Little Face (22 page)

David is knocked over by waves of emotion that he can't deal with,
and lashes out in response. I can see now that even his withdrawal into
himself after Laura died was a lashing-out of sorts. `I don't want to talk
about David,' I tell Simon.

He pats my arm again. The first time, I was grateful for the gesture.
This time it is nowhere near enough. I need proper help.

`Charlie ... Sergeant Zailer told me what happened to his first wife.'

His comment surprises me so much, I spill a bit of my glass of water.

`What's wrong? I'm sorry if I ... '

`No. No, it's okay. I just wasn't expecting you to mention it. I ...
please, can we change the subject?'

`Are you okay?'

`I feel a bit faint.' He has caught me off guard. I will not talk about
Laura's death, not without time to prepare, to consider what I want to
say. I have no doubt that anything I say to Simon will be relayed to
Sergeant Zailer. It was a murder case, after all. And Sergeant Zailer
does not have my best interests at heart, of that I am convinced.

`Do you want more water? Would some fresh air help? I hope I
haven't been too blunt.'

`No, I'm fine now. Really. I should go.'

His mobile phone rings. As he pulls it out of his pocket, I wonder
why mine hasn't rung. It is odd that Vivienne has not phoned to
check I am all right. I was in such a state before I left. While Simon
talks to someone who, it appears from the conversation, is putting
pressure on him to see them next Sunday, I reach into my handbag to
find my phone, check I haven't missed any calls.

It isn't there. I turn the bag upside down, empty its contents on to
the table, my heartbeat crashing in my chest. I'm right. My phone is gone. It has been taken. Confiscated. I stand up, start to push all the
other things back into the bag. I drop my keys on the floor several
times, which makes me cry harder. Tears blur my vision until I can't see
anything. I fall back into my chair. Simon mutters into his phone that
he had better go. `Here, let me help,' he says. He begins to pack my
things away. I am too upset to thank him. All over the restaurant,
people are staring at us.

`My phone was in my bag this morning. David's taken it!'

`Maybe you left it ... '

`No! I didn't leave it anywhere! What's it going to take for you to
help me? What has to happen to me? Are you going to wait till I get
killed, like Laura?' I pick up my bag and run for the door, colliding
with several tables on my way out. Eventually, I make it out on to the
street. I don't stop running. I have no idea where I am going.

Monday, October 6, 2003, 9.05 AM

SIMON HAD A PROBLEM with Colin Sellers. It was well-known among
the Ds that Sellers, despite being married to Stacey and having two
young kids, had been having an affair with a woman called Suki for
three years. It was a stage name. Her real name was Suzannah Kitson.
Sellers seemed intent on sharing every detail about his mistress with his
colleagues, which is how Simon knew that Suki was a singer, in local
restaurants, sometimes on cruise ships. She was only twenty-three
and still lived with her parents. Sellers was always in a bad mood when
she was cruising, as he called it.

Simon knew nothing about what it would feel like to be married, to
go to bed and wake up with the same person day after day, year after
year. Perhaps one would get bored. He could see that falling in love
with somebody else might be a hazard. Harder to endure was the way
Sellers boasted about what he did with Suki to anyone who would listen. `Not a word to the dragon,' he'd say at the end of each lewd anecdote, knowing that his colleagues sometimes met his wife at parties.

Perhaps he didn't care if Stacey found out. Simon saw no evidence
of love, guilt, anguish-any deep emotion at all. Once he had asked
Charlie, `Do you think Sellers is in love with his mistress?'

She'd hooted with laughter. `His mistress? What century are you
living in?'

`What would you call her?'

`I don't know. His bit on the side? His sexual associate? No, I don't
think he loves her. I think he fancies her, and she's a singer, so a bit
glam, and Sellers is just the sort to need a trophy girlfriend. I bet he's
got a tiny knob. And whatever any woman tells you, size does matter!'

As he listened to Sellers telling Proust about the work he and Chris
Gibbs had done so far on the Alice and Florence Fancourt case, Simon
tried not to wonder about the size of the man's penis. Surely if Charlie was right, Sellers would not have had the nerve to talk about his
organ to the extent that he did. `I've just had a visit from Captain
Hardon' he would say, whenever an attractive woman crossed his path.

This morning he was on his best behaviour, under Proust's meticulous
eye. The inspector listened attentively, taking the occasional sip from his
`World's Greatest Grandad' mug. Sellers spoke in the sober tone of a man
who had taken a vow of chastity and joined the temperance society. The
Snowman effect: more powerful than a hundred cold showers.

`The CCTV footage has given us nothing. Same with the search of
The Elms. We've been through Alice Fancourt's address book, mostly
old friends from London. We've spoken to all of them and none of
them could tell us a thing. Nothing from her mobile phone, either, or
the home computer, or her computer at work. No leads at all. And so
far no luck with finding David Fancourt's father, but we're working on
it. He can't have just disappeared.'

Proust blinked and frowned as Sellers raced through his report. The
inspector distrusted people who spoke too quickly. Because Sellers'
speech wasn't slow and deliberate, Proust feared his work was slapdash. In fact, Sellers was a reasonably thorough if not particularly
dynamic detective. He just didn't have the patience to describe every
painstaking step he took in an investigation, preferring instead to
offer his conclusions. Simon knew that Charlie often had to show
Proust Sellers' pocket book, to prove that no corners had been cut.

Simon tried hard to concentrate on the team meeting, on Proust's stern
face, on the sickly colours of the walls and carpet in the CID room, on
his own shoes-on anything apart from the large photograph of Alice that was pinned to the board in front of him. It was no use. Even when
he wasn't looking at the photograph he could see it in his mind. Alice's
hair was up in a ponytail and she was laughing at the camera, her head
tilted slightly to one side. Simon thought she was an object of great
beauty. Well, not an object, not in that way. And it wasn't her looks, not
really. It was the way her character shone out of her eyes. Her soul.

He blushed, shamed by his thoughts. Sometimes he felt as if he were
carrying Alice's consciousness around with him. He was afraid that if
she reappeared, he'd discover he was wrong about so much. He feared
he was getting too used to her being absent, making absence part of her
character, in his mind. It was fucked up, he knew. He had to find her,
before it got worse. Him; nobody else. If Sellers managed to track her
down, if a lead coming from an interview conducted by Gibbs turned
out to be the decisive one, Simon didn't know if he would be able to
handle it. He had to be the one.

`DC Waterhouse?' Proust's chiselled tone interrupted his thoughts.
`Anything to add?'

Simon told the rest of the team about his interviews at the Spilling
Centre for Alternative Medicine. `So, nothing there either,' Charlie
summarised, when he'd finished. There was red lipstick on her teeth.

`Well . . . ' Simon wouldn't have said that. Or was he so desperate
to be Alice's knight in shining armour that he was seeing potential leads
where there were none?

`Well what, Waterhouse?' Proust enquired.

`One thing struck me as odd, sir. Briony Morris-the emotional freedom therapist-she seemed really worried about Florence, but less
worried about Alice. That doesn't make sense. She's never met Florence, but Alice has been her friend for a while.'

`Maybe she's one of those stupid twats who goes all gooey over a
baby,' Sellers suggested, nodding sagely. `Plenty of those about. She'd
probably care even more if a fluffy kitten went missing.'

Simon shook his head. `I don't think so. It was strange. I got the
impression she'd worried about Alice more before she disappeared.'

`She's a woman,' said Chris Gibbs. `They're all sodding obsessed
with babies.' Charlie's eyes, narrow with disgust, blazed in his direction.
`I don't care if that sounds sexist, Sarge. Some generalisations are true.'

`What's your point, Waterhouse?' asked Proust. `If not that Ms Morris is, as Sellers theorised, overly sentimental and prone to hysteria
where babies are concerned?' He glanced pointedly at Sellers, who
acknowledged the inspector's wider and more elegant vocabulary by
lowering his eyes.

`I'm not sure yet,' said Simon. `I'm still thinking about it.'

`Well, I'm sorry for interrupting a great mind at work,' Proust said
pointedly. There was an alarming gap between one word and the
next. Simon refused to be intimidated. `Do let us know the results of
this thought process, won't you?'

`Yes, sir.'

`I've got a theory,' said Charlie. `Briony Morris knows Alice Fancourt
pretty well, knows she's an alternative quack who's been on Prozac for
depression and who's had us running round in circles because she
invented some mad yarn about her baby not being her baby. . . '

`Briony Morris didn't know anything about that,' Simon reminded
her, irritated to have to tell Charlie what she already knew. Was he the
only person with a mechanism in his brain that ensured a certain
amount of continuity? `And she's an even more alternative quack.'

`She's worked with Alice for over a year,' Charlie shot back. `And,
quite frankly, sir, you only have to meet the woman once to know she's
a flake...'

`A flake,' Proust repeated slowly.

`Mad, unreliable, whatever. The point is, anyone who knows Alice
Fancourt is going to come to the same conclusion I have ... '

`Sergeant Zailer, might I remind you that you have not yet come to
any conclusion,' said Proust quietly. `The investigation is ongoing.' The
atmosphere in the room seized up. Everyone's normal behaviour
became, in an instant, very deliberate.

`Of course, sir. I just mean that, well, that'd explain why Briony Morris would be more worried about Florence. Because she thinks it's
most likely that Alice has taken her, and Alice is an unstable freaknot fit to look after a goldfish, let alone a baby!'

Proust turned to face her. `I see. So we're ruling out the possibility
that Alice Fancourt was abducted, along with her daughter, by a third
party, are we? Sergeant, we're talking about a woman who vanished
in the middle of the night, taking none of her belongings with her. Not
so much as a ten pound note, not so much as a shoe. What do your
conclusions have to say about that?' Every member of the team took
this opportunity to inspect his or her shoes. Time to take cover.

`Answer came there none!' bellowed The Snowman. `There was no
break-in, no one heard any noise. So what I'd like to know is this: why
is more attention not being paid to David Fancourt as a suspect? A
prime suspect. Why isn't his name up on that board with a circle round
it and a big number one next to it? And beneath that, a number two
and the name Vivienne Fancourt. It's standard procedure, common
sense. If there's no break-in, you look first at the family. I shouldn't
have to tell you that, sergeant.'

`Sir, when I interviewed him, my impression was that David Fancourt is genuinely baffled ... ' Charlie began nervously.

`I don't care how baffled he is! This is a man whose first wife was
murdered, whose second wife last week accused him of lying about the
identity of their baby and this week disappeared with that baby. There
are so many suspicious circumstances surrounding Fancourt, it would
be the utmost negligence not to investigate him from every angle.'

Simon looked up, surprised. He'd made the same point on Friday
and Proust had rubbished it. Another one whose mental continuity
apparatus had broken down, it seemed. The nerve of the man, plagiarising ideas with no mention of where he'd got them from. Thanks
a fucking lot.

`Yes, sir,' said Charlie.

`So get on to it!'

`Yes, sir. I will.'

`Sir.' Simon cleared his throat. `I was wondering, in the light of what
you've just said ... ' In the light of your having stolen my theory and
passed it off as your own, you complacent bald shit ...

`What?'

`Shouldn't we look at the Laura Cryer case again? You know, go
over the files, the statements, interview Darryl Beer?'

`I don't believe this!' Charlie muttered. Her eyes shone with indignation. `Beer confessed. David Fancourt was in bloody London on the
night his wife was killed. Sir, think about it. Fancourt left Cryer.' She
flicked through her notebook in search of facts to support her argument. `She was too controlling, he said. She wanted to make all the
decisions about the baby even before it was born, wouldn't let Fancourt have a say in the name or anything. She was bossy and dominating, tried to stifle him completely, by the sound of it. He hung on
for as long as he could, mainly because he was embarrassed to separate so soon after the marriage, but eventually he couldn't take it any
more. He was thoroughly sick of Cryer by the time they split up. He
found her, and I quote, "physically repellent and tedious", but he didn't hate her. He was just relieved to be rid of her. I doubt he'd have felt
passionate enough to stab her with a kitchen knife. He'd found a new
woman, Alice, with whom he was happy. Things were going well for
him, finally. He didn't have to pay Cryer any maintenance. She earned
a stack, much more than him. Why would he kill her?'