‘What are you suggesting?’ shouted Rory, violently, rising out of his chair. ‘What are you fucking suggesting, Nina? You think I’m a murderer? A pervert? You think that?’
‘I’m saying that –’ But I stopped and pressed my fingers against my temple. ‘Hang on a minute,’ I said. ‘There’s something wrong about this.’
‘Nina, Ms Landry –’
‘No,
listen
. This is important.’ I pointed a finger at Rory. ‘You talked to me at half past ten. I remember Karen telling Eamonn that was the time just before you rang.’
‘What’s your point?’ asked DI Hammill.
‘You’re telling us you saw her at about a quarter to ten and then at half past ten you rang asking if you could see her.’
‘Mr Oates?’ said Hammill. His face was stern, grim.
‘I was upset,’ Rory mumbled. ‘Everything felt wrong. She didn’t really seem to care that I’d driven all that way to see her. She was just excited about going on holiday with Nina and this new boyfriend. It made me upset. I wanted to see her for more than a few snatched minutes sitting
in my car. I wanted to see her properly, and Jackson, like a family.’
‘What were you doing between approximately ten and half past?’ asked Beck. I’d almost forgotten she was in the room with us.
‘I had some beer in the car,’ said Rory. ‘I drove to the causeway and I was going to go home but then I stopped at the lay-by and walked along the marshes and had a bit of a drink. I was thinking. What? Don’t look at me like that. It’s true. I know what it sounds like, but it’s true.’
‘Where’s Charlie? Where is she?’
‘I love her,’ he shouted. ‘She’s my daughter, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Stop this, both of you,’ said Hammill. ‘This is a mess. It’s my fault for having you in the room together.’
‘What are you talking about?’ My voice cracked. ‘If I hadn’t found Charlie’s things in Rory’s car, you’d be wasting your time with him lying to you. If he’s not going to admit the truth, you’ve got to get a move on.’
‘No,’ said Hammill. ‘Wait. There’s a lot we need to get straight. I’m not clear about the involvement of you and that young man, the boyfriend, in the finding of the body. And it seems to me that there is a good deal that needs to be established about the involvement of you and your ex-husband. I agree that we need a full account of his movements this morning. But I also need to know more about the dispute over the children between you and Mr Oates.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s a diversion. I’ve told you all you need to know about that. Of course you need to know Rory’s full story. And you need to find out if she was pregnant.’ I saw the spasm of shock on Rory’s face. ‘And who by.
It’s urgent. You don’t need to speak to me. You need to get on with the search. Everything I know I’ve told you. Everything. I’ve hidden nothing. Just find Charlie. It’s urgent. Please.’
‘Excuse me, Ms Landry,’ said Hammill, ‘but for now I’d like you to leave me to decide what’s urgent. At the moment the danger is to be distracted by a single clue, which may be irrelevant or misleading. What’s important is to get the whole picture clear. So, what I propose to do is to take a full and detailed statement from Mr Oates here.’ He looked at Rory sharply. ‘And I mean complete. I can tell you that there is a possibility of charges being brought against you. This means we will now be interviewing you under caution. It means we have grounds for believing that an offence has been committed. Therefore I have to give you certain warnings. That the interview will be tape-recorded, that you are not under arrest, that you are free to leave the interview at any time and that you may seek legal advice at any time. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Rory.
‘Do you wish legal representation?’
There was a pause. Was it possible that Rory was going to hold up the proceedings while a solicitor was rustled up from somewhere? I could see that he was considering it.
‘No,’ he said finally. ‘I just want to help.’
He turned to me. ‘I want you to wait outside. We’ll take your statement as soon as we have finished with Mr Oates.’
‘I’ve been giving statements all day. I’ve told you, there’s nothing left to say.’
‘However, I believe that there’s a great deal more we
need to know from you,’ he said. ‘Please. The quicker you co-operate, the more effective we can be.’
He nodded at Beck who escorted me out and along the corridor into the office, where a WPC was talking on the phone. Beck asked me if she could get me tea or coffee. I said no automatically, then changed my mind. I needed something to put into my body, like a car taking on fuel. I tried to think which was more powerful, more like a drug.
‘Coffee, please.’
It was from a percolator in the corner of the office, so it came instantly. I added milk from the little plastic tub, then tore open two packets of sugar and emptied them into the cup. Beck said she would join me again in a minute, then left. I saw that a young uniformed constable was standing outside the room, presumably to keep an eye on me.
I gulped the coffee, which seared my mouth. I was grateful for the jolt that the pain gave me. It helped to clear my mind.
I had to think of what I could do, all the while holding in my mind the knowledge that what I did might be useless, a frenzy of activity in the wrong place. I wasn’t sure what to make of Rory, whether he was criminally stupid or guilty of something monstrous. But now he was with the police and there was nothing more I could do, I had to assume it wasn’t Rory and consider other possibilities.
I thought about the dead girl, pictured her silent face and sightless, open eyes. I remembered how Beck had whispered something into Hammill’s ear as she came from the boat where the dead girl lay. Brampton Ford. What was it? A name? A place? I saw that a stub of a pencil lay on the floor in the corner. I picked it up and pulled a tissue out of the
box. In large, clumsy letters, trying not to shred the tissue, I made a list:
Dead girl. Who?
Brampton Ford?
Knew Charlie? If so, how?
Pregnant? Who?
Rosie and Graham (by pub on Sheldrake Road)
I stared at the words, making up my mind, steadying myself, then pushed the tissue into my pocket. I swilled back the last of the coffee, stood up and crossed to the window. I tried to pull it open, but it was locked. I thought of the young constable standing outside the room, and of Beck returning any minute. I pulled open the door.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Where are the toilets?’
‘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 button once more. Nothing. The battery had run out. I’d have to go there.