Little Face (15 page)

Looking back, Simon could see what a fool he'd been. Charlie had
made it clear she wanted him, and there was an undeniable vacancy;
convention dictated that he ought to have a girlfriend, and she was the
only volunteer. A voice in his head had screamed its dissent from that
first day, but he'd ignored it and kept telling himself, instead, how great
Charlie was, how lucky he should feel.

She had finally made her move at Sellers' fortieth birthday party last
year. Simon, stunned and zombie-like, needed to make no effort at all.
She was all over him, taking the lead in everything. She'd even reserved
Sellers' spare room for them, she told him. `If anyone else gets in there
before us, Sellers'll be looking for a new job!' she joked.

This alarmed Simon, but still he said nothing. He feared she'd be
the same in bed as she was out of it, that she'd spend the whole time
issuing instructions about what she wanted done, when and where,
in a tone that brooked no argument. Simon knew some men didn't
mind that sort of thing, but he personally found the prospect repellent. He knew he'd get it all wrong anyway, make a pig's ear of
everything.

Still, he allowed himself to be drawn further in. As the kissing
went on, Charlie seemed to be becoming more enthusiastic, so Simon
behaved as if he was too. He imitated her fast breathing, said a few nice things that he hoped were romantic, things it would never have
occurred to him to say if he hadn't heard them in films.

Charlie eventually led him into Sellers' tiny spare room and pushed
him down on to the single bed. I'm lucky, Simon repeated to himself
again. Most men would give their World Cup final tickets to be in this
position. He watched in horror and fascination as Charlie undressed
in front of him. Logically, with the rational part of his brain, he
admired her for being liberated, for refusing to go along with that sexist nonsense about men having to make the first move. Yet, ashamed
though he was to admit it, all Simon's instincts mutinied against the
idea of a sexually aggressive woman.

It's too late, he told himself as Charlie climbed on top of him and
started to unbutton his shirt. The best thing to do was get it over with. He
ran his hands over her body, doing what he assumed was expected of him.

At this point in the narrative, Simon's memory always lurched violently away from the specific details, which were far too awful to dwell
on. It was sufficient to recall that he had known at a certain point that
he couldn't go through with it. He'd pushed Charlie off his knees,
mumbled an apology and run from the room without looking back.
What a coward and a loser she must have thought he was. He expected
news of his humiliating failure to be all over the police station the next
day, but no-one said anything. When Simon tried to apologise to
Charlie, she cut him off, saying, `I was pissed anyway. I don't remember much.' Trying to spare him further embarrassment, no doubt.

`Well?' she said now. `Answer came there none, as Proust would say.
What is it with Alice Fancourt? Do you just fancy her because she's got
long, blonde hair?'

`Of course not.' Simon felt as if the Spanish inquisition had landed
in his living room. He was offended to have such shallowness imputed
to him. Long blonde hair had nothing to do with it. It was the openness
in Alice's face, her vulnerability, the way he could see what she was feeling just by looking at her. She had a gravity about her that touched him.
He wanted to help her, and she believed that he could. He wasn't a joke to her. Alice had seemed to see Simon exactly as he wanted to be seen.
And now that she had vanished, he saw her in his mind constantly, went
over everything she'd ever said to him, buzzed with the need to tell her
he believed her, finally, wholeheartedly, about everything. Now that it
might be too late she consumed his thoughts; it was as if somehow by
disappearing she had transcended reality, become legend.

`You have fallen for her,' said Charlie glumly. `Be careful, okay?
Make sure you don't explode. The Snowman's got his beady eye on
you. If you fuck up again ... '

`Proust said that to me this morning. I didn't know what he was talking about. Okay, I've had a few Reg 9s, but no more than most people.'

Charlie sighed heavily. `A few more than most, actually. I haven't
had any. Gibbs and Sellers haven't either.'

`I didn't say I was perfect,' Simon muttered, feeling instantly defensive. He was a better cop than Gibbs or Sellers would ever be, and
Charlie knew it. Proust knew it. `I take risks. I know it sometimes gets
out of hand, but ... '

`Simon, those Reg 9s were only Reg 9s because I begged Proust on
bended knees to go easy on you. You can't go round flattening everyone who questions your judgement!'

`You know it wasn't as simple as that!'

`The Snowman was all for throwing you out. I had to lick his arse
until my tongue nearly fell off, and he had to lick a fair few higher-up
arses himself. Which didn't go down at all well.'

This was all news to Simon. He'd lost his temper only with those who
deserved it. `So ... what are you saying?' he asked, feeling like an idiot.
He should know more about this than Charlie. `Why didn't you tell me?'

`I don't know!' she snapped. `I didn't want you to feel everyone had it
in for you, though you seem to feel that way whatever happens. Look, I
hoped I could get you to ... moderate your behaviour. And you've been
a lot better recently, which is why I don't want this Alice Fancourt business to fuck that up. I promised Proust I'd keep you under control, so ...
"So you're going to start trying to control how I feel about people too?' Simon was incensed. Charlie had got him out of trouble and kept it
from him at the same time. He couldn't think of anything more patronising. As if he were a child who couldn't handle the harsh truth.

`Don't be ridiculous. I'm only trying to help, okay? If I was about
to fuck up, I'd want you to advise me not to. That's what friends do.'
There was a tremor in her voice.

Simon saw her hurt expression, panicked at the prospect of tears.
`I'm sorry.' He decided as he said it that perhaps he ought to be, perhaps he was. Charlie could appear thick-skinned, but Simon knew she
often felt wounded and betrayed. As did he. Another thing they had in
common, she'd have said.

She stood up. `I'd better go. I might go to a club,' she said pointedly.

`Thanks for the book. I'll see you tomorrow.'

`Yeah, yeah.'

Once she had gone, Simon sank into a chair, feeling dislocated, as
if he had lost an important part of himself. He needed to think, to
rewrite his life story in accordance with the new information Charlie
had given him. Lies were lethal, however honourable the intentions of
the liar. They deprived people of the opportunity to know the basic
facts of their own lives.

The impulse to flee, to start afresh somewhere far away, returned
with all the allure of a new idea. It would be too easy not to turn up
for work tomorrow. If only he trusted Charlie, anyone, to find Alice.
But without him, the team wouldn't do a thorough enough job, not by
his standards. Not that Simon trusted himself particularly at the
moment. Maybe he wasn't as good at his job as he imagined. Maybe
obedience and placidity counted for more than passion and intelligence
in this shallow, superficial world.

To find out, retrospectively, that most of his superior officers had
been eager to get rid of him made Simon feel as if all his efforts were
in vain. Might as well go and start kicking heads in right now. So what
if the chronology was all wrong? It didn't change how he felt. Tonight
he would sleep badly.

Saturday, September 27, 2003

VIVIENNE AND I are at the police station, in an interview room. It is
one of the most unpleasant spaces I have ever been in, small and airless, about three metres square, with sickly green walls. As we walked
in, our feet stuck to the grey linoleum. We had to peel them off after
every step. The only window has bars on it, and all the chairs are
screwed to the floor. The table in front of us is covered in cigarette
burns. I breathe through my mouth to avoid inhaling the unpleasant
smell, a mixture of urine, cigarettes and sweat.

`What sort of awful place is this?' says Vivienne. `This is a room for
criminals. You'd have thought they'd know from looking at us that we
aren't criminals.'

Vivienne certainly does not look like one. She is wearing a grey wool
suit and grey suede court shoes. Her short silver hair is immaculate and
her nails are trimmed and varnished, colourless as always. Anyone who
didn't know her would not be able to tell that she is in a state of
extreme distress.

Vivienne does not rant and sob and make a fuss. The more despondent she feels, the quieter and more composed she is. She sits and
broods. She stares at the wall, and out of windows, her face revealing
nothing, sinister in its stillness. Even for the benefit of her beloved
Felix, she cannot pretend to be her usual animated self. She holds him
tightly in her arms, as if afraid he too might vanish. I told her this morning that I thought Felix ought to go and stay with friends, but she
said firmly, `Nobody is leaving this house.'

She has always issued orders in this way, like a ruling force, confident of her absolute power. When David first took me home to meet
her, I loved the way she laid down the law about which train I was to
take back to London, what I must eat at the restaurant she took us to.
It seemed to me then that friends offered polite suggestions before
abandoning you to plough through your life alone, carrying the full
weight of responsibility. They didn't try too hard to meddle or force
their views on you because, at some fundamental level, they didn't care.

When Vivienne dogmatically seized control of my life, I thought that
she was treating me as she would a daughter. I mattered to her, a lot,
otherwise why would she have bothered? And she was right about the
train, right about the food. Vivienne is no fool. She made decisions for
me that were better than the ones I would have made for myself.
Within two months of meeting David, I had a more flattering hairstyle
and clothes I loved and looked fantastic in but would never have
dared to choose for myself.

We have arrived at the police station in good time for Vivienne's
appointment. Vivienne explained who we were, and the man behind the
front desk, a middle-aged officer in uniform, ushered us in here and told
us to wait while he went to get the OIC for our case. Neither of us knew
what he meant, whether to expect a person, a document or a committee.

Vivienne is here to give her statement. I begged her to let me come
with her. I find it too upsetting and frightening to be around David. But
I am more nervous than I thought I would be. I have never been
inside a police station before and I am not enjoying the experience. I
feel as if, at any moment, I might be found guilty of something.

The door opens and Simon comes in, followed by a tall, thin woman
with a large bosom that looks as if it would fit better on somebody
more buxom. Her lipstick is bright red and doesn't suit her. She has
short, dark brown hair and is wearing oval-shaped glasses with gold
frames, a red jumper and a black skirt. She glances fleetingly at Vivi enne, then leans against the wall and stares coldly at me. I feel frumpy
in my cream, empire-waisted maternity dress. My stomach is still too
big for normal clothes. The woman has a hard, mean look on her face
and I instantly fear and dislike her. Simon blushes when his eyes meet
mine. I am sure he hasn't told his unfriendly colleague about the
meeting the two of us have arranged for Monday afternoon. When I
suggested that I should come to the police station, he very quickly said
that was impossible. I have not told Vivienne either.

Simon turns to Vivienne. `I'm Detective Constable Waterhouse,' he
says. `This is Detective Sergeant Zailer.'

`Sergeant Zailer and I have met before,' says Vivienne briskly. The
speed with which she moves on tells me that this prior meeting must
have been connected to Laura's murder. `Now that you're here, could
you take us to a nicer room? This one leaves rather a lot to be desired.'

`We don't have any nicer rooms,' says Sergeant Zailer, sitting down
opposite us. There is only one chair on her side of the table, so Simon
has to stand. `We have four interview rooms and they're all like this.
It's a police station, not a hotel.'

Vivienne purses her lips and sits up straighter in her chair.

`DC Waterhouse? Would you care to give the two Mrs Fancourts an
update on the case?' Sergeant Zailer emphasizes this last word
sarcastically.

Simon clears his throat and shifts his weight from one foot to the
other. He seems ill at ease. `No babies have been reported missing yesterday or today, or in the past two weeks,' he says. `Also, we, er, we
had a disappointing response from Culver Valley General Hospital.
They didn't have the, er, placenta or the umbilical cord. They only keep
them for a couple of days. Unfortunately that means we're unable to
do a DNA comparison between the placenta and the baby. . . '