Losing You Page 19

  ‘Just down there, to the left.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I went inside, had a pee, swilled cold water over my face and wiped it dry with paper towels. Then I walked past the desk once more, trying to appear relaxed and purposeful. No sign of Beck. I nodded and smiled at the officer on duty, who was on the phone.

  ‘Back soon,’ I mouthed at him, and tapped meaninglessly at my wrist, where my watch should have been. He glanced at me, then away again. I walked out into the street, into the cold dusk, almost tripping over a cat that shot past my feet in a silent black streak. I didn’t run until I turned the corner, out of sight of the station. Then I took a deep breath and sprinted as fast as I could past the school, the church, into Lady Somerset Road and then took a left and immediate right on to Sheldrake Road.

  Ashleigh had said that Rosie and Graham lived next door but one to the pub that was at the other end of Sheldrake Road. I had a stitch in my side and my legs felt heavy when I arrived at the Barrow Arms, which had a huge inflated reindeer outside the front door, and a garish Christmas tree in the large bay window. The lights inside were all on and I could hear laughter through its closed doors.

  Next door but one to the pub was a pink, pebble-dashed house that looked bare and exposed, as if it belonged somewhere else but had been abandoned there. The curtains were drawn and lights were on, both upstairs and down. That was a good sign.

  I rang the doorbell and stood, panting, while I waited for someone to answer.

  ‘Hello?’ The fattest man I’d ever seen stood in the doorway, looking as if he was about to burst through it. He had sad brown eyes, like Sludge’s when she’s being told off.

  I tried to smile at him. ‘Sorry to bother you,’ I said. ‘Could I speak to Graham or Rosie?’

  ‘Rosie’s not here. Graham’s around. Who shall I say it is?’ he asked politely.

  ‘He won’t know me. I’m Nina Landry. Tell him I’m Charlie’s mother, Charlie Landry Oates, and I need his help. It’s urgent.’ Slowly he turned his bulk on the patterned carpet. I saw he was wearing no shoes, just socks, and his feet were tiny. ‘Really urgent,’ I added.

  ‘Graham,’ he called up the stairs. ‘Graham, a lady to see you. She says it’s urgent.’ Over his shoulder he asked me to come in and I followed him down the hallway and into a warm living room where a bar fire glowed in the corner. On every shelf, there were massed armies of tiny, brightly painted warriors and strange creatures.

  ‘Graham and I painted them together,’ he said, following my gaze. I had the awful feeling that he was settling down for a conversation. ‘After his mother died. It was something to take his mind off things. There’s three different armies there. Over two thousand of them.’

  ‘Amazing,’ I said. ‘Is Graham coming?’

  ‘He doesn’t play with them now, of course. He hardly even talks to me. They get like that as they grow up. He’s on his way down. Are you all right? Can I take your jacket? Get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’m all right. No tea, thanks. I’ll keep my jacket on, I won’t be a moment. I just need to talk to your son.’

  ‘Has he done anything?’

  ‘No. I need to find something out.’

  ‘Hi, you wanted to talk to me?’

  I turned towards the young man. He was tall and slim, with the brown eyes of his father, who might once have resembled him before he became sad and fat.

  ‘I’m Charlie Landry Oates’s mother, Nina.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She came to a party here.’

  ‘Yeah, that one time.’ He cast an amused, contemptuous glance at his father. ‘You were away.’

  ‘A party?’ said his father. ‘Here?’

  Graham made a dismissive gesture.

  ‘You should have told me,’ his father said.

  ‘We cleared up, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Can I ask you one thing?’ I interrupted. ‘Then I’ll go.’

  ‘Right. This lady doesn’t want to hear you complaining. She’s come to talk to me.’

  ‘Do you want me to leave?’ asked his father.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Graham.

  His father struggled to his feet. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you tea?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘I’ll leave you two together, then. Let me know if –’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Right,’ said Graham. ‘That’s him out of the way.’

  ‘I want to know who Charlie was with that evening.’

  ‘You mean who she got off with?’

  ‘Yes.’ I gritted my teeth and stared at him. ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘Why would you ask me something like that? And why would you think I’d tell you? It was a party. People were with other people. That’s what happens at a party.’ He gave a shrug. ‘I don’t want to get into all of this.’

  ‘Charlie’s missing,’ I said. ‘She’s in danger.’

  ‘Missing? I wouldn’t worry too much. She’s a cool one. I’m sure she can look after herself.’

  I thought about kneeing him hard in the groin to wipe the smile off his face. ‘She’s been snatched. The police are involved. She’s in danger and every minute counts. Whoever she was with at your party might be involved. So, tell me.’

  ‘Right, right.’ He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘But tell her I tried to stop you.’

  There was something obscene about talking to this jerk about Charlie, let alone her sex life. I was far off all acceptable limits of behaviour, in a nasty fog of perversity. I locked my fingers together and squeezed them hard so they hurt. ‘Who?’ I said.

  He spoke slowly, taking pleasure in it. ‘If you really want to know, it was that Goth boy. The teacher’s kid.’

  I opened my mouth but no sound came out.

  ‘You know. The weirdo. Eamonn. The one with the ponytail and black nails.’

  ‘Eamonn and Charlie? You’re sure?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He gave a horrible suppressed snigger. ‘Quite sure.’

  I closed my eyes. I saw Eamonn’s face at the party as he asked after Charlie. His expression, which I’d read as one of furtive supplication but now saw as something different. Lust? Triumph? Fear?

  ‘Thanks,’ I managed.

  ‘You asked.’

  ‘Say goodbye to your father, will you? I’ll let myself out.’

  He watched me go, amusement on his face. Everything seems like comedy to someone.

  I shut the front door before the vast, mournful father could accost me, and walked back down the street. I felt cold, damp, slightly sick. The road stretched out interminably and my feet slapped heavily along its surface. A car drove by with undipped headlights, dazzling me and splashing water from puddles over my legs.

  Eamonn and Charlie. Charlie and Eamonn. He was a Goth, a clever, lonely boy flooded by dark, troubled thoughts. I’d always liked him, felt sorry for him, but now, with no difficulty at all, I could imagine him as someone who would harm my daughter. Him, Rory, Jay. My mobile rang in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the number. No one I knew. I guessed Hammill or Beck was wondering where I was, ordering me to report back to the station, like a schoolgirl caught truanting. I let it ring. A flashing symbol on the screen announced that the battery level was low. I saw that there were two messages and listened to them. The first was from Jackson, who must have left it before I talked to him in the police car, and the second from Christian, saying he was out of the snarl-up at last, but the traffic was still crawling along at walking pace and it would probably take him another couple of hours before he could be with me. He told me he loved me. He’d never said that before, and now it meant nothing. Words were of no use to me.

  I had to find Eamonn. I didn’t have his mobile number, nor did I know any of his friends. I’d have to ring Rick. The screen on my mobile went blank. I pressed the on button and nothing happened. I shook it furiously and pressed the bu
tton once more. Nothing. The battery had run out. I’d have to go there.

  Sheldrake Road wasn’t far from Karen and Rick’s house, although as I jogged along the unlit street, gasping for breath, it felt impossibly far. I raced past Miller Street and on to the Saltings; the road ran along the shoreline. On my left there were houses with lights glowing through drawn curtains, smoke rising out of chimneys, on my right the dark, lapping water. The tide was nearly up now. I could hear little waves rattling against the shingle.

  The lights were still on in Rick’s house, but when I rang the doorbell and banged furiously with the knocker, no one came. I banged again, then stood back and yelled their names. My voice echoed over the water behind me. There was no response. I faced the water. I could see the lights of the mainland to my right, where the causeway was. Opposite me was the army range, empty, silent and bare.

  Maybe, I thought, Eamonn was in the pub. I retraced my footsteps towards Graham and Rosie’s house, and pushed open the door of the Barrow Arms, squinting in the smoky brightness. People lifted their heads to stare at me, but I ignored them and gazed around, trying to see Eamonn.

  ‘Looking for someone special, love?’ called a voice from a corner. There was a splutter of laughter around him.

  ‘Eamonn,’ I said. ‘Eamonn Blythe.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘The Goth.’

  ‘You’ve come to the wrong place.’

  I backed out. There was another pub in the town, near to Rory’s restaurant that never was. I could try there. I knew it was hopeless. I knew Eamonn wouldn’t be there, that I wasn’t going to find him like this, but I didn’t know what else to do and I had to do something. This time I ran all the way down Sheldrake Road to Tinker’s Yard, where old boats were turned belly-up beneath rotting tarpaulins, and rusting trailers stood in a skeletal line along the fence. Past the restaurant, with its boarded-up windows and old sign flapping in the wind, and into the second pub. It was smaller and dingier than the Barrow Arms, cracked orange lights draped round the bar and an ancient dog lying in front of the jukebox. Eamonn wasn’t in the front room. I went to the back, where four youths with shaved heads and tattoos on their bare arms were playing pool in a fug of cigarette smoke, and asked if they’d seen him.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Eamonn Blythe.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He’s got long hair in a ponytail and usually wears black clothes. You’d remember if you’d seen him.’

  ‘The Goth? He never comes in here. He wouldn’t dare.’

  The boys smirked at each other and turned away.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said miserably.

  I stood outside in the icy darkness, thinking. If I couldn’t find Eamonn, I had to concentrate on finding out who the dead girl was. I turned and walked along the seafront, past the old restaurant once more, past Tinker’s Yard and the boatyard, where the massed shapes of boats drawn up for the winter stood, and to my front door. The house was dark, its windows like blind eyes.

  In the gloom, I fumbled the key into the lock, and as I pulled the door open Sludge shot forward and banged into my legs, nearly bringing me to my knees. Her pink tongue slavered at my hands and she jumped up, putting her paws on my chest, all smelly fur and hot mouth and shining eyes. Had she been fed? I couldn’t remember. My memory for such things had stopped working. Sludge’s behaviour was no clue to this. She always behaved as if she was hungry. If food was put in front of her, she would always eat it. If any food of any description was put on any surface that was accessible to her, and there was no one in the room to restrain her, she would eat that too. I had lost entire meals to her. On Jackson’s previous birthday she had eaten half of the cake. I might as well give her something.

  As I brought her inside I saw an envelope on the mat. I picked it up and felt something heavy inside, like a large coin. I tore it open. It was my car key and there was a note with it from Tom the vicar: ‘Dear Nina, The terminals just needed a wipe. Buy me a drink some time. Cheers! Tom.’ I took that to mean my car was functional once more.

  I picked up Sludge’s feeding bowl and she started quivering and pirouetting, giving a strangled excited yowl. I flung some dried dog food into the bowl, scattering most on to the floor, and put it down for her. She ate it all in a few seconds. I filled the bowl with cold water and she drank that with huge laps of her long pink tongue.

  I plugged my phone into the charger and a little digital plug on the screen winked at me.

  I thought of seeing Eamonn that morning, wandering sleepily out while his father was trying to fix my car. Eamonn and Charlie. Eamonn and my little girl. I tried not to think about them together and so, inevitably, that was all I could think about. My daughter had been living in the house with me, talking to me, eating meals and doing her homework, and meanwhile everything important in her life had been happening elsewhere in a world I knew nothing about. Her boyfriend and her betrayal of her boyfriend, if that was what it was, and then her fears of being pregnant, and then… And then what?

  She had been living in my house like a double agent, maintaining her cover. She had told me nothing. Was it that she didn’t trust me? Or didn’t respect me? Or was it that I was an adult?

  I took the list from my pocket and flattened it out on the kitchen table. Brampton Ford. I opened the cupboard that contained telephone directories, maps and holiday guides. I found an old road atlas and looked it up. It was a village further down the coast but a few miles inland. So she was from nearby but not near enough to walk or cycle. I had an idea. I ran upstairs. Before entering Charlie’s room, I opened the door to my own bedroom. It was dark but I couldn’t hear Renata’s breathing and neither, when I went to the bed, was there a submerged hump there. I turned on the light and saw she had gone. No case, no clothes, no Renata. Then I saw a scribbled note on the pillow: ‘I was only in the way,’ it read. ‘I’ll be in touch. Rxxx’.

  Charlie’s bedroom was like an orange from which I had extracted the juice but which I kept squeezing and squeezing to see if there was any left. But in truth the problem was the opposite. There was a Niagara Falls of juice and what I had to do was find something I could use. There was so much data, so many clues, so much information that I could lose myself in.

  I sat at Charlie’s laptop and went to Google. I typed ‘Brampton Ford’. This was hopeless. There were a quarter of a million entries. It turned out that there was a Brampton Ford in Australia. It had a squash team that had been promoted to the third division of a league in New South Wales. There was a car dealership in Canada. There were also entries for every time ‘Ford’ and ‘Brampton’ appeared in the same entry.

  Charlie had been good at searches. What would she have done? I looked at the list. I drew a circle round Brampton Ford. What would the sort of information I need consist of? Nobody knew yet that the girl was dead, but her body had to have lain there for a few days. I added the words ‘girl’ and ‘missing’ and pressed search again. I knew instantly that I had found what I was looking for: ‘Local schoolgirl, Olivia Mullen, 16, has been missing since…’ I clicked on the link. It was a series of short items on a news report from the south-east of England. ‘Local schoolgirl, Olivia Mullen, 16, has been missing since 12 December, when she failed to return from a shopping expedition at the Coulsdon Green centre. At a press conference, her parents, Steven and Linda Mullen, made an emotional appeal for information.’

  Steven and Linda. Two people who had been waiting for their daughter, as I had. Had they been told yet? Two uniformed officers on their doorstep with undertakers’ expressions. Some time today or tomorrow they would have a last look at her for identification purposes. When would I next see Charlie’s face? Would she be lying under a sheet? I had to push thoughts like these away because they would drive me mad, but they kept forcing themselves into my mind.

  Olivia Mullen. It provoked a distant, elusive memory. Olivia Mullen. Livia Mullen. Livvie Mullen. Liv Mullen. Li Mullen. I knew that name. I went throug
h my memory, looking for it as if it were a book in a library, eliminating section after section. I’d never met her. The names of her parents meant nothing to me. I said the name aloud to myself: ‘Olivia Mullen. Liv Mullen. Liv.’ I was sure. I had never heard her name spoken. So I had seen it printed. No, not printed. Written. In handwriting. Where would I have seen a girl’s name written out by hand? It could only have been here in Charlie’s room. I made an effort of searching my memory that was almost physical, that hurt, as if I were pushing my hand into a tiny dark space for something that was just out of reach. It was on a letter or a postcard. I was sure of it. No problem. Charlie’s bedroom was now my special sphere of knowledge. I was the world expert. Charlie kept her letters in the bottom two right-hand drawers of her desk.

  I pulled them all the way out, one by one, and tipped them on to the floor in a large pile. One by one I scanned them. Words and phrases leaped out of the page at me, confidences, revelations, gossip, betrayals, judgements, descriptions, denunciations. Secrets, other worlds. Some of them, in stiff, halting English, were from Charlie’s French-exchange student. None of it mattered. I was just scanning for names, running my forefinger down the middle of the page, moving the letters to another pile when I had found no mention of Li or Livia or Olivia. There were names I knew and names I had never heard of. How had Charlie made time for all these people? And me as well? The pile shrank and then I was at the end and I almost howled. I had found nothing. But I was right. I knew I was right.

  I started pulling out the other drawers and tipping the contents on to the floor. I rummaged through them, looking for a letter or a card I might have missed but there was nothing. In this one lonely respect, Charlie had been organized. She might have lived in chaos but it was an organized chaos. The letters and cards she received went into those drawers and nowhere else.

  Except for one other place. Charlie had spent much of the last few months working on her coursework for her art GCSE. This consisted of a bulky, Byzantine scrapbook full of drawings, text and pictures. There were images downloaded from the Internet, cut from magazines. And postcards. It was probably Charlie’s most precious possession. She had expended so much time, thought and imagination on it. I sat at her desk and began to flick through it, ripping out postcards and checking the text on the back. In some cases I had to rip the whole page apart to get at a card that was part of an interlocking whole. I felt as if I was pulling pages out of an ornate medieval Bible. Suddenly I thought of what would happen if there had been a simple misunderstanding and Charlie was to walk through the door and see me destroying her coursework and that must have been the closest I came to laughing in all of that terrible day, and it wasn’t very close.