Little Face (37 page)

Thursday, October 10, 2003, 10 AM

`IT ISN'T APRIL the first, is it?' Inspector Giles Proust banged his mug
down and picked up his desk diary, examining it in an exaggerated
manner for Charlie and Simon's benefit.

Charlie noticed that the diary was another one from the foot-andmouth charity Proust's wife worked for. Not cattle, Proust had
explained years ago, but people who painted with their feet and
mouths. `No, sir,' she said now.

`Right. Didn't think it was. So this isn't a bad joke. You really
want me to squander precious funds on a search of The Elms, for the
sake of one handbag.'

`Yes, sir.'

`Did the two of you devise this plan in a sauna? You've spent a lot
of time in such places recently. Waterhouse?'

Simon shifted in his chair. Say something, dickhead. Tell them what
you know.

`What exactly goes on in these health club places, anyway?' asked
Proust.

`Swimming, sir. And there are gyms and exercise classes. Jacuzzis,
saunas, steam rooms. Some have plunge pools.'

`What are they?'

`Pools full of freezing cold water. You go in them after you've come
out of the steam room or the sauna,' Charlie explained.

Proust shook his head. `So you heat yourself up in order to cool
yourself down?'

`It's good for the circulation, apparently.'

`And Jacuzzis-that's sitting around in warm, bubbly water, is it?'

Charlie nodded. `It's very relaxing.'

Proust looked at Simon. `Do you go in for this sort of thing, Waterhouse?'

Charlie was tempted, as usual, to butt in and answer on Simon's
behalf. She stopped herself. He wasn't hers to defend. She must let
Simon speak for himself, just as she would Sellers or Gibbs.

`No, sir,' he replied clearly.

`Good.'

He still hadn't answered Charlie's question, the one she'd asked him
at the health club. She hadn't repeated it. Was she trying to massage the
facts in order to save her ego? She didn't think so. The more she
examined her suspicion, the stronger it grew. It made perfect sense.
Simon had never had a girlfriend, never mentioned past flings or serious relationships. Gibbs and Sellers were always saying he was probably one of those asexual people, like that comedian Stephen Fry, or
was it Morrissey?

He had to be a virgin. He was scared of sex, scared to reveal his
inexperience to anyone. That was why he'd run away, at Sellers' party,
why he couldn't allow himself to become romantically involved with
anybody. The absent Alice Fancourt was ideal for him. Whatever
Simon felt for her, it would have to remain theoretical. If I disappeared
suddenly, maybe he'd fall in love with me, Charlie thought. Then she
remembered another resolution she'd made: don't think about him
when you're supposed to be thinking about work.

`Sir, if we had a search warrant . . . ' she began.

`Sorry, sergeant. I'm not convinced. It could be a coincidence, Beer
sitting in the same warm water as Vivienne Fancourt. Sellers and
Gibbs have been back to speak to him again and he's still saying he
killed Laura Cryer. Why would he say it if he didn't do it?'

`He's scared of more jail time?' said Charlie. `It's not going to go
down well if he admits he perjured himself to get a reduced sentence.
Or he could be scared of what's waiting for him on the Winstanley
estate. Same people who used to protect him'll be out for his blood
now, won't they?'

`Beer seems to have become attached to the idea of Laura Cryer,'
said Simon, playing for time. `He's got a thing about her. When I talked
to him, I got the impression that he imagines there's a sort of ... bond
between them. Maybe to admit he didn't kill her would sever the bond,
in his mind.'

Proust snorted. `Very deep, Waterhouse. Very psychological. Look,
a knife forensics say could well be the one that killed Cryer has just
turned up in a hiding place we know Beer used.' Charlie opened her
mouth to speak. Proust raised a hand to silence her. `Even if you're
right, if David and Vivienne Fancourt killed Cryer and framed Beer, the
chances of a search of The Elms turning up the handbag after all this
time is negligible.'

`Some killers keep souvenirs,' said Charlie. `Especially if the murder
was personal, if their victim meant something to them.'

Proust looked rattled, all of a sudden. `Why do I have to be bothered with this?' he snapped. `Interview Vivienne and David Fancourt,
get them to talk. Why is the option that first occurs to you the one that
involves time and money I can't afford?'

Here we go, thought Simon. Another Proust oratory.

`Do you know how impossible my working life is? Does either of
you have a clue? No. I thought not. Well, let me tell you. I come in at
the beginning of every shift with a list of things to do, carried over from
the previous day. The trouble is, before I have a chance to start doing
any of them, more things appear out of nowhere-paperwork, idiots
causing problems for no reason, people needing to see me and talk
to me.' He winced, evidently of the view that both these needs were
staggering in their depravity. `That's what it means to be a detective
inspector. It's like standing in front of a burst dam and being pushed backwards. Every day I go home with a longer list than the one I
came in with. At least I can now put a line through one item: Mandy
Buckley.'

Charlie looked up expectantly.

`We'll wait a while and hope she reappears. Sorry, sergeant. I consulted a few people, and the consensus was that we couldn't justify any
expense in that direction. It's not as if we've got any reason to suspect
her of anything.'

Charlie couldn't bring herself to agree. I'm becoming as hunchdriven as Simon, she thought ruefully.

Simon cleared his throat and leaned forward. `Sir, Charlie, there's
something I haven't told you.'

The Snowman groaned. `My heart's sinking fast, Waterhouse. What
is it? As for your not having told us, let's save our discussion of that for
the disciplinary proceedings. Well?'

Simon could feel Charlie's anxious stare burning into him. `Felix
Fancourt's school, Stanley Sidgwick. Alice told me Vivienne put Florence's name down before she was even born. You have to, apparently,
it's so over-subscribed. There's a years-long waiting list, for the boys'
grammar and the ladies' college.'

`And?' Proust demanded. `This is CID, not Offsted. What's your
point?'

`When I spoke to Laura's parents, her dad told me that straight after
her death, Vivienne took Felix out of the nursery he was at and started
him at Stanley Sidgwick. But how could she have, if his name wasn't
down already? They wouldn't have had a free place. And if his name
was down already . . . well, how did Vivienne Fancourt know it
would be up to her to decide which school to send Felix to?'

`Fuck!' Charlie muttered. Simon's brain never ceased to amaze her.
He missed nothing.

`I figured she must have put his name down, and I wondered how
long ago. Maybe she'd been planning Laura's murder for years. On the
other hand, I thought, maybe she reserved his place before he was born, like she did for Florence, in the hope that Laura would see
sense and send him there. But then, if Felix hadn't taken up his place
when he reached the appropriate age, the school would have allocated
it to someone else.'

`They'd have had to,' said Charlie.

Proust ran his index finger around the rim of his mug, saying
nothing.

`I phoned Stanley Sidgwick Grammar this morning,' said Simon.
`Vivienne did register Felix before he was born. He was due to start in
the lower kindergarten year at the beginning of September 1999,
when he was two. They start in the year they turn three.'

`That's far too young,' Proust snapped. `My children were at home
until they were almost five.'

I bet you weren't, though, thought Charlie. Lizzie, Proust's wife, will
have been the one stuck at home scraping the squashed Weetabix off
the carpet.

Simon ignored the interruption. `Felix didn't start at Stanley Sidgwick in September 1999. Laura was still alive and had no intention of
sending him there. But his place wasn't given to anyone else, despite the
long waiting list.'

`What?' Proust frowned.

`Why not?' asked Charlie.

`Because Vivienne Fancourt paid the fees from September 1999, just
as if Felix were attending the school. Her argument, apparently, was
that if she was willing to pay, they had to keep Felix's place open. And
in November 1999, she told the school admissions secretary, Sally
Hunt, that Felix would start, definitely, in January 2001, at the beginning of the spring term. Laura was murdered in December 2000.'
Simon exhaled slowly. That was enough for them to be getting on with.
They would think he'd told them everything.

`Fuck!' Charlie shook her head. `She knew, over a year before, that
she was going to kill Laura, and she knew when. Why did she wait so
long?'

Simon shrugged. `Maybe it's not so long, when you're planning a
murder. She'd never killed before, she'd have had to get mentally prepared. Also . . . maybe there was some pleasurable anticipation
involved. Whenever she saw Laura, during those tense access visits
when Laura appeared to have all the power, Vivienne could gloat
secretly.'

Proust slapped his palms down on the desk. `As I said before: interview Vivienne Fancourt. Get her to talk. With everything we've got, we
can make her hand over Cryer's handbag, if she's got it. She'll probably confess within minutes.'

`I don't think so,' said Charlie. `You've not met her.' He never met
anyone. She sometimes thought that all The Snowman knew of the
world was what she and Lizzie, his agents in the field, told him. 'Vivienne Fancourt isn't scared of me and Simon.' She turned to Simon for
support. `Is she?' He shrugged. They hadn't yet accused her of murder,
he was thinking, or of framing an innocent man. `Oh, come on, you
know what she's like. She thinks we're a pair of stupid kids,' said
Charlie.

You know what she's like. Where had Simon heard that phrase, or
something similar? It had seemed odd to him at the time, he remembered, but he couldn't recall the speaker, the subject or the context. He
frowned, trying to retrieve the memory.

Charlie tapped her knees impatiently. `Sir, it occurs to me ...

'Does this involve towels?'

`No.I

`I'm glad to hear it.'

`Sir, you're about Vivienne Fancourt's age. You're a senior officer.
She thinks she can handle Simon and me, and we're much younger
than she is. But if you came along ... No offence, sir, but you can be
pretty bloody scary when you want to be.'

`Me?' Proust was aghast. He gripped the edge of his desk with
both hands. `You're not suggesting that I talk to her?'

`I think it's a brilliant idea.' Charlie leaned forward in her chair. `You could do your dry ice act, it'd really put the wind up her. Sir, you're the
only one of the three of us who stands a chance of getting a confession
out of her. Your persuasive powers are impossible to resist.'

Proust only noticed and disapproved of flattery when it was directed
at people other than himself. `Well, I'm not sure ... and I'm also not
sure what you mean by "my dry ice act".'

`Please, sir. It might really make a difference. Vivienne Fancourt's
used to me by now. If the three of us go . . . ' Charlie stopped. A few
days ago, she'd have been too proud and stubborn to ask for Proust's
help. She was irritated, briefly, by the thought that she might be
becoming more mature. Why should she become a better person when
no-one else ever did? Simon didn't. Proust certainly didn't.

`The two of you,' said Simon. `I won't be coming.' There was somewhere else he needed to go. You know what Alice is like. Except that,
for the first time since he'd seen her at the top of the stairs, Simon
wasn't at all sure he did.

Friday, October 3, 2003

I TIPTOE INTO the nursery, leaving the door slightly ajar. David has not
woken up, neither has Vivienne. Nobody has heard me. Yet. I must be
quick, as quick as I can be without making any stupid mistakes. The
painted eyes of the wooden rocking horse watch me as I cross the
room. I approach the cot nervously, half expecting to find Little Face
gone, to see nothing but bedding and cuddly toys when I look down.
Another of David's cruel jokes.

Thankfully, she is there, where she should be. Her cheeks look
warm in the glow of her Winnie-the-Pooh night light. I can tell from
her breathing that she is deeply asleep. Now is as good a time as any.
And it has to be now.

I pull the Moses basket out from beneath the cot. It already has a
sheet and blanket in it. Apart from this I am taking nothing-no
clothes, no accessories, not even a bottle of formula milk. I do not want
my departure to look planned. All the books I read when I was pregnant said that leaving the house with a small baby feels like a major
expedition, because of the amount of luggage you have to take with
you. This is not necessarily true, not if one is adequately prepared, and
I am. Everything Little Face and I need will be waiting for us in
Combingham.