piled in the corners, shrink-wrapped pallets of bottled water were piled under trestle tables on which Styrofoam cups and jars of instant coffee were stacked. Two Ordnance Survey maps had been pinned to a cork notice board, overlapping so that the areas matched up, and covered in plastic. Arrows, loops and whorls had been drawn on in marker pen – the search so far. The air was warm and still and smelt of creosote.

‘Hello,’ called Dominic. ‘Anyone here?’

‘Just a second,’ called a woman from behind the door to the toilets.

I had a look at the map while we waited. A modern search isn’t just a matter of marking off a grid and working through it one by one. These days you section it off by probability – where your subject could have got to under their own power in the time available. So the search area grows like frost on a spider web, shooting down roads and tracks, spreading out in sheets over fields and gardens.

The door to the toilets opened and a fat woman in a beige cardigan stepped out. She had a round face with a milky complexion and dark brown hair pulled into a no-nonsense pony tail. To go with the cardigan she had a pair of glasses dangling around her neck on a pink strap, knee-length brown skirt and sensible court shoes. She was aiming for dependable parish busybody but it was undermined by sharp blue eyes which were constantly darting back and forth – taking everything in. Proper copper eyes, those.

Still, she did a good professional bustle when she saw me and shook my hand and introduced herself as DS Allison Cole.

‘You must be Peter Grant,’ she said. ‘Thank you for volunteering. Although god knows what the family are going to make of you.’

We sat down by one of the trestle tables. DS Cole yanked a bottle of Evian out of a pallet and offered it to me – I shook my head. She opened it and drank gratefully.

‘We’re lucky with the weather,’ she said. ‘If they’re out there in the open they’re not going to die of exposure.’

‘Hottest summer in living memory,’ said Dominic. ‘You should be right at home.’

I didn’t even bother to give him the look – it’s not like he’d have understood what it meant anyway.

‘Where are you staying?’ asked Cole.

‘I’m putting him in me mum’s cowshed,’ said Dominic.

‘I thought the council wanted that knocked down?’ said Cole.

‘They haven’t got round to it yet,’ he said.

‘At least it will be a short commute,’ said Cole. ‘And it’ll be good to have somebody near at hand overnight. Means I can get back to my kids.’

‘You think this is going to drag out?’ I asked.

‘Who can tell?’ she said, which meant yes.

‘Do you think we’re going to get them back?’

‘I hope so,’ she said, which meant no.

She took another swig of water and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm.

‘We’d better get you briefed and introduced,’ she said.

The Marstowes lived in one half of a semi built in the watered-down neo-Georgian style that was de rigueur for post-war rural housing developments. Situated at the end of a cul-de-sac, it was, Dominic told me, the last actual council-owned council house in the village. All the rest having been bought up by their tenants in the 1980s and 1990s and then sold on to wealthy incomers.

‘Except for your mum,’ I said.

‘She didn’t want to sell,’ he said. ‘Now of course she looks like a bloody genius – prices being what they are.’

Judging from the decomposing grey VW Rabbit and the empty Calor Gas bottles amongst the long unmown grass of the front garden, the Marstowes were either hoping for a spot on the next Channel 4 deprivation documentary or a two-page spread in the
Daily Mail
. Although to clinch the
Mail
story they’d probably have to adopt a Romanian asylum seeker or something. On the other side of a box hedge the front garden of the other half of the semi was a neat lawn without flower beds. The windows on that side were closed up and doors were shut tight, and it had a blank empty aspect. The owner-occupier, a senior lecturer at Birmingham University had been amongst the first locals to be TIEed after the girls went missing. That’s Traced, Identified and Eliminated, in case you were wondering.

‘At his holiday villa in Tuscany,’ Dominic had told me. He’d been there since the end of the July.

‘A Tuscan villa and a weekend house in the country?’ I’d asked. ‘How much does he get paid?’

Apparently he’d planned to move his family out to Rushpool, but his wife had divorced him when she found him with an undergraduate discussing Borges’ pivotal role in the development of post-colonial literature with the aid of a feather duster, a latex vest and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Brownie-flavoured ice cream.

I asked whether the wife or the undergraduate had joined him in Tuscany.

‘Wife and kids,’ Dominic said. ‘
And
the undergraduate.’

The semi stood at the far end of a cul-de-sac which branched off the village lane. The media, I noticed, observed a sort of unofficial line of control – never pushing their way beyond the junction. Dominic said that they’d been good about respecting the family’s privacy – so far. I wondered how long that would last.

The front door on the Marstowes’ side was propped open with a brick and from inside I heard children screaming. Dominic knocked a couple of times on the door, tried the bell which didn’t work, and knocked again. He looked at me and shrugged. The screaming got louder. At least one toddler, I thought, and a couple of older kids. One was definitely seriously aggravated about not being allowed out of the house.

Dominic gave up and was about to step inside when a white boy of about nine came charging up the hall and skidded to a halt at the sight of us. He was dressed in a green T-shirt with a cartoon picture of Psy on the front and clutching a pink plastic cricket bat. He stared at Dominic, then at me, bit his lip in consternation and then ran back the way he’d come.

‘Ryan,’ said Dominic. ‘The eldest boy.’

We followed Ryan into the house.

Given the hillbilly front garden, the inside of the house was surprisingly tidy, or at least as tidy as a house with four kids under the age of twelve is likely to get without a full-time professional cleaning staff. I followed Dominic down the short hall and into the kitchen at the back and was introduced to Joanne Marstowe.

She was a small woman with a narrow upturned nose, blue eyes and Midwich Cuckoo-coloured hair. She was slender for someone with four kids. The youngest, Ethan, aged one, was balanced in the crook of one arm. He had the same white-blond hair as his mother and appeared at some point in the recent past to have submerged his face in a bowl of Heinz mashed apple and pork casserole. I could see the open pot on the kitchen table and the high chair with an upturned blue and pink flowered bowl on the eating tray. Ryan had taken up a position behind his mum and now peered cautiously around her body to check we weren’t after him. A third child, who by a process of elimination had to be Mathew, aged seven, whose sandy hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, sat quietly at the table with the air of a child who had been subjected to more than reasonable punishment as specified by section 58 of the Children’s Act 2004.

‘Hello, Joanne,’ said Dominic.

Joanne glared at him, noticed me and turned back to Dominic.

‘Who the fuck is this?’ she asked.

‘This is Peter,’ said Dominic. ‘He’s going to be working with Allison Cole and you.’

‘Where’re you from?’ she asked me.

‘London,’ I said, which seemed to please her.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘It’s about time they took this seriously. Have a seat.’

Mathew watched me sit down with wide suspicious eyes. Joanne asked Dominic if he was staying but he made his excuses and left, though not before giving me a surreptitious thumbs up from the door.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Joanne.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll make it, if you like?’

‘God, no,’ she said and thrust Ethan into my arms. ‘But if you can deal with the monster I’d appreciate it.’

I may be an only child, but I’ve got a lot of cousins. And their parents shared my mum’s conviction that once you’re big enough to pick up a toddler unaided, you’re big enough to babysit while the adults drink tea and discuss the important issues of the day. Ethan gave a startled yelp as I plonked him on my lap, his overheated pink face unclenching as curiosity got the better of his upset. There was kitchen roll on the table. I grabbed a couple of sheets and wiped most of the food off his face. He was a sturdy little boy and a bit heavy to be hanging off his mum’s hip. I wondered if he was catching the vibe from the adults around him.

‘Have you got anyone who can help out?’ I asked. ‘Family?’

Joanne looked up from the sink where she was triaging the washing up.

‘Lots of family,’ she said. ‘If you’d been here earlier you’d have been tripping over them. They were very keen to help, so keen that I had to get rid of them – at least for a bit.’

I watched as she paused in front of the kitchen cupboard and nervously tapped her finger on the counter.

‘Mummy,’ said Ryan, tugging at her leg.

‘Shut up,’ she told him. ‘I’m trying to remember what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing. Tea, right?’

‘Or coffee, if that’s easier.’

‘Which one?’ asked Joanne testily.

‘Coffee,’ I said.

‘Can I have coffee too?’ asked Mathew.

Which meant that Ryan wanted coffee as well, but in the end they both settled for a can of Coke each and a couple of mini Swiss rolls – the nation’s parental bribe of choice. I did my part by bouncing Ethan up and down and making weird noises until he was too confused to be upset. By the time my cup of own-brand instant was plonked down in front of me, Ryan and Mathew had wandered off into the adjacent living room to watch cartoons. Joanne slumped down in the chair across the table from me and put her face in her hands.

‘Jesus,’ she said.

Ethan burped ominously and I stopped jiggling him, just in case. There are limits to the sacrifices I’m willing to make in the name of community policing.

‘When’s your husband getting back?’ I asked.

Joanne raised her head and sighed.

‘He won’t be back until it’s dark,’ she said. ‘They’ll probably have to drag him back – he can’t sit around waiting, he’d go mad.’

‘What about you?’

‘I don’t have any choice there, do I?’ she said. ‘Vicky asked if I wanted to wait it out at her house. I mean it wasn’t like she was going to come down and “wait it out” here, was it? Have you seen her house? Can you imagine this lot . . .’ She made a gesture that encompassed her children and the state of her kitchen. ‘No, if she wants company . . . It’s not like she’s short of friends.’ She gave me an odd look. ‘Are you lot trained to keep your mouth shut? Because I seem to be doing most of the entertaining here.’

’We’re supposed to unobtrusive,’ I said.

‘Oh, yeah? All the better to let us incriminate ourselves?’

As it happened, exactly that – amongst all the other roles an FLO is supposed to perform.

‘Trained that way,’ I said. ‘The idea is not to make your life any more difficult than it has to be.’

She laughed at that, a short mirthless bark. Then she made eye contact and held it.

‘Do you think I’m going to get my daughter back?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Why?’

Because you’ve got to have hope and no news is good news. And because the best you can do is sound like you’re being forthright and sincere. If they get their kids back they won’t even remember what you said and if they don’t – then nothing else will be important.

I was trying to come up with a convincing lie when I was saved by a voice from the hallway.

‘Jo? Are you in?’ Male, adult, public school.

‘In the kitchen,’ called Joanne.

We heard him pause at the living room door and ask the boys if they were bearing up.

‘Chin up,’ he told them, and then he came into the kitchen.

He was taller than me, mid-forties, dressed in cargo pants and green wellies, and a blue and gold rugby shirt that wasn’t loose enough to disguise a little pot belly. He had broad shoulders that were going to fat, brown eyes, a narrow nose and a big forehead. He was about to say something to Joanne when he copped sight of me.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

Joanne introduced us. He was Derek Lacey – father of the other missing child. He’d been out with the searchers, but they were losing the light.

‘I just wanted to be sure you were okay,’ he said.

‘I’m about what you’d expect,’ she said.

Derek pulled a seat out and placed it at the end of the table before sitting down. About as close as he could to interposing himself between me and Joanne without actually sitting cross-legged on the table. I wondered if he was even aware he’d done it. Joanne asked if he wanted a coffee – he asked for something stronger.