Gone Again (11 page)

He was swimming with fellow pilot whales, amazed at the fluency of his movements as he ducked in and out of the pod, Lauren and Nathan alongside him, whales as well. They were contented at first, then the mood of the pod changed, panic setting in as the water got more shallow. A speedboat’s propellers cut the surface of the sea above them as the waves and wind pushed them closer to land, all of them frenzied and thrashing, colliding and squirming over and under each other. He felt rough sand on his belly as he was pushed on to the beach, Lauren and Nathan following him. He tried to tell them not to follow him on to land where they would get stranded, but he couldn’t speak. They nudged on in his wake, trusting him to look after them as he betrayed them and led them to their deaths on the sand.

He was woken by a noise. Knocking at the door. He looked round. Light streaming through the gap in the curtains, Nathan sprawled diagonally across the double bed, still asleep. The clock said 10.15 a.m. Too late for school, even if that had been an option. There were three empty beer bottles by the bed.

He’d stayed up till the early hours on his phone, Googling post-mortem procedures and children’s reactions to grief, scanning the Caledonia Dreaming website, Lauren’s Facebook and Twitter pages. Scanned back and forward through all the pictures she was tagged in, touching the screen and crying. Self-aware but also somehow oblivious to it all, wallowing in misery.

The knocking noise again. They should’ve been downstairs using the buzzer if the bottom door was closed.

He got up. He hadn’t undressed last night. He padded to the door and looked through the fish-eye spy hole. Ferguson and a man, an overweight, middle-aged, no-bullshit guy, by the look of him.

Mark opened the door.

‘Mr Douglas,’ Ferguson said. It had been Mark yesterday, not Mr Douglas. Something had changed. ‘Can we come in?’

Mark sighed, then opened the door further. The two of them bustled into the hall, struggling to turn round in the cramped space.

‘This is Detective Inspector Green,’ Ferguson said. The man offered his hand. He had an air of authority, he was clearly Ferguson’s boss.

Mark stared at them both. ‘Well?’

‘We’ve got the result of your wife’s post-mortem,’ Ferguson said.

Mark had a roaring noise in his ears and struggled to hear her. He felt an intense heat sweep over his body, making him flush.

‘And?’

‘Lauren was murdered, Mr Douglas.’

He reached out and leaned against the wall. It felt as if the floor was tilting away from him, like he was on a boat in heavy seas.

Ferguson looked down. ‘There was evidence of strangulation. She was dead before she went in the water. She definitely didn’t drown.’

Mark’s vision was out of focus. He pictured her on the beach, the smell of salt water, the cracked blue lips. Tried to think about her neck. Strangled. Pain and fear and terror. Not a peaceful death at all. Was it sore, Daddy? The last thing she would’ve seen was her killer, the image burnt on to her retinas until the end of time. He squeezed his eyes shut.

‘We need to speak to you down at the station,’ Green said.

‘What?’

‘This is a murder inquiry now, Mr Douglas.’

He blinked. ‘And you think I killed her.’

At least Ferguson had the decency to look away from him. ‘No, but you were one of the last people to see her, so we need to take you in for a formal interview, that’s all.’

‘Daddy?’

Nathan stood at the doorway of the bedroom, rubbing his eyes. Mark went to him.

‘How’s your tummy, Big Guy?’

‘It’s fine.’ Nathan smiled, held something up. ‘Look.’

It was another two-pound coin.

‘The tooth fairy came again. How cool is that?’

‘Very cool.’

Nathan looked past him. ‘Who are these people? Is something wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong.’

‘Is it about Mummy?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Mark said. ‘Why don’t you go through and put the telly on, I’ll make some toast.’

‘Am I not going to school today?’

Mark shook his head. ‘Don’t worry about school. You’re having a day off. Now go watch telly for a bit.’

Nathan shuffled his feet. ‘I think I need a poo.’

‘That’s good. Go sit on the toilet then.’

The extractor fan whirred into life as Nathan turned the light on in the bathroom. He sat on the toilet clutching his tooth-fairy money. He didn’t close the door. No one in their family ever closed the door, but then they never had the police hanging around in their hall before.

Mark turned to Ferguson. ‘What am I supposed to do with him?’

‘Either bring him to the station and we can have a social worker sit with him, or maybe there’s someone else you could call to come round and watch him?’

He didn’t want Nathan at the station.

‘Daddy, I’m doing a poo,’ Nathan hollered from the toilet.

‘That’s great,’ Mark shouted back. He turned to the police. ‘We were up at Sick Kids last night. Stomach cramps. The doctor reckoned it was most likely constipation.’

‘There’s loads of poo,’ Nathan said.

Mark looked at Ferguson and Green. ‘Let me just make a phone call.’

The interview room wasn’t like those concrete shit-holes you saw on television, two-way mirror on one side and no windows. This was more like a pod in a call centre, with a scratchy brown carpet, metal and fabric chairs, a phone and an ancient computer on a desk. There was even a window, looking out over the flats round the back of the station. Somewhere beyond those buildings, the pilot whales were flipping and slapping through the waves.

He thought about Nathan. Ruth had answered her phone on the first ring. He then spent an excruciating half-hour waiting for her to come round, Ferguson and Green lurking in the kitchen while he sat with Nathan watching a crappy
Clone Wars
cartoon, the boy transfixed on Ahsoka and Anakin slicing their way through a million battle droids.

Mark got changed into fresh clothes in the bedroom, aware of the cops at the other end of the flat, probably going through the kitchen cupboards for clues. He slid the wardrobe drawer open and darted a hand in. Pistol still there. He finished dressing and went back to Nathan, wondering if he would ever get the chance to sit on the sofa watching this shit with the boy again.

So now he was in a police interview room, waiting. He could see two gulls scrapping over something on a rooftop across the road. He could hear shrieks and the skitter of their feet on the tiles. The station was silent. Easy life being a cop, obviously.

He stuck his hand in his pocket and felt Nathan’s two milk teeth in there. Pulled them out and examined them. Rubbed at them with his thumb, felt the smoothness of the enamel against his skin. He wondered about making a wish, but then the door opened. He slid the teeth back into his pocket.

Ferguson and Green sat down across the desk from him. Mark noticed more crime-prevention posters on the walls. Was there a never-ending supply of these things? Shouldn’t they be spending money on actually preventing crimes, rather than making endless posters about it?

Ferguson looked apologetic. She pulled a digital recorder out, laid it on the desk and switched it on. Mark looked at it, red light blinking.

‘Do I need my lawyer for this?’

‘Do you have a lawyer?’

‘No.’

She shook her head. ‘You’re not under caution.’

Mark sat upright in his seat. ‘So I could just get up and leave?’

‘If you like. But I thought you might want to help us find the person who killed your wife.’

Mark scratched at his neck. ‘Shit.’

Ferguson’s face seemed to soften. Green shifted his bulk, stared at Mark. It looked as if the chair was struggling to hold together under his weight.

‘I realise this is hard for you,’ Ferguson said.

Had she said that before? She had no fucking clue.

‘Let’s just get this over with,’ Mark said. ‘So I can get back to Nathan.’

Ferguson looked at him. ‘Yes, about that.’

‘What?’

‘That was Lauren’s mother who came round to look after him, correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ruth Bell?’

Mark frowned. ‘Yes.’

‘The same Ruth Bell who has a restraining order out against you since an incident five years ago?’

Mark raised a hand. ‘Now wait a minute.’

‘We’re not complete idiots, Mr Douglas, we do check people’s police records.’

‘That was all a misunderstanding.’

‘You’d be amazed how often we hear that from violent people.’

‘I’m not a violent person.’

‘And yet your mother-in-law has a restraining order out against you after a violent assault that occurred on her property.’

‘That was a long time ago, it’s all been sorted.’

‘Would you like to tell us what it was about?’

‘Not really.’

‘That’s hardly doing your cause any good.’

Mark sighed. ‘Lauren was sexually abused by her dad as a kid. It came out in counselling. Ruth didn’t believe her. Things got heated, that’s all.’

‘This would be William Bell, who was found dead seven years ago?’

Mark stared at her. ‘That has got nothing to do with Lauren’s death.’

Ferguson shuffled some papers and glanced at DI Green. ‘We’ve looked at the file on Mr Bell’s death and there’s no mention of child abuse.’

Mark rubbed at his temple. ‘That’s because no one knew about it when he went missing.’

Ferguson raised her eyebrows and straightened her mouth. Looking for more.

‘Lauren only remembered about it during therapy after her postnatal depression, after she went missing the first time.’

‘That’s quite convenient.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Lauren was abused by her own father. That’s a pretty good motive for doing him some harm. I’m just saying it’s handy for her she apparently didn’t remember about it at the time of his death.’

‘I can’t believe you’re implying Lauren had anything to do with her dad’s death.’

‘And what about Mrs Bell?’

‘What about her?’

‘She didn’t know anything about what her husband had done?’

Mark remembered his conversation with Ruth in her house. ‘No.’

‘Also pretty convenient.’

‘Look, you’re way off course here,’ Mark said.

‘And you didn’t know anything about the abuse either, when Mr Bell went missing?’

‘Of course not.’

‘How did you feel?’

‘About what?’

‘When Lauren told you she’d been sexually abused by her own dad.’

‘I felt sick and furious, OK? I was glad the old bastard was dead. Now can we get back to talking about Lauren’s murder?’

Ferguson put the papers down on the desk.

‘I believe you underwent anger management classes.’

Mark ran a hand through his hair. ‘Yes, as part of the court verdict after the thing with Ruth. What about it?’

‘How did you find the experience, Mr Douglas?’

‘I don’t see what this has to do with anything.’

Ferguson looked up at him. ‘I’m just trying to get a feel for your domestic situation, that’s all.’

‘My domestic situation was perfectly fine until someone murdered my wife.’

Ferguson frowned. ‘A father-in-law dead in suspicious circumstances, a violent assault on your mother-in-law, and now you’re telling me about child sex abuse. It doesn’t sound perfectly fine to me.’

‘You’re twisting things,’ Mark said. ‘None of that is relevant to Lauren now. If you don’t believe me, go and ask Ruth.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll certainly be talking to Mrs Bell in due course. About a number of things.’

Mark rubbed his hand over his face. Thick stubble. When did he last shave?

‘OK,’ Ferguson said. ‘Tell me about the last time you saw your wife.’

Mark slumped. ‘I told you all this when I reported her missing.’

‘Tell us again.’

He knew what they were doing. He’d seen enough crime dramas on television. They were getting the story several times, looking for inconsistencies.

Ferguson put a hand out in front of her, an invitation to speak. ‘Please, Mr Douglas.’

Mark had a flash of Lauren, clammy and wet in his arms, the tang of seaweed burning his nostrils. He breathed forcefully out of his mouth.

Ferguson watched him closely. ‘The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can get back to your son.’ She was using a soft voice, no doubt part of the training. ‘Isn’t that what you want?’

Mark sighed and turned to the inspector. ‘What about you? Don’t you speak?’

Green pursed his lips. ‘DC Ferguson is perfectly capable of conducting this interview.’

Mark turned back to Ferguson. ‘This is bullshit, you should be out finding the person who killed my wife.’

‘We will. Now tell me about the last time you saw Lauren.’

Mark went through it all again. Tried to remember. He tried to picture her in bed that morning, or walking through the house with a mug of tea in one hand, a piece of toast in the other. But all he could see was her cracked blue lips, her lank, salty hair in his hands.

The questions kept trundling out. Had they argued recently? What sort of mood was she in that morning? What about before that? How did she feel about being pregnant? Had either of them ever had affairs? How would he describe their relationship? How was she doing at work? Did she have any worries about anything else?

That got Mark thinking about Gavin Taylor. Spending all that time working alongside Lauren at the office. A married man with family now, but what about all the history with Lauren? He used to fancy her, maybe he still did. Maybe it was mutual. He tried to picture Taylor’s face when he confronted him at the office. Then again at his house. Did he look guilty? The kind of look someone has when they know something. What the hell did that even look like?

He started talking about Taylor, about the possibility he was involved. Something Mark didn’t want to think about, that Taylor and Lauren could’ve been together. But he had to think about it now.

Ferguson was non-committal. She scribbled occasional notes on a pad, checked the red light on the recorder. Green was crunching on an apple. A fucking apple. Good luck, coronary-boy.

Mark’s voice dried up. He reached for a plastic cup of water on the desk and sipped. He was shocked at how cold the water was. He wondered if it was as cold as the sea just beyond those flats out the window, the last place Lauren had been. But she wasn’t alive in the water, was she.

Mark screwed his eyes shut and sipped. Water went down the wrong way and he coughed, his breath catching, the gag reflex kicking in, his whole body shaking with spasms until Green heaved out his chair, lumbered across and whacked him on the back to clear his throat.

He got his breath back as Green hovered behind him, arm raised, ready to thump him again. Mark held up a hand to stop him, then rested his elbows on the table and looked at Ferguson.

‘Gavin Taylor,’ he said, nodding. ‘Go and see Gavin Taylor. I think he knows something.’