Gone (42 page)

‘The papers said there’s been another,’ said Simone Blunt. ‘Everyone knows it’s happened. Just no one knows your name.’

‘They kept it quiet because they were protecting us.’

‘The cameras,’ Rose murmured. ‘Did he put cameras in your place?’

Janice nodded. She rested her hands on her lap and looked down at them, at the veins on the backs, showing through the skin. She couldn’t inject any expression or enthusiasm into her voice. Every word out of her mouth was an effort. Eventually she lifted her head again. ‘I know the police have spoken to you. I know they’ve gone through it over and over again and they can’t
see what we’ve got in common. But I thought maybe if we got together we might work out why he’s chosen us. We might be able to guess who he’s going to do it to next. Because I think he will do it again. And the police do too. Even if they’re not saying it. And if we could figure out who’s next that might be a chance to catch him – to find out what he’s done to our . . .’ She took a breath, held it. Avoided Rose’s eyes, knowing what would be in there and that just glimpsing it would unhitch the spring coiled inside her. When her voice was under control again she released the breath. ‘But now I’ve met you all I’m starting to think I’m just an idiot. I sort of hoped that maybe we’d be really similar. I thought we’d look the same, maybe, like the same things, live in similar houses, have similar situations, but we don’t. I can just see from looking at us that we couldn’t be more different. I’m sorry.’ She was exhausted. So exhausted. ‘Really sorry.’

‘No.’ Neil Blunt sat forward, pushing his head out so she was forced to look at his face. ‘Don’t be sorry. You’ve got a feeling about it so hang on to that. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there really
is
something connecting us. Something not obvious.’

‘No. Look at us.’

‘There
has
to be something,’ he persisted. ‘Something. Maybe we remind him of someone. In his childhood.’

‘Our jobs?’ Simone said. ‘Something about our jobs.’ She turned to Jonathan. ‘I know what you do, Jonathan, it’s been in all the papers. But, Rose, what do you do?’

‘I’m a medical secretary. I work for a team of osteopaths in Frenchay.’ She waited for someone to comment. No one did. She gave a sad smile. ‘Not very interesting, I know.’

‘Damien?’

‘I work for BMW. Working my way up through sales. Always think sales is where it’s at. If you can do well in sales you can have the world in your hand. But you got to want the chase, got to love the kill—’ He broke off – everyone was staring at him silently. He sank back, his hands up. ‘Yeah, well,’ he muttered, ‘that’s me. Car sales. BMW. In Cribbs Causeway.’

‘You, Janice? What do you do for a living?’

‘Publishing. I used to be a copy-editor. Now I’m freelance. And Cory’s a—’

‘Consultant to a printing company.’ Cory didn’t look at anyone when he spoke. ‘I advise them in marketing strategy. Tell them how to greenwash their image.’

Simone cleared her throat. ‘Financial analyst. And Neil works for the Citizens’ Advice Bureau in Midsomer Norton. Specializes in custody cases during divorce. But that doesn’t ring any bells for any of you. Does it?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry. No.’

‘Maybe we’re looking at it all wrong.’

Everyone turned. Rose Bradley was hunched in her chair, slightly embarrassed, slightly stubborn. She’d pulled her cardigan high around her shoulders so it came halfway up the back of her head – like a scared lizard in oversized skin. Her pale eyes peered out uncertainly from under lowered eyebrows.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Simone.

‘I said maybe we’re looking at it all wrong. Maybe we
do
know him after all.’

Everyone exchanged glances.

‘But we’ve just agreed we don’t,’ said Simone. ‘None of us has even heard of Ted Moon.’

‘What if it’s not him?’

‘What if
who
’s not him?’

‘The kidnapper. The person who’s doing all this. I mean, we’re sitting here assuming the police are right. That it’s Ted Moon. What if they’re wrong?’

‘But . . .’ said someone, then let the sentence die. Everyone in the room had stopped talking and moving. Their faces had gone slack. There was a long pause as this idea worked its way into their heads. One by one everyone turned away from Rose to Janice with expectant expressions. It was the exact way children would look at a teacher. Waiting for the person in control to come along and sort out the mess they’d got themselves into.

The baby seat had been another of the storm of presents that had hailed down on them at Charlie’s arrival. From Nigel’s parents this time. It was blue with yellow anchors embossed all over it. At eight fifteen on that cold morning it was sitting on the hallway floor, waiting to be picked up and strapped into the car. Charlie’s bag sat next to it, all ready: nappies and toys and a change of clothes.

Skye was gulping down a third cup of coffee, standing in the kitchen in her huge sweater, looking blankly at the condensation on the windowpanes. There was frost on the trees in the garden and she could feel the freezing air from outside coming through the gaps in the rattly sash windows. She thought about last night. About the opened window. The dustbin lid. She rinsed the cup and put it on the draining-board. Turned the thermostat up a little and checked that the windows were locked. In the hallway her red coat hung on the peg near the door, and next to it her handbag. Going out this morning made sense. A visit to the office. Just to show off Charlie to the partners. Why not?

Yes. It all made perfect sense.

In spite of the fire Janice was freezing. Her head was like stone. Cold and hard. Everyone was staring at her, expecting her to do or say something. She folded her arms and tucked her hands under her armpits to stop them trembling. Tried to gather herself.

‘Maybe – uh – maybe Rose is right.’ Her teeth were chattering. Banging together uncontrollably. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time the police were wrong. Maybe Ted Moon is the wrong man.’ She thought of all the men Emily had come into contact with over the years. A string of faces unfurled in her head – teachers at school, a lanky football coach with bad skin who was always too friendly with the mums, the milkman who sometimes spoke to Emily on the doorstep. ‘Maybe we’re all connected to someone else. Someone we haven’t even thought of.’

‘But who?’

‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know.’

A long silence descended on the group. Outside, Janice’s sister and Nick were showing Philippa Bradley the garden. She had brought her spaniel to play with the Labradors. From time to time the three women could be seen from the french windows, muffled in their coats and scarves, walking back and forth, throwing balls. They made black footprints in the frosted lawn. Janice stared at them. She remembered Emily playing out there as a toddler, laughing because she could hide behind the lavender beds and make Janice come out and act scared, say:
Oh, no! My little girl’s gone! Where’s my Emily? Has the monster got her?

Not Ted Moon? If so, then who? Who connected her and Cory to these five other people?

From the corner Damien spoke in a subdued voice. ‘Look.’ He opened his hands, turned to face the people behind him. ‘I ain’t never met that son-of-a-bitch in the photo neither, but I ought to say something.’ He levelled a finger at Jonathan. ‘You, man. Sorry to say it, but I know you from somewhere. Been thinking it since I came in.’

Everyone looked at Jonathan. He frowned. ‘From the papers, you mean? I’ve been all over the papers this week.’

‘No. I saw the pictures on the news and I never recognized you otherwise I’d’ve said something to the police. But when I came in just now I saw you and I thought, I do – I know that man from somewhere.’

‘From where?’

‘I can’t remember. Maybe I’m imagining it.’

‘Do you go to church?’

‘Not since I was a kid. The Deptford Seventh Day Adventists. Not since I got away from home. No disrespect but you wouldn’t catch me dead.’

‘And your child,’ Jonathan said. ‘Your daughter. What was her name?’

‘Alysha.’

‘That’s right. The police asked me. I did know an Alysha once, but it wasn’t Alysha Graham. It was Alysha Morefield, or Morton. I can’t remember.’

Damien stared at him. ‘More
by
. Alysha Moreby. Moreby’s her mother’s name – the name Lorna schooled her under.’

Colour crept into Jonathan’s face. Everyone in the room had inched forward a little and was staring at the two men. ‘Moreby. Alysha Moreby. I know her.’

‘Where do you know her from? We never took her to church.’

Jonathan’s mouth was half open. As if a terrible, terrible truth was about to reveal itself. Something that had been there all along and could have saved the world if only he’d thought of it early
enough. ‘School,’ he said distantly. ‘Before I was ordained I was a headmaster.’

‘Got it.’ Damien slapped his thighs. Dug a finger in the air. ‘Mr
Bradley –
of
course
. I remember
you
, man. I mean, I never met you, like – Lorna always did Alysha’s school stuff. But I seen you. I seen you – at the gates an’ shit.’

Janice sat forward, heart thumping. ‘Someone at the school. You both knew people at the school.’

‘No. I never came to anything at the school,’ said Damien. ‘Hardly anything. It was Lorna’s thing, the school run.’

‘No PTA meetings?’

‘No.’

‘Fêtes or fairs?’

‘No.’

‘You really didn’t meet the other parents?’

‘I swear – just never got involved. That’s how it’s always been in our family – woman does the school thing.’

‘But your wife,’ Jonathan said woodenly, ‘she was friendly with the other parents. I know because I remember her well. She always had a group of friends at the school gates.’

‘Anyone in particular?’ said Simone.

‘No. But . . .’ Jonathan’s eyes rolled up as if he was recalling something.

‘What is it?’ Janice was half out of her chair. ‘What?’

‘She got involved. In an incident.’ He looked at Damien. ‘Do you remember?’

‘What sort of incident?’

‘With one of the other parents. It got unpleasant.’

‘The sweetie jar? Is that what you’re talking about?’

Jonathan loosened his collar and turned bloodshot eyes to Janice. The room was suddenly hot. As if it was full of electricity. ‘It was the Monday after a fête. Lorna, Mr Graham’s partner, came into my office. She was holding a sweetie jar. She said she’d bought it at the fair. I remember it clearly because it all seemed so very
odd
at the time.’

‘A sweetie jar?’

‘I’d asked the parents to bring old jars filled with sweets to sell at the fair. For a pound, or whatever. It was to raise funds for the school roof that year, but when Mrs Graham got her jar home she found—’

‘A note in it,’ said Damien. ‘A little Post-it. Some writing scribbled on it.’

‘Lorna, Mrs Graham, read the note and brought it straight to me. She would have taken it to the police, but she was concerned it could have been a prank. She didn’t want the school in trouble.’

‘What did the note say?’

‘It said,’ he looked at her gravely, ‘ “Daddy hits us. He locks Mummy up.” ’

‘
Daddy hits us. Locks Mummy up
?’ The words put ice into Janice’s veins and made her want to stop breathing. ‘Did you find out who wrote it?’

‘Yes. Two of my pupils. I remember them very well, brothers. I think their parents were going through a divorce. I took it very seriously and, yes, I got Social Services involved. It didn’t take long to find out it was true. Two boys being abused by their father. Months before the sweet jar they’d been off school for a week. Came back looking very subdued.’ He rubbed his arms as if the memory made him cold. ‘Once Social Services were on board the mother got custody of the children. Father never went to court. He was police, I seem to recall. Backed down and never fought the custody case . . .’ He trailed off. Janice, Cory and Neil Blunt were sitting forward, their faces white. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What have I said?’

In her chair, her legs still crossed at the ankles, Janice began to shake.

A man, quite a large man, crouched unnoticed in the lee of an old olive-green telephone switching box on a residential street in Southville and stared intently at a front garden on the other side of the road. He wore jeans, a sweatshirt and a nylon jogging jacket. Nothing remarkable, really, but from his back pocket hung a length of coloured rubber. A face, sloppy and limp. The grinning mouth of a rubber Santa Claus mask – the sort of thing that could be picked up from any novelty shop for a few pounds. His dark-blue Peugeot was parked a few hundred yards away. Since the woman in Frome had seen him outside her house he’d learned to keep his distance better.

A woman came out of the front door, dressed in a bright-red coat and carrying two bags and a blue and yellow baby seat. She loaded up the car: baby seat first, safely strapped to the back seat, blanket all tucked in neatly. Then handbag on the front seat, nappy bag in the footwell. She got an ice-scraper from the glove compartment and leaned across the bonnet to get to the windscreen. Her back was turned to the man for a moment and he took the opportunity to creep from the shadow of the switching box. He walked calmly across the street, back straight, checking all around him as he did. He ducked into a neighbour’s front driveway and crossed the frosted lawn. He stopped in the line of shrubs that divided the two houses and watched as the woman walked around the back of the car, lifted the rear wiper to scrape the glass. The woman gave the windows one last brush and went
to the front. Paused to wipe the wing mirrors and got into the driver’s seat, blowing on her cold hands, fumbling with the key.

The man pulled on the Santa Claus mask, stepped over the low stone wall – a wolf taking its time – and walked calmly to her side of the car. Opened the door.

‘Get out.’

The woman’s response was to throw her hands into the air. It was an instinctive thing, to protect her face, and it succeeded only in clearing the way for him to reach over and unfasten her seatbelt. By the time she realized her mistake it was too late. He was already pulling her out of the car.