Dark Place to Hide (11 page)

‘Thank you,’ I say, shaking my head.

‘I have to say – what you’ve told me comes as a big shock,’ Neil says. ‘I’ve seen you two together. You know, you can tell with some couples – the way they no longer stand close together, no longer look into each other’s eyes when they speak, stop touching? You two, though – you’ve always been like newlyweds. So devoted, inseparable.’

‘I know. It’s a massive shock to me, too. I had no idea. Seriously…’

He looks into his drink, shakes his head. ‘I’m really sorry.’

I nip my lips together. What can I say?

‘Good job it’s the summer break from University, eh?’ he adds, making an attempt to lighten the mood. No doubt, despite the initial astonishment, he thinks, like everyone else, that your disappearance is cut and dry.

‘Too right.’ I moan, shoving my empty glass away. ‘There’s no way I’d be able to prop myself up in front of a room full of students and deliver lectures on hate crime or advances in forensic ballistics, in this state.’

Under normal circumstances, I love my lecturing job; it was a knockout stroke of luck that there was a position going at Portsmouth University at the right time, just after we married. It’s what brought us to this area. I’ve always felt sorry when I’m with a group of mates on a night out and they’re already counting down the days to their retirement. It’s tragic. Neil isn’t
like that. He’s like me – hungry for the job that’s become his lifeline. We tease each other about who is more up to date with advances in forensics.

‘You involved in much cyber-crime, these days?’ I ask him, changing the subject.

He folds his arms. ‘We all are. Online fraud and theft is rife now, as you know – and far greater than the recorded figures suggest.’ He yawns. ‘I’m not the least bit intrigued by “crime by numbers”, though, I prefer solving physical crime; getting out there on the street, asking questions, piecing clues together.’

‘Me, too – complex crimes where the trail dries up and you have to think out of the box.’ I rub my hands together and a surge of electricity inside my veins reminds me that this is where my energy lies when life isn’t twisted out of shape.

‘You still seeing that chap who was put away for killing his girlfriend? How many years did he get?’

‘Victor? He got seven – he was out in 2010. He lives in Manchester – we’ve kind of lost touch now. Shame. I think he wants to be with people who don’t know about his past.’

‘How come you knew him?’

‘He was my best friend at school, a gentle guy who played serenades on his twelve-string guitar and wrote poems.’ I can see Victor’s sheepish smile. ‘He was broken by his crime. I went to visit him, partly because I liked the guy, but also I felt it could easily have been me banged up in there. A split second, one ill-judged reaction and it would be all over. I know he never meant to strangle Nicci; he was a victim of his own lack of self-restraint. Blind fury took hold of him. He is an unfortunate lesson to the rest of us.’

‘These convicts get sent on anger-management courses,’ says Neil, ‘but I’m not sure what good it does. Six weeks in front of a flip chart writing down the emotions you feel…rating
your anger out of ten…’ He shakes his head. ‘Like you say, who knows what we’re all capable of if someone presses the wrong buttons at the wrong time.’

I stare at the floor and fail to admit my own anger has got the better of me more times than I’d like to remember.

He waves his empty glass at me, but I’ve had enough. As we reach the car park I know I can’t leave things like this. ‘I realise it looks like Diane has gone off with someone else, but it’s four days now – something isn’t right. No one has
actually
spoken to her in person. Not her sister, her best friend, her parents.’

‘Maybe she’s feeling guilty.’

‘There’s something wrong, Neil, believe me. If she was going to go, she wouldn’t do it like this.’

‘Okay. First thing tomorrow, if you’ve still not heard anything, reinstate the missing person’s report at the local station. I’ll have a chat with the duty sergeant. You know the score – they’ll come and take a look around and ask about your relationship. They’ll do a risk assessment. You must tell them everything.’ His eyes linger on mine to make sure I get the message.

‘Of course.’ Neil pats me on the shoulder and tells me not to worry.

I pass up his offer of a lift back to the cottage, preferring instead to walk in the moonlight and think about you. I instantly switch in my mind to another walk – almost opposite in every way; in the sun, amidst crowds, together. After the rally on the day we first met, I took a chance and invited you to wander with me along the Thames. You said your farewells to the guys you’d stood with. I saw them link arms as they turned away; they were together, neither of them was with you. There was a glimmer of hope.

We strode out towards Hungerford Bridge, watching the white wheel gently roll round carrying its tiny glass capsules as we crossed the river.

‘I’m ashamed to say I’ve never been on the London Eye,’ you said.

I took a chance and said we should go one day. I don’t know why. It seemed ludicrous to be making plans together.

‘I’d like that,’ you replied. My heart raced like a kid getting away with a risky dare.

We walked to the ferry pier and stopped to watch the boats. You asked about my upbringing and I told you how Dad was a famous footballer and that he left when I was eight, just when I was starting to get to know him. ‘He taught me football, of course, but I wasn’t a natural.’ You turned round and leant against the railings so you were facing me, not the river. ‘He set up “tests” for me – for accuracy, judgement at distances, tackling, but I was forever falling over the ball or my own feet. It was never long before he’d get frustrated and I’d watch the disappointment on his face.’

I didn’t tell you about how he humiliated me with the welder’s mask; that felt too raw for this stage in our relationship.

‘He wasn’t very kind about it,’ I said. ‘For years that’s why I thought he left. Because I wasn’t good enough and let him down.’

I turned into the breeze and let the wind press the hair away from my face – it was longer then, almost to my shoulders. Why was I telling you all this? I tried to change the subject, but you asked for more. You managed to wheedle out all kinds of personal details about my past that I’d never dreamt I’d reveal to anyone on a first meeting. It wasn’t even a date.

‘How about you?’ I said. ‘What about your background?’

We started walking again, kept going at an easy stroll, but I don’t remember much about our surroundings. I was watching you, I could barely take my eyes off you – you were so vibrant and bubbling with sexual energy.

‘I was born in Leeds. I’ve got an older sister, two years’ difference and our parents are both still together. Everyone thinks their own family is a bit mad, don’t they? Well – the Toinby’s are all a bit obsessive one way or another – in a good way, mostly. My mum is a florist and everything had a floral design when we were growing up – the wallpaper, the soft furnishings, even the toilet paper. Dad is an aeronautical engineer; he specialises in flight safety, but he’s also a tennis fanatic. They both live in London now – near the Wimbledon tennis courts. Alexa is incredibly fit and has just swum the Channel. She had anorexia in her teens – that’s when obsession gets unhealthy.’ The pavement narrowed and you leant into me to avoid colliding with a jogger. ‘I’m the tame one in the family. I’m just a primary school teacher. I don’t really excel at anything.’

‘You look pretty sporty.’

You laughed. ‘You should see my sister. Alexa is a personal trainer, whipping people into shape. I used to swim, but an injury forced me to stop.’ You failed to tell me just how good you’d been in the pool. You led me to believe you splashed about a bit – didn’t mention medals or international competitions. I had to find all that out later. ‘I get involved with kids’ assault courses and boot camps these days – I love it. I love kids of any age.’

We walked further than either of us intended, weaving through the crowds in front of Tate Britain, The Globe – cutting inland after Tower Bridge and ending up in Rotherhithe. We stopped at The Mayflower pub.

‘Fancy a drink?’ I ventured.

‘It would be rude not to, as we’re here,’ you said and stepped straight inside.

My heart fluttered and hiccupped. I didn’t notice the ancient latticed windows, the lanterns, pewter tankards or the barrel-edged bar. The place filled up so there was barely standing room and we talked until it got dark, wrapped inside our own private bubble where no one could touch us.

In real time, I’ve made it back from the pub to the cottage. There are no lights on inside and I can hear Frank howling from the gate. He misses you too. It’s cold inside, a heavy solid chill that makes me want to go straight back out into the night, where there’s a delicate breeze, sounds and signs of life. I call your name and instead Frank comes to my side, his claws clattering on the wooden floor, wheezing and slobbering with joy at seeing me. I open the freezer and take out the steak I was supposed to have for my evening meal. I wasn’t hungry then and I’m not now. I defrost it in the microwave and cut it into chunks for Frank, instead. He’ll appreciate it more than I will.

I climb into bed without closing the curtains and leave the bedroom door ajar, so I’ll hear you if you come back. Frank is meant to sleep in the kitchen, but I let him come up onto the bed beside me. He’s still licking his lips, then he settles with his chin on my arm. Is this how my life is going to be?

17 July

The phone rings nearly fifteen times before Marion gets to it.

‘Is that Mrs Delderfield?’

Marion has heard the voice before, but she can’t place it. She’s just got out of bed and is more concerned over where Clara is and what she might be up to.

‘Is she all right? Where is she?’ she says, still foggy from the false sleep induced by medication that leaves her feeling like she’s jogged to Penzance and back rather than rested.

‘Clara is at school, Mrs Delderfield. She has just left my office and returned to her classroom.’

It’s the headmistress, Elizabeth Macclesfield or is it Matterson? Marion didn’t have the receiver in place properly when the caller announced her name at the start.

‘What’s happened?’ Marion hasn’t warmed up enough for pleasantries yet. She’s still trying to break through into the waking world.

‘I’ll get to the point, Mrs Delderfield. Clara has been in a world of her own at school this week, even more so than usual. She’s not communicating normally at all – not in the playground with the other children, not in class with her teachers.’

The school know about Clara’s incident at the castle. Marion thought they would have cut Clara some slack as a result. ‘Clara’s probably a bit distracted after what happened, that’s all,’ Marion explains. ‘Even at the best of times she tends to drift off into her own little daydreams.’

‘I’m aware that Clara is a highly imaginative child, creating much of her own amusement – but I think she might need to see someone.’

‘See someone?’ Marion is confused. ‘She’s been checked over at the hospital, if that’s what you mean – she’s fine.’

‘I mean, I think she should see someone from a…psychological point of view. Something isn’t right.’

Marion reflects on how Clara has been since she was found in the oubliette. She was elated by her little escapade at first, then when they got home from the hospital, she seemed to become more withdrawn. Marion had kept her out of school for a day to check for any after-effects, but she saw nothing to alarm her. But Mrs Maddersley – is that her name? – has a point. Clara has been staying in her room lately – and it’s true, she doesn’t seem to want to mix with any of her friends at the moment. Come to think of it, she left most of her tea yesterday and didn’t want any breakfast this morning.

The voice is in her ear again, clipped and jarring. ‘She spent a night on her own, outside, scared, trapped, didn’t she? Do you not think this…might have affected her?’ suggests the headmistress. It feels like a telling off. Marion senses her palms getting clammy as if she’s standing in the head’s office herself. She wants to tell her it isn’t the first time Clara has slept alone under the stars, but she doesn’t want to come across as a bad mother.

‘Clara secretly enjoyed her exploit actually. She takes after her father; he was an adventure seeker.’ She knows she’s sounding defensive. ‘She loves finding hidden places, small spaces to explore and hide away on her own.’

Mrs Mallory is talking again. ‘Clara’s behaviour needs looking into. She refuses to speak unless she’s quoting from a fairy tale. She seems to have become fixated on
Little Red Riding
Hood.
I don’t know what she’s like at home, but she’s behaving very strangely at school.’

Marion tries to remember the last few days, but they wash into a blur. Clara stayed one night with Granny, another night she must have put herself to bed, because Marion doesn’t remember anything. She can’t have been well.
Little Red Riding Hood?
Now that Mrs ‘M’ mentions it, she does recall Clara using a silly voice when she gave her beans on toast for tea on Monday.
Come in, my dear, and look what I’ve got for you,
she’d said in a trembling old-age tone. Marion hadn’t thought much of it; Clara was always play-acting, talking to people who weren’t there and performing little homemade storylines.

The voice at the other end of the phone is starting to bang a hole inside Marion’s head. ‘I think she should see a child psychologist or have some kind of assessment.’

Marion gives in. ‘Okay. Yes. Fine. I’ll look into it. Thank you.’

She can’t wait to put the phone down.

The following day, Marion takes Clara to the GP. Clara sits on a chair and swings her legs, but won’t answer any of Dr Lane’s questions. When she does speak, which is only three times in all, she appears to be quoting from one of her books. When Dr Lane asks if she is enjoying school at the moment, Clara appears not to hear.

‘Come closer, little girl, so I can see you,’ Clara says in a pantomime voice.