Little Face (29 page)

`Don't you want tea?' she asked him.

`I'm fine, thanks.'

`You forgot the milk, love,' said her husband.

`Really, I'm all right,' Simon insisted. `Don't go to any trouble.'

`I wouldn't mind a spot of milk,' said Cryer.

`It's no trouble.' Maggie leapt up and scurried out of the room.

Once she had gone, her husband leaned forward. `Just between you,
me and the gatepost,' he said to Simon. `I can't talk about this in front
of the wife, she gets upset. It's David Fancourt you want to be looking
at. First Laura gets killed and now his second wife and new baby are
missing. It's too much of a coincidence, isn't it? And why would Darryl Beer kill our Laura? Why? She'd have just given him her bloody
handbag if he'd attacked her, she wouldn't have let it get that far. She's
a sensible girl.'

`Did you say any of this to the police at the time?'

`The wife wouldn't let me. She said we could get in trouble, you
know, legally, if we said things that weren't true. But nine times out of
ten, it's someone known to the victim. Nine times out of ten-I heard
an expert say that on television.'

`Why would David Fancourt have wanted to kill Laura?' asked
Simon, hoping to hear his own theory repeated back to him.

Roger Cryer stared at him quizzically, as if that question raised
several more fundamental ones. Questions about the competence of
Culver Valley CID, thought Simon bitterly. Yes, of course the answer
was obvious-to everyone but Proust, Charlie, Sellers, Gibbs and
the rest.

`Custody of Felix,' said Roger Cryer. `And revenge, for the hurt she'd caused him. Laura left him. He didn't take it very well. I think he went
to pieces a bit.'

Simon wrote this down in his notebook. Not quite the version of
events Vivienne and David Fancourt had given Charlie. What had
she said at the team meeting? He found her physically repellent and
tedious. He was relieved to be rid of her. That was it, word for
word. Simon's memory was more reliable than Roger Cryer or
David Fancourt. A discrepancy, then. `How do you know he went
to pieces?'

`Vivienne Fancourt told us, David's mother. She did everything she
could to persuade Laura to give the marriage another go. She even
came round here to talk to us, see if we could persuade her. She and
Laura didn't like each other, never had. Why would she be so keen to
persuade Laura to try again, unless it was for David's sake? She saw
how devastated he was and, like any mother, she did what she could
to help him. It didn't work, though. Laura's always known her own
mind. Once's she's decided, there's nothing anyone can do.'

`Here we are.' Maggie Cryer returned with a small blue jug. She
began to pour the tea, three cups, even though Simon had declined.

Her husband looked as if he was fighting the urge to say more. It
wasn't long before he lost the fight. `Revenge.' He nodded. `David's
that way inclined. There was a problem about Maggie and me seeing
Felix, after Laura died,' he said.

`Oh, Roger, stop, please. What good will it do?'

`Do you know when we last saw Felix? Two years ago. We don't
bother any more. We pretend we haven't got a grandson. Felix is our
only one, too. But in the end it was tearing us apart. Everything
changed after Laura died, overnight. Literally, overnight. They changed
his name from Felix Cryer to Felix Fancourt, took him out of the nursery he loved, where he was really happy, really settled, and plonked
him in that bloody ridiculous toffee-nosed grammar school. It was as
if David and Vivienne were trying to turn Felix into another person!
We were only allowed to see him once every few months, for a couple of hours at a time. And we weren't allowed to see him on our own.
Vivienne was always with him, chaperoning. Feeling sorry for us.' His
face grew redder as he spoke. His wife had closed her eyes and was
waiting for him to finish. Her stiff posture suggested that she was bracing herself against his words.

Simon grew more and more puzzled as he listened. According to
Charlie, Vivienne Fancourt had made this very complaint about Laura
Cryer, that she had tried to keep Felix away from David's side of the
family, that she had not allowed them to see him unsupervised. Was it
possible that David had done the same to Laura's parents after his
wife's death? Did he see it as a battle between the Cryers and the Fancourts, with Felix as the prize?

`We tried talking to David, even tried begging him,' Roger Cryer
went on. `But he's made of stone, that man. Whatever we asked for, he
said no. He wouldn't say why.'

`You said Vivienne Fancourt appeared to feel sorry for you,' said
Simon. `What did you mean?'

Maggie Cryer shook her head, as if to speak on this subject were
beyond her.

`She knew we wanted to see more of Felix, that David wouldn't let
us,' said Roger. `It was obvious she pitied us. She kept saying how hard
it must be for us, and it was, but her saying that only made it harder.
Especially when she couldn't stop talking about all the things she and
Felix did together.'

`That was why I gave up,' Maggie whispered. Her hands shook.
Simon noticed that the backs of them were covered in brown spots.
`Because seeing Felix meant seeing her and. . . ' She shuddered. `I used
to be ill, sometimes for days afterwards. The last straw was when she
told me Felix had started to call her Mum. I just couldn't do it any
more after that.'

`She was bloody insensitive about it too,' said Roger Cryer, patting
his wife's skinny arm. `Almost in the same breath, she told us she'd had
to remind Felix who we were that morning. He'd forgotten, he hadn't seen us in so long. She realised how bad it sounded and apologised,
but, I mean, there was no need for her to tell us that, was there?'

Simon was surprised when Maggie Cryer tutted and pushed her husband's hand away as if it were a spider that had crawled into her lap.
'Roger's a terrible judge of character when it comes to women,' she
said. `Insensitive! She said that deliberately. And all the other things.
She didn't feel sorry for us at all.'

`What are you talking about?' Her husband looked mystified. `She
damn well did. She said so all the time.'

`Because she knew it was the best way to hurt us. And we could
never prove she was being deliberately nasty.'

`But you think she was?' Simon was confused.

`Of course. If you say something hurtful by mistake, you make sure
never to do it again, don't you? You don't keep saying the same thing,
to the same person, or people. When a clever lady like Vivienne Fancourt makes hurtful remarks again and again, she means them, all
right.' Simon looked at Maggie Cryer's hands. They were clenched,
two tiny knots of fist in her lap.

Wednesday, October 1, 2003

THE BATH IS SPOTLESS. Nobody would ever know. Nobody will ever
know. Satisfied that I cannot make the tub shine any brighter, I have
a shower, scrubbing every inch of my body, wondering if I will ever feel
clean again.

I wrap two large bath-sheets around myself and hurry to the bedroom. My wardrobe is unlocked and the key is in the door. I choose
an outfit: baggy trousers and a jumper. These will fit me properly. I
hate myself for the pathetic gratitude I feel. Most people take for
granted that they will be able to choose their own clothes. There is
nothing to stop me walking out of the front door of The Elms and
never coming back. Nothing except David's threat: I could take steps
to ensure that you never see Florence again.

The phone rings, making me jump. I am certain it is Vivienne, ringing to check up on me. I wonder if I should answer it, until I hear
David's voice downstairs. At first he speaks too quietly for me to hear
anything. When he raises his voice, I can hear that he sounds cross, far
more interested in communicating his own opinion than trying to
gauge the opinion of whoever he is talking to. It can't be Vivienne.

I hear him say, `Exactly, to teenage boys, and I guarantee, they'll love
it. No. No, because that's not the way we'd market it. No, I can't on
Friday. Because I can't, all right? Well, what's wrong with talking
about it right now?' Russell. David's business partner.

I have an opportunity. The thought paralyses me. David will be on
the phone for at least fifteen minutes. His conversations with Russell
are never short, particularly when there is a point of contention. He has
never told me what they argue about.

I tiptoe to Vivienne's bedroom and push open the door. The bed is
made, as always. There is not a crease on the lilac-coloured duvet. Four
photographs of Felix stand on the dressing table, two of him with Vivienne. The room smells of the cream she puts on her face every night.
I see her white embroidered Chinese pump-style slippers under the bed,
laid out neatly one beside the other, exactly as they would be if she
were standing in them. I shudder, half expecting them to start moving
towards me.

My phone. That's what I came in here for. I drag myself out of my
superstitious reverie, walk over to the bedside cabinet and pull open
the single drawer. There it is, exactly where I knew it would be.
Switched off. If I am insane, as everyone seems to think I am, how did
I know that it would be here? Vivienne said it was in the kitchen.

I turn it on and phone Simon Waterhouse on his mobile. He wrote
down the number for me last time we met, reluctant to have me ring
him at the police station. I tore up the piece of paper, but I memorised
the number. I leave a whispered message for him, saying that he has to
meet me again tomorrow, at Chompers, that I need to speak to him
urgently. This time our conversation will go well, I tell myself. He will
come away from our meeting believing me; we'll be allies, and he will
help me. He'll do whatever I ask him to.

I go back out on to the landing and hover for a few seconds, to
check that David is still talking to Russell. He is. I can't make out his
words any more-he is speaking too quietly-but his voice has the
back-and-forth tone I hoped it would. I am as sure as I can be that the
conversation is not nearing its conclusion.

I know I ought to put my phone back in Vivienne's cabinet drawer
in order to avoid arousing suspicion, but I cannot bring myself to. I
need to hold on to it. It is a symbol of my independence. Let Vivienne think that sneaking into her room and stealing it is another symptom
of my madness, my illness.

I rack my brains for somewhere I can hide the phone. If I put it back
in my handbag, Vivienne will take it out, as I am certain she has once
already. There is only one room in the house that Vivienne never goes
into: David's study. Nobody goes in there except David, and even he
hasn't set foot in it since Florence was born. Vivienne's cleaners, who
come for a full day once a week, are strictly banned. As a result, the
study is much dustier and messier than the rest of the house. It is full
of David's computers, music systems, CD racks offering nothing but
classical music and the complete works of Adam and the Ants, his collection of science-fiction novels-row upon row of spines, each one
displaying a strange, off-putting title-and several filing cabinets.

After looking around, I decide that behind one of these would
probably be the safest hiding place. I am about to investigate this possibility when my eyes come to rest on David's computer. Another
means of communication with the outside world, the normal world
beyond The Elms.

I lower myself into the swivel chair and turn on the machine, hoping that its faint buzz is not audible. I tell myself I will only have to be
nervous for a few moments; if David has heard anything he will be up
here in seconds. My heart pounds as I sit and wait. Nothing happens.
I hear David's voice through the floor, angry again, still in the middle
of his argument with Russell. I exhale slowly. Safe. This time.

On the computer screen, a small box tells me that, in order to log
on, I need to enter a password. I swear under my breath. I had
assumed David's computer would be like mine at work, with the
password stored in the memory, the logging-on process automatic.

I type in `Felix', but a sign flashes up to inform me that I am incorrect. I try `Alice' and `Florence', but these too are rejected. A shiver of
dread makes my skin prickle as I type in `Vivienne'. This is also unsuccessful. Thank God for that, at least.

Perhaps men are less likely than women to choose the name of a loved one, I think. But what else might mean something to David? He
doesn't support a football team. It occurs to me that he might have
been clever and chosen a word that no-one would ever associate with
him, something totally random: tombola, candelabra. Or the name of
a place, perhaps. I try `Spilling' with no success.

I close my eyes, thinking furiously. What else, what else? I wonder
why I am even bothering. There are billions of words, any of which
could be the one David has chosen to use as his password. Even if I
had time to eliminate all the things he definitely wouldn't have chosen ... I almost laugh at my next, ludicrous idea. It is worth a try, I
suppose. After all, I now know that my husband has an appetite for
sick jokes.