Dark Place to Hide (25 page)

The door widens. ‘Yeah – what is it?’

I put on my good-to-meet-you face. ‘Stephen Morrell?’ He ignores my extended hand.

I explain who I am. Of course, he knows you’re missing, Dee. All the staff at St Mary’s have had visits from the police by now. He drops his head and invites me inside. I can hear a boy making plane-crash noises from a nearby room. Morrell leads me into the sitting room where everything looks expensive rather than comfortable; a curved sofa without end pieces, three top-heavy flower displays, low lamps hanging from the ceiling. I have to navigate around an asymmetrical glass coffee table that looks like it could slice a leg off. Domesticity to impress, without comfort or practicality. I’m put off already – it feels incredibly uninviting.

Morrell is tall and lean with thick black hair and black-rimmed spectacles to match. In beige trousers my father used to call ‘slacks’, he looks straight out of a fifties magazine advert, selling knitting patterns for men’s cardigans. He’s wearing one now; tightfitting in pale green, over an open-necked shirt. Not only does he appear old-fashioned, but he’s awkward and unfriendly. At the door, he didn’t smile or take my hand, hasn’t made eye contact once and keeps looking at the floor. If he taught at secondary school, the teenagers would eat him for breakfast. Words like dork and nerd come to mind – which is unfair, because I’ve barely met the man.

He stands in the middle of the room without offering a seat. There is an oily smell from the new ivory-coloured carpets and a trace of cinnamon. I glance around, trying to find the source of it without success.

‘What did you want, exactly?’ he says.

‘I understand you attended a retirement party for Doreen Passmore at the school in June?’

‘That was ages ago.’

‘Do you recall my wife being there?’

‘Diane? Yes. Why?’

‘Someone who was there remarked on the fact that you two spent a lot of time in conversation – can you tell me what you were talking about?’

He looks startled. ‘Did we? I can’t remember.’

How convenient.

‘Diane wasn’t well that evening – do you know anything about that?’ I know as soon as I ask him that I’m only going to get a string of useless replies. There is a new alertness about him, however, that makes me continue.

He shakes his head. ‘No – I didn’t know about that. She seemed fine to me.’

‘Someone said she was drinking alcoholic blue cocktails…’

He laughs in a forced way. ‘Someone’s got a good memory.’ He composes himself. ‘Everyone had a glass of something or other in their hands – it’s what happens at parties.’ He sniffs. ‘I’m sorry, I really can’t remember a great deal. It was a dreary party for a member of staff. We weren’t dancing on the tables – it was all very sedate.’

There is a crash of crockery somewhere in the house and Morrell sidesteps me and follows the sound. I follow him, not wishing to lose the thread of our conversation.

A casserole dish lies in pieces on the kitchen floor. ‘He pushed me,’ accuses the girl, putting her tongue out at a boy of around half her height.

‘I didn’t – it fell,’ he whines in retaliation.

‘Well – things happen for a reason,’ Morrell says philosophically, as he crouches down and reaches for the larger pieces of the broken dish. I spot a brush standing behind the door and, in two minds about doing it myself, hand it to the girl instead. She gives me a look that suggests I’ve offered her an impaled cat and leaves the room.

‘Sorry, Dad,’ says the boy, who squats down; he watches his father handle the shards instead of helping. I hand him the brush, but he merely holds on to it.

I step back and take in the room. Just like the sitting room, it’s all for show, with shiny superfluous appliances, like a waffle-maker and rotisserie, both of which look barely used, and a silver dish with four identical red apples standing on the table. The only personal touch is a corkboard next to the fridge with postcards and photos pinned to it. I look closer and see your face in one picture. Then another. There are a cluster of photos from school and you’re in all but one of them.

Morrell stands up and catches me scrutinising the board.

‘A lot of pictures of my wife,’ I suggest, without smiling.

He puts the cut pieces into newspaper and rolls them up without answering, then sweeps the floor.

‘I said—’

‘I heard you,’ he says, straightening up. It’s the first time he’s looked me fully in the face. His eyes are grey and hard like rivets. I feel compelled to look away. He puts the brush behind the door and pats the boy on the head. ‘Off you go, Ben.’

He folds his arms. ‘It’s a coincidence,’ he says lightly. ‘She happens to be in the best pictures, that’s all.’ I stoop and look again. Your hair is shorter in two shots, you’re tanned in another; they cover a wide time period.

I turn to him. ‘Do you know where my wife is, Mr Morrell?’ I give him my full attention, waiting to see what he does with his eyes. They go down to the floor.

‘No. We’re just colleagues.’

Interesting. I haven’t asked him a question that would prompt that reply.

‘What happened at the party?’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid I have to ask you to go, Dr Penn.’ He makes a pretence of checking his watch. ‘I have an appointment.’

I don’t have much option, but once I get to the door, I ask another question. ‘Where’s
your
wife, Mr Morrell?’

‘She’s upstairs,’ he says with satisfaction. He tips his head and I hear the toilet flush. ‘Although I don’t see why that’s any of your business.’

I leave without a further word and retrieve the bike that I’ve locked up on the path at the side. I take everything in; the well-tended garden, the heavy side gate, the car in the garage.

He’s smug and insensitive and I can see exactly why you don’t like him, Dee.

I have also taught enough seminars on body language to know he’s hiding something.

I open my eyes, but nothing changes – everything stays pitch black. It’s night-time. Either that or I’m dead now – and this is what it’s like. Silent, heavy, dank and lonely. Desperately lonely. I ache for human contact; for a kind word, the gentle touch on my shoulder, a hug. What I’d give for an embrace right now from you, Harper! I miss your voice, your touch, your kisses, your breath. I ache for you deep inside my belly. I feel a tickle on my cheek and know I’m crying. This isn’t good. This isn’t going to help. Feeling sorry for myself isn’t going to fix anything.

With nothing else to do here, other than pine and fret and wait, I force myself to try to piece the bits together. The night I went to the village, a little girl ran across the road and I almost hit her. What happened then? Did I drive off?

No.

I snatch a breath and the tape over my mouth sucks in sharply.

Of course, the little girl. I’ve seen her before; I remember now. Clara Delderfield – she lives in the village, over the far side near the pub. Her mother is ill with cancer.

What was she doing? God – I nearly hit her when she bolted across the road. I jammed on the brakes. I can see my foot as I stepped out of the car. The tarmac. The broken white lines in the middle of the road caught by the headlights. I got out – I remember the car door slamming. It was quiet – there was nothing else on the road. That’s right – I followed her into the bushes and saw her disappear down the bank. I thought she might be hurt – or lost – she was certainly too young to be out on her own.

She stopped and I thought I saw someone behind her, but I can’t be sure. Was I spotted? I
carried on down the bank. I wanted to be sure Clara was okay. I was going to find her and take her home.

But by then I’d lost her. There were too many bushes, a thick blanket of trees, foliage everywhere. I stopped to listen. That’s right. I heard the crackle of wood underfoot and moved towards it. Tucked away in the undergrowth was an old Anderson shelter – painted a dark matt green and covered in ivy. I nearly missed it. It was the door closing that made me notice it; that single slight movement out of the corner of my eye.

I crept closer and that’s when I heard him. Talking to her in a teasing, coercive voice. His tone was soft and kind, soothing and gentle at first and I was ready to be relieved. Until I got a little closer and could make out the words. He can’t have seen me, after all. He wouldn’t be saying those things, those words like that, if he had. I knew Clara wasn’t safe at all.

I burst in on the two of them. I should have thought it through first, but my knee-jerk response was to intervene. I had to stop him. I asked what he was doing. He told Clara to stay where she was. There were blankets, toys and books inside the shelter; as if they’d used the place before. He came outside to speak to me. He sounded so convincing. They were playing a game, he said. I must have misheard him earlier. It was all completely innocent, but he understood my concerns. Her mother knew all about it, he insisted, but I was right, it was late and he admitted he ought to be getting her home.

I was almost ready to believe him, when I saw his flies were undone. He knew that I’d noticed; he could tell by the look on my face. And I could tell by the look on his. He came towards me. I was backing off, uncertain about running, because Clara was still inside the hut. She was in danger. I didn’t know what was behind me; I didn’t know there was a sheer drop that should have been fenced off.

In a split second he had a hefty branch in his hand. He was swinging it, getting a feel of the weight and working out how high he’d have to lift it in order to knock me to the ground. I got ready to run. I’d call the police as soon as I got back to the road. I’d flag down the first car that came my way and get people to Clara within minutes.

I didn’t know about the ridge with sharp crags and rocks at the bottom or the fence that had been vandalised. Right behind me. He lifted the branch and as soon as I turned, I fell. I blacked out. I must have done. I can remember nothing after that.

Clara. I take in a juddering breath. I was supposed to get help.

Judging from the pain in my chest and a deep throbbing in my kidneys, I must have dropped a long way, hitting an outcrop no doubt, as I fell. I must have internal injuries. He must have brought me to this farm – wherever it is – and decided to keep me here, because of what I’d seen.

It seems like many days have passed since then, yet I have patchy details of only a couple. He must have drugged me and little by little it’s wearing off. That’s it - my system must be getting used to the medication. Now things are a bit clearer, I’ve finally worked out who is keeping me here and what this is about. I don’t know what plans he has for me, but they can’t be good. He can’t afford for me to get back into the outside world.

I can’t break the ties around my ankles and wrists, but I can shuffle. Have I tried this before?

I scrabble on my backside towards the stable door and listen. I can hear the world carrying on without me – a distant train, the hum of an occasional vehicle far away, whoops of an owl. I’m in the middle of nowhere. I turn to feel the surface of the door with my fingers. There is a slim crack; it probably wouldn’t be enough to see out of, but it indicates a weakness. I’m a
strong swimmer – I have good legs. I start to batter the door with both feet together. Punching hard and fast. The door is strong too, but I hear an encouraging splinter.

Then there are footsteps – he’s coming back.

15 August – 16
^th
day missing

‘Morrell’s a slimy bastard,’ I tell Tara.

We’re wandering around cobbled streets in Portsmouth, the old part of the city, where in the eighteenth century sailors on leave used to frequent the pubs and brothels. Nowadays, there are views of the new quayside bars and restaurants, the Spinnaker Tower and ferries cutting through the water. Two picturesque pubs built in the seventeen hundreds are set on the harbour front. It feels busy with modern tourism and quaint throwbacks to the past, all in one.

We walk along the walls towards the square tower built in 1494. The water is wide enough to feel like the sea at this point and it splashes into crumbling rocks beneath us.

‘And he’s got photos of Diane plastered all over the walls?’ she says in dismay.

‘Not exactly. He’s got one of those noticeboards in the kitchen and there are about six photos from school – and she’s in five of them.’

Tara makes an ‘O’ shape with her mouth. ‘Shit – that doesn’t sound good.’

The splash of waves accompanies our footsteps; children ahead of us are skipping and laughing. We’ve walked this trail several times this year, you and I, Dee. For a brief moment, as I gaze out at the broad planes of blue in the distance, I’m fooled into thinking I’m with you and I almost reach out to take Tara’s hand.

I correct myself in time and put my hands in my pockets out of harm’s way. Tara hasn’t spoken for a while. She seems pensive this morning.

‘You seem quiet…are you okay?’

‘I’ve been thinking, that’s all. I was dying for the school holidays and now I just feel exhausted all the time.’

‘You need to recharge your batteries. Teaching is a hard slog.’

‘It’s more than that. I’m considering whether being a teacher is the right fit for me. I used to love it, at the start – now it feels like I’m reinventing the wheel every time a new school term comes around. Don’t you feel that at the university?’

‘No. I know what you mean – but I think I’m so fascinated by crime and criminology that there’s always something new. It’s always alive and fresh. It’s an exploration for me as much as it is for the students.’

‘That’s a great way to be.’ She sounds envious. ‘I’m not sure I get that feeling in my situation. Dee’s different, she adores the children. She loves watching them grow and develop and learn. She relishes the part she plays in that.’

‘And you don’t?’

‘This is going to sound selfish, but I want to grow and learn
myself
. I feel like I’m dishing out rote facts and figures for the kids to take away, but I’m not getting anything back.’