Creeping Ivy (18 page)
‘And? Is that story of Nicky’s true?’
‘Mainly.’
‘Mainly? What does that mean?’
‘His mother agrees that she became aware that a strange young woman, whom she’s since identified from photographs as Nicky, was sticking plaster over her son’s knees in the playground on Saturday.’ He stopped as if he thought she’d want to make some kind of comment. She didn’t.
‘So that much is true. But she showed us the wounds on his knees and they don’t look quite bad enough to account for the amount of blood I saw in the pram.’
Antonia gasped as though she’d been punched.
‘We will, of course, be testing the blood to see whether it matches the boy’s. The mother’s given permission and the blood will be taken this afternoon.’
‘Why haven’t you arrested Nicky?’
‘Because we’ve no firm evidence that she’s hurt Charlotte in any way.’
‘But someone has, haven’t they? That’s why you want to dig up the garden.’
‘We think it’s possible, and that’s why we have to do everything we can to get the necessary evidence.’
‘But why must you dig?’ Antonia asked, making herself think of the time it would take them to remove all the carefully laid paving and dig up the laboriously chosen and trained maples, camellias and azaleas, because that was easier than thinking about anything else. ‘Can’t you use one of those heat-seeking machines? Wouldn’t that be quicker? The sooner you—’
‘Ms Weblock, we are going to dig, but not under the paving; it’s obvious that’s not been disturbed since Saturday, but the earth beyond has been turned fairly recently. We don’t need your permission, but I wanted to warn you before the men got here and started work. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course I do. Is it the neighbours? I know you’ve been talking to them. Did they hear people in the garden, see someone digging on Saturday? Who? Who did they see? You must tell me.’ She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him towards her. ‘You must tell me. Who was it? Who was it they saw in the garden?’
‘Where is Mr Hithe?’ he asked in his most soothing voice.
‘He’s not here. Why? Who did they say they’d seen? Who was it who told you it was him?’
‘No one saw anything, Ms Weblock. And no one has seen Mr Hithe doing anything.’
‘Then why do you want Robert? You talked to him again yesterday, I know. What did he tell you?’
‘I want Robert because I don’t think you should be on your own while we’re digging. Where is he? Can we collect him for you?’
Antonia shook her head. ‘There’s a crisis at work. He had to go in early.’
‘Another crisis? There seem to be rather a lot of them at the moment, don’t there?’
‘It’s the same one,’ she said impatiently. Noticing his immediate suspicion, she moderated her voice to add: ‘The bank’s got scared because the company has lost their two biggest accounts, and it wants to withdraw their loans. They’re trying for a white knight and putting together a big presentation. It’s very important for them. The bank’s deadline is close of business on Friday and this is Tuesday. Please don’t interrupt Robert because you think I need help here. I can manage.’
‘What about your cousin, then, Ms Maguire? I really don’t think you should be alone. Why not call her?’
Antonia shook her head. ‘She’s busy, too. Look, just get on with it, will you? Stop worrying about me and dig. Do whatever you have to. Just find her quickly. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?’
She sucked in a huge breath and held it for some time before turning her back on them to reach the drawer where the kitchen paper was kept, tearing sheets off and scrubbing at her eyes.
‘Ms Weblock,’ said DCI Blake, ‘please let me—’
‘Leave me alone for Christ’s sake and just get on with it, can’t you?’ she shouted as she ran out of the room.
Upstairs she hung over the basin in her bathroom, gasping loudly and coughing. Then she washed her face in very cold water and blew her nose several times.
The bedroom looked slovenly, she thought, with the unmade bed in such a mess. Her nightdress and dressing gown lay across the bunched duvet and her slippers and her book were still on the floor, and there was no air. She had been keeping all the windows shut in case the pack of journalists got round the back of the house into the garden and started recording any noise she made or anything she said.
In normal circumstances she never saw the room like that. She got ready each morning in the twelve-and-a-half minutes she allowed herself and left without a backward glance. By the time she returned, Maria would have cleaned, tidied and aired it.
Now that the police were in the garden, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about the journalists. She flung open both the windows, kicked off her shoes, and lay down on the unmade bed to wait.
The men who were digging were discreet, but the knowledge of what they were doing made every sound sinister. After ten minutes the thud of their spades and the low-level talk were too much and she got up to pace about the room. Then she stripped the bed, carefully folding the linen and laying the neat heap on her dressing stool before picking up her book and putting her slippers away.
That done, she risked a glance out of the window and saw a group of men in shirtsleeves huddled around the far end of the garden. They had stopped digging and were just standing, looking down. Ignoring her naked face, she put her shoes back on and ran downstairs.
She was about to open the kitchen door when she heard the constable’s voice, saying, ‘I wouldn’t have believed it, sir.’
‘What, Jenny?’
‘That anyone in her position would have got herself up like that – all that makeup and an Armani suit. I know you’ve got to be hard to do her job, but to have that sort of self-control with your child lost, probably dead? I think it’s horrible.’
‘It could be for protection. You know, like a spinal corset to hold her together.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You don’t like her, do you, Jenny?’
‘No, sir, I don’t. If the child had been a year or two older I’d have suggested we started looking at runaways.’
‘Maybe, but not at four.’
‘And what about this bloke of hers? D’you buy that story of a crisis with the bank?’
‘It fits with what the other directors told me when I interviewed them on Sunday. And they all swore he didn’t leave the Saturday meeting until Bagshot rang his office hysterically from the nick. Look! Come on, Jenny, we’d better get out there and see what they’ve got.’
Antonia, who had been listening in outrage outside the door, knew that she shouldn’t have minded any of it. The police always suspected the worst of everyone, especially when a child was involved. If she hadn’t been in New York they’d probably have been accusing her by now. She knew that. She mustn’t lose her temper. So far the police were on her side. Just. She didn’t want to jeopardise that while Charlotte was missing. Antonia waited for two more minutes and then went in. She was standing with her back to the fridge when they came back.
‘What have they found?’
‘Nothing, Ms Weblock. Nothing yet.’
‘But they thought they had, didn’t they? Somebody thought they’d found something.’
‘Were you watching?’
‘Of course.’
‘You and your nanny both. She’s still up there, looking at them.’
‘What did they find?’
‘A big piece of polythene. Probably irrelevant, the sort of thing builders tend to bury in gardens because it’s less trouble than carting it away.’
‘But not necessarily?’
‘No. We’ll take it away and let the lab. have a look at it.’
‘Why?’
‘Let us worry about that.’
‘Oh, please don’t keep trying to protect me,’ she said with all the quick anger that was most easily sparked by junior staff in the office making stupid, careless mistakes. ‘Why are you interested in the polythene?’
‘In case her body was ever wrapped in it,’ said DCI Blake quietly, reluctant to put it into words.
‘But wouldn’t the body have been there in that case?’ asked Antonia, wondering if he understood the effort she had to make to keep her voice sounding calm.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Blake, noticing that Constable Derring was looking disgusted. ‘Burial in the garden might have been a temporary measure.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Antonia. ‘I won’t.’
‘Good. You hang on to that.’ He smiled at her and appeared to be waiting for her to leave her own kitchen. She did not know what to say or where to go, how to spin out the time until they had found everything there was to find. Eventually she went upstairs to ring Trish. That at least would take up a little time.
When Trish’s answering machine cut in, she said, ‘It’s Antonia here. They’re digging up the garden.’
Then she dialled the number of her office’s direct line and was answered by her own voicemail. Surprised and angry that her secretary was not there, she looked at her watch and discovered that it was still only nine o’clock. She put down the receiver and paced up and down her bedroom and bathroom, wishing that there was something she could do to hurry the police.
Luckily Trish soon rang back, to say that she had just been out buying the newspapers when Antonia rang.
‘Have they found anything in the garden yet?’ Trish asked.
‘Only some old polythene. They’re taking it away, but they don’t think it means anything.’
‘Right. Good. How are you?’
‘How d’you think?’
‘I meant in detail,’ Trish said with irritating patience. ‘But don’t worry about it if you’d rather not talk. Antonia, there is something I wanted to ask you. I tried yesterday, but—’
‘What is it?’
‘Do you still think Nicky’s responsible for whatever’s happened?’
‘Of course.’ She would have told Trish about the fact that there was too much blood in the pram for it to be the boy’s if she’d asked, but she didn’t.
‘It’s just that I’ve been wondering if you’d let me arrange a polygraph test – you know, so that you could catch Nicky out in whatever lies she’s been telling you and the police.’
A polygraph test. Why hadn’t she thought of that? It stuck out a mile, but she hadn’t seen it.
‘The police don’t much like them, I know,’ Trish was saying. ‘But they can be useful and I’d have thought it would be well worth it. I have a friend, I’m not sure if you’ve ever met her, called Emma Gnatche, who’s something of a specialist. She’s said that if you approve she will administer a test to Nicky, and she won’t charge for it.’
‘That’s generous, but hardly the point.’
‘No,’ agreed Trish. ‘So may I fix it? It seems the obvious thing to do next.’
‘Yes, I think you’d better. When?’
‘Well, Emma said she could come later this morning, say about twelve or half-past. Would that be any good to you?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I’ll make sure Nicky’s here. What exactly will she be asked?’
‘Emma and I have talked about it and decided that she’d better go through the playground story, stage by stage, to check that each bit of it is true, and then ask about Nicky’s treatment of Charlotte in general and the bruises in particular.’
‘That sounds all right.’
‘Fine. I’ll tell Emma to meet me at your house then, so that I can introduce you.’
‘No. Don’t bother. Let her come on her own. The house is too full as it is with police crawling all over it. I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘Oh. OK. Whatever you want.’
‘Will this friend of yours have some kind of identification? I don’t want to go letting a journalist into the house by mistake.’
‘I’ll warn her. Thanks, Antonia. And if you change your mind, send for me.’
‘I will. Goodbye, Trish.’
Antonia put down the receiver and thought about polygraph testing and how she should have realised that Trish would know all about it and asked for it sooner.
Up in Buxton, in Derbyshire, at almost exactly the same time, a couple in their late sixties were at breakfast. They were eating fried bread, eggs, bacon and grilled tomatoes, as they always did. Harold liked it and Renie was sure it must be good for him, whatever all those London papers said about cholesterol and animal fats and all that. She wouldn’t have wanted Harold going out of the house without a hot breakfast inside him. That cereal-stuff they ate nowadays was no use to a grown man, not soaked in cold milk like it was. And wasn’t milk animal fats anyway? Stuff and nonsense, if you asked her, all these newfangled food rules. She saw that Harold was cutting into his egg and waited to make sure that the yolk was right. He liked it runny, but felt sick if the white wasn’t cooked. Pleased to see she hadn’t lost her touch, she unfolded the paper she’d laid neatly beside her plate and cut her fried bread up into tidy squares before slicing into the egg, carefully adding a square of fried bread and a small piece of bacon to the forkful for contrast before raising it to her lips.
It never got there. She sat with her mouth open, staring at the newspaper as the egg-yolk ran down the fork. Not until the cooling yellow stickiness had reached her fingers did she start and remember where she was. She put the fork down and carefully wiped her hand on the serviette.
‘What’s the matter with you, then?’ Harold asked, looking up from the racing page of his own paper.
‘It’s our Nicolette, isn’t it? I’m sure it is. Have a look.’
He put out a hand for the paper and she passed it over to him, just as she always had done whatever he wanted. That was how she’d been brought up and she was proud of it, even when it was difficult. Specially when it was difficult.
‘So it is,’ he said when he had wiped his lips with his serviette and read the accompanying article to make sure Renie hadn’t got it wrong as usual. ‘Who’d have thought she’d be capable of something like that?’
Renie, remembering the child she’d known between the ages of nine and thirteen, shook her head. Nicolette was one of the few she could think of with more than dutiful affection.
She’d been a good child, Nicolette, and nice with it once she’d got over the trickiness they all had when they’d just been moved. She’d been helpful, too, much more helpful than any of the boys they’d had before. That was why she’d always asked for girls after Nicolette, but it hadn’t been the same; and lots of them had been just as violent and swearing as the worst of the boys. She hadn’t minded it so much with the boys, but when it was girls she hated it. That was why she’d wanted to give up in the end, why she’d told Harold she couldn’t take it any more. He hadn’t believed her at first, but when she’d got ill even he could see she couldn’t do it. It was the girls calling her a fucking wanker – and worse – that’d done it. She could’ve put up with the mess and the truanting and the banging music and staying out late and being cheeky, but she wouldn’t stand for being called a fucking wanker and a dirty cunt in her own house by an angelic-looking twelve-year-old girl.
