Little Face (39 page)

Charlie clamped her jaw shut. Why did she always end up feeling
like a naughty schoolgirl whenever she spoke to this woman? And she
could do without the look Proust was giving her, the one that told her
how spectacularly he thought she'd fucked up. `What now, sergeant?'
he said.

It was a bloody good question.

Friday, October 10, 2003

THE DOORBELL RINGS. Little Face and I are in the kitchen. It is the
room in which we are least likely to be seen. There is a door with a
frosted glass panel and only one window which is on the side of the
house, facing a path, a fence and some trees. I am sitting in an armchair, facing away from the window.

My appearance has changed considerably since I left The Elms. My
hair is not long and blonde any more, it is dark brown and short. I now
wear glasses I don't need and the sort of obtrusive make-up I haven't
worn since I was a teenager. I look a little like Simon's heartless sergeant. It is probably an unnecessary precaution, but it makes me feel
safer. There is always a chance that a window-cleaner or passer-by
might catch a glimpse of me. By now my picture has been all over the
news for days.

Little Face sits in a bouncy chair beside me, asleep. The sound of the
bell, so loud and significant to me, doesn't disturb her. She doesn't stir.

Automatically, I get up and close the door between the kitchen
and the hall. I listen as footsteps descend the stairs. This routine has
been practised many times. We call it our `fire drill'.

So far, the visitors to the house have been easy to process and send
on their way. On Monday, somebody came to read the gas meter. Yesterday the postman delivered a parcel that needed to be signed for. If Little Face and I are in the house alone, I do not answer the door,
and, since nobody knows I am here, no-one expects me to. The
redecoration ruse has succeeded, so far, in keeping friends and family away.

I press my ear against the door and listen.

`Detective Constable Waterhouse. This is a surprise.'

`Can I come in?'

`Looks like you just have. Don't mind me, will you?'

Simon is here. At the front door, just as he was exactly a fortnight
ago, except this is a different house. I am not as frightened as I thought
I might be. Of course, I have imagined this situation, exactly as it is
happening now, many times. I knew he would find me eventually.
When a mother goes missing with a tiny baby, people are interviewed
more than once. It is appropriate procedure, no more and no less. I will
not panic until I have to. Simon cannot come into the kitchen, not
unless he has a search warrant.

I wonder how much time I have left, how long before I will have to
leave by the back door and make my way, with Little Face, to the car,
which is parked on the next street. The agreed emergency procedure.

I don't want to leave. This house feels more welcoming than The
Elms has for a long time. Little Face and I have a bedroom at the back
which is not overlooked. The walls are a pale yellow, with jagged white
patches here and there where the paint has come off. I suspect it used
to be a teenager's bedroom and the white marks on the walls are where
posters of favourite bands were torn down before the house's previous
owners moved out. The carpet is dark green, and there is a burn
mark in one corner, near the window-an illicit cigarette dropped by
mistake.

Despite these traces of a previous tenant, I already think of the room
as belonging to me and Little Face. It is packed full of everything we
need. Bottles, clothes, blankets, nappies, muslin squares, boxes of
formula milk, both the powder and the ready-made variety, a steam
steriliser, a travel cot-everything on my list was here when we arrived. We don't have much space, certainly not compared with our extravagant accommodation at The Elms, but it's warm and homely. A kind,
innocent air pervades the whole house.

I think I was always aware, deep down, that The Elms had a dark,
stultifying atmosphere, long before I was personally unhappy there.
Perhaps I sensed the presence of unspeakable things, or perhaps it is
merely hindsight, but I feel as if I must always have known that it was
a house with an ulterior motive. I remember vividly the conversation
David and I had when he suggested that we move in to his childhood
home, his mother's childhood home. We were in the conservatory.
Vivienne had left us alone while she made coffee.

I laughed at first. `Don't be silly. We can't live with your mum.'

`Silly?' I heard an edge in his voice and saw a look in his eyes that
alarmed me, as if in that instant the David I knew and loved had vanished and been replaced by an entirely different person. I wanted that
person to go away, and for David to come back, so I quickly backtracked, pretended that he had misunderstood me.

`I just meant, surely she wouldn't want us here. Would she?'

`Of course,' said David. `She'd love to have us. She's said so lots of
times.'

`Oh. Oh, well . . . great!' I said, as enthusiastically as I could.
David beamed at me, and I was so happy and relieved that I told myself
it didn't matter where we lived, as long as we were together. I never
again suggested that anything David said was silly. It's funny, I've never
thought about this incident until now. Were there other warning signs
that I ignored, ones that will come back to me over time, in flashes of
horror?

`Not at work today?'

`I never am, on a Friday.'

The words grow fainter. I tiptoe over to the radio and turn it off.

`So. How can I help you?'

`Don't talk to me as if I'm a fucking idiot. If you'd wanted to help
me you could have done so a while ago. Couldn't you?'

My legs go weak, as if my bones have suddenly dissolved. I wrap my
arms around myself to stop my body from shaking.

`What? Are you accusing me of withholding some information?
What exactly am I supposed to know?'

`Spare me the bullshit. No wonder you didn't seem all that worried
about Alice, when I told you she was missing. You know damn well
where she is. I should have known last Saturday, as soon as you said,
"You know what Alice is like." Fucked up there, didn't you? You had no
way of knowing I'd ever met her, unless you'd seen her since last week.
You were also the first person who mentioned Vivienne Fancourt to me
in a negative context. Very keen to get that point across, weren't you?'

`Vivienne? What's she got to do with this?'

`You know the answer to that as well as I do. Has it occurred to you
that we might both be on the same side?'

I should be on my way out of the door with Little Face. I have heard
enough to convince me that Simon knows if not everything then at
least enough. Any minute now he might ask to look round the house.
I can't understand why I am not sticking to the agreed policy. Just
because Simon says that we are all on the same side does not make it
true. Haven't I learned, even now, that words can be used to create illusions, to set traps?

`What do you mean?'

`You want to protect Alice from Vivienne. So do I. And Florence.
You didn't seem worried about Alice on Saturday, but you were certainly worried about Florence, weren't you? Because when Alice ran
away, she came here. She told you Florence was missing, that someone
had taken her and left another baby in her place. She probably also
told you the police didn't believe her, weren't making any attempt to
find her daughter. Did Alice bring the other baby with her, when she
came here?'

`I don't know what you're talking about.'

`Yeah, you do. Why do you think she brought her, this baby who
wasn't her daughter? Why didn't she leave her at The Elms?'

`You're barking up the wrong tree.'

`Because she was scared of what David or Vivienne would do to her?
Would either of them harm a defenceless baby? I don't think so. Do
you? Or perhaps it was because, once that baby was missing, we'd
have to look for Florence. Why do you think it was?'

There is silence. She doesn't know. Neither does Simon. I am the
only person who knows the answer to that question. I am taut, rigid
with apprehension, barely able to believe this conversation is taking
place.

`Where are Alice and the baby?'

`I've no idea.'

`I'll be back with a search warrant. Sure, they can sneak off in the
meantime, but where will they go? It's been all over the news, this case.
Everyone's on the lookout for a woman with a young baby.'

He is right. It has also been suggested on the news that my appearance might have changed.

`Stubborn, aren't you? Look, I'm pissed off that you lied to me, but
like I said, we're on the same side. So here's what I'm going to do. I'll
tell you what I know, even though by doing so I'll be risking my job.'

Oh, thank you, thank you!

`Not for the first time, I suspect.'

`What the fuck's that supposed to mean?'

`I can imagine you always thinking you know best, no matter what
anyone else says.'

`Yeah, well. What everyone else says is overrated.'

`So you're going to tell me what you know? Even though it's against
the rules? I'm honoured.'

`Don't fuck with me, all right?'

No, don't, I agree silently. Now is the time to co-operate. It's my
only hope, mine and Florence's. That is becoming increasingly
apparent.

`In return, I hope-I really fucking hope-that you'll start making
my life easier instead of harder. Think about what Alice would want you to do at this point. She's needed my help for a while, and yours,
to nail Vivienne Fancourt.'

`Nail? Sorry?'

`Fuck it! We think ... I think Vivienne Fancourt killed Laura Cryer.
Darryl Beer-he's the one who's in prison, who confessed to the
murder-he used to spend time in a health club called Waterfront. Vivienne Fancourt's a member. We think she framed Beer by planting
physical evidence at the scene, evidence she got from a towel Beer had
used at the club.'

`Right. Right.'

I nod, although no-one can see me. The words, the details, are
new to me, but I recognise this as the story I have wanted Simon to tell,
ever since I first saw him. I couldn't tell it on my own.

`Since Alice went missing, we've found what we believe to be the
murder weapon, a kitchen knife. It was in the creche at Waterfront, in
the baby changing unit. Beer and a mate of his, Vinny Lowe, used the
unit as a store, mainly for drugs. We have good reason to suspect that
Vivienne Fancourt knew this. Lowe admitted he and Beer had talked
about it in front of her several times. They deliberately boasted about
their shitty exploits when she was listening. Beer could have put the
knife in the changing unit, but so could Vivienne Fancourt, to make it
look like Beer had done it. We can't prove anything. Beer's still claiming he did it.'

My eyes widen. Felix spent nearly as much time in the Cheeky
Chimps creche as he did at home, before he got too old to go there. I
shudder, imagining him and all the other children playing in the same
room as a knife that had been used for what was effectively an
execution.

`If Alice has got anything else, any concrete proof that Vivienne
killed Laura, we could do with knowing what it is. Urgently. Like,
now.'

`Proof? What sort of proof?'

`Laura's handbag. Has Alice seen it, at The Elms? It's a long shot,
but ... maybe she found it somewhere she shouldn't have been looking. Was that what first made her suspect Vivienne? I need to know.
The bag was never found. We could search The Elms but I wouldn't
hold out much hope. People as clever as Vivienne Fancourt don't
keep incriminating evidence lying around.'

`I don't understand. Sorry, I'm playing detective now. Whoever
killed Laura, why didn't they hide the handbag with the knife, in the
creche? Or throw both away?'

`Vivienne wanted the knife to be found, eventually, in a place that
was linked to Beer. A knife can be wiped clean and used again. Why
would Beer keep the handbag, once he'd nicked the cash from it? He
wouldn't. And so neither would anyone who wanted to make it look
like Beer was guilty.'

I shake my head. No, that's not it. But I can't think and listen at the
same time.

`So ... are you going to search The Elms?'

`No. The boss has said no. Anyway, there's no point. I'm fairly certain Cryer's bag's long gone. We'll never find it.'

Again, I shake my head. I think of my own handbag, on the kitchen
work-surface at The Elms. I picture everything inside it: my notebook
full of lists of baby names, my coconut lip balm, the photograph of me
with my parents, the one David threatened to tear up. If you take a
woman's handbag away from her, you have power over her. What better trophy, what better symbol of an execution successfully and justly
carried out, than the victim's handbag?

Vivienne would have kept it, and not only for sentimental reasons.
She wouldn't allow a piece of evidence linking her to a murder to
escape from her domain. She would keep it somewhere where she
could check on it regularly to make sure it was still there, that no-one
had found it or disturbed it in any way. She only feels secure if everything that matters to her is well within reach. Where, how, could she have disposed of the bag and been totally certain, as certain as she
would need to be, that no trace of it would fall into somebody else's
hands, that no-one had seen her?