Gone Astray (8 page)

‘When would she normally wear it?’ said Maggie.

‘Well, it’s for going out.’

Maggie shot her an odd look.

‘You told me earlier that Rosie wasn’t allowed out with her friends in the evenings. Your husband’s strict about that kind of thing, isn’t he? If she doesn’t go out
and it’s not for just wearing around the house, what occasion did you buy it for?’

Lesley bit her lip. She’d said too much.

He didn’t bother to shower or even change out of his shorts and singlet before heading home. Perversely, he wanted people to smell the sex on him. Would they be scared if
they knew what he was capable of? They should be.

His encounter with the woman at the gym had been perfunctory but satisfying. She hadn’t taken too kindly to his handling of her and got upset when he’d pushed her face-forward over a
stack of boxes filled with leaflets advertising the gym and fucked her from behind. What was she expecting, he laughed afterwards when she slapped him across the face and complained he’d hurt
her. Foreplay? They were in a store cupboard at a municipal gym, not a suite at the Ritz. Close to tears, she slapped him again. He walked out then, leaving her alone to struggle back into her pink
Lycra.

Women like her were all the same, he justified. Rich and arrogant, she’d batted her eyelashes at him, made it clear she was up for some fun then took offence when it was on his terms, not
hers. She wouldn’t tell anyone what had happened, though, of that he was certain. She wouldn’t risk her husband finding out, whoever the idiot was. He also doubted he’d see her at
the gym again.

It was gone three when he got home. On a whim he’d taken a detour, just to make sure he hadn’t left anything incriminating behind linking him to the girl, but the police were
everywhere and he couldn’t get near the place. He’d try again tomorrow.

Unlocking his front door and pushing it open, the first thing he saw was the overnight bag he’d packed and left at the bottom of the stairs, ready for his departure. His passport was lying
on top so he wouldn’t forget it. He wouldn’t need either of them now, nor did he have any use for the freshly laundered shirt, suit and tie on the coat hanger dangling from the door
frame between the hall and the kitchen. He grabbed the hanger and tossed the whole lot onto the floor in a crumpled heap.

In the kitchen, he ran the cold tap for a minute before filling a pint glass with water. As he glugged it down, he peered through the kitchen window to make sure the burner that still cradled
the ashes of his and the girl’s garments was in the garden where he’d left it. He knew there was no reason why it wouldn’t be, but months of taking steroids had heightened his
sense of paranoia as well as his sex drive and he was no longer trustful of anything or anyone.

Draining the glass, he set it down on the side and went back into the hall. His phone was in a side pocket of his gym bag. He’d already worked out in his head what he was going to say and
within seconds he’d typed and sent the text:

He spent the next ten minutes in a state of agitation, worried she’d call straight back to demand a fuller explanation when he needed more time to get his story straight. There was no
client meeting – no boss, even – but she didn’t know that. She thought he was an accountant, that he lived in south London and his name was Simon. All lies, carefully constructed
to reel her in.

After twenty minutes he began to relax and took himself upstairs for a shower. She was probably at their meeting point already and unable to talk for fear of being overheard. He imagined
she’d be going nuts at the change of plan, but he knew exactly how to placate her. The only concern he had was that she’d want to try a different approach now. He just had to bide his
time until the events of that morning caught up with them.

He came downstairs wrapped in only a towel, idly fingering the fresh scratch that marked the right side of his chest just above his heart. It wasn’t deep but it was sore – for
someone so slight the girl had been surprisingly tough to overcome. She’d clawed at him like a cornered tomcat until he’d managed to render her unconscious.

He padded barefoot across the living-room floorboards and sat down on the edge of the sofa. His laptop was on the coffee table, opened on Twitter. He refreshed the page and was mollified to see
no mention of the girl’s disappearance on his feed yet, which he’d purposely curated to include the local newspaper, the
Mansell Echo
, the police and a few townspeople who
seemed to know everything that went on before anyone else. When the story broke, he wanted to be ready.

That meant making contact with the parents. His previous messages had clearly been far too vague for them to bother responding to, so this time he would make his intention clear. Simple. To the
point. If he was quick, he could make the last post of the day and it should arrive first thing.

How, he wondered, would they get the money to him? He couldn’t just ask them to transfer it to his bank account and give them the sort code. But the idea of so much cash being left
somewhere for him to pick up seemed equally risky. He decided not to issue any directions for payment until he’d googled what people did in a situation like his. It was all new to him.

He scrawled his note on a piece of paper torn from a spiral notebook, careful to disguise his usually neat handwriting. In the middle drawer of the kitchen dresser he found the crayons
he’d used to address his more recent letters to the Kinnocks. They were the ones he’d written anonymously and had filled with expletives and threats after the parents failed to
acknowledge any of the polite letters he’d sent with his details, asking them to get in touch. He fumbled open the packet – a souvenir from a previous relationship with a woman who had
a son – and selected the red crayon. Yes, that would look nice. Keeping his hand steady, he wrote out the Kinnocks’ address in plain capital letters. Sitting back, he admired his
handiwork. Perfect.

On the coffee table next to his laptop were three more mobile phones, which he’d bought when he’d stepped up his surveillance on the girl and her parents. Like his usual phone, they
were all pay-as-you-go, all untraceable.

He picked up the Samsung first. There were only two numbers stored in the contacts and he dialled the first one while simultaneously opening his Gmail account on his laptop. He clicked through
the automated options until a woman’s voice came on the line.

‘You’ve reached customer service. I’m Ruth. How can I help today?’

‘I need to cancel my flight.’

‘Do you have a reference number, sir?’

He rattled it off from the email open in front of him. He could hear Ruth tap-tapping on a keyboard.

‘That flight’s for eleven p.m. this evening, sir.’

‘I know. I can’t go now because of work. I’d like my money back.’

Ruth spoke briskly. ‘Your ticket is non-refundable, sir. However, if you want to change the date of your flight, I can do that for a fee.’

‘No, I want my money back now.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but we are a non-refundable airline. Our terms are very clear on our website.’

‘I don’t give a fuck how clear they are, I want my money back.’

Ruth paused. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but that is the airline’s policy. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to re-book the flight on another day?’

‘What the fuck for?’ he snarled. ‘I don’t need to go up there now.’

‘Then I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.’

He clenched his fists to his temples. He needed to think but the white noise whooshing in his ears was making it impossible.

‘I can’t afford to lose that fucking kind of money,’ he said. ‘With all the stupid extras you charge it’s nearly two hundred fucking quid.’

There was no reply from Ruth but he could hear the chatter of other operators in the background, so he knew she hadn’t cut him off.

‘Seriously, what the fuck am I meant to do?’

‘If you want, I can put you through to our complaints department, but they will tell you the same thing, I’m afraid,’ said Ruth.

Incensed, he called her a fucking bitch and slammed the phone down. He was about to dial the other number stored in the Samsung’s contacts when he suddenly noticed it was nearly 4 p.m. His
next jab was overdue.

Returning to the hallway, he extracted a small vial of clear liquid from the front pocket of his gym bag. There was a description on the label written in a language he couldn’t read,
Arabic or something, but he had been assured it was Deca, the steroid he relied on to ease joint stiffness. From his bag he also retrieved a black leather oblong box, the kind an expensive pen or
necklace might come in. Flipping it open, he pulled a syringe out of its velvet bed and attached a new needle popped from a blister packet. Deftly, he filled the syringe with liquid from the vial,
unwrapped the towel from his waist and let it drop to the floor, then injected himself on the right side of his groin. He didn’t even have to look where he was doing it, barely noticed the
sting as the needle pricked his flesh, and the whole process was over in thirty seconds. He put the used needle in the bin under the kitchen sink and returned the syringe to its velvet bed,
snapping the box shut.

Still naked, he went back into the living room and picked up the Samsung mobile to make his second call. The woman who answered sounded much nicer than Ruth. Her voice was soft and melodic and
soothing.

‘I need to cancel my reservation,’ he said.

‘Of course, sir. Do you have your booking reference?’

‘Sorry, not to hand.’ He gave her the fake name he’d booked under, Simon Morgan. ‘I’m afraid work is keeping me down south now.’

‘You were due to arrive tonight?’ she queried.

‘Yes, but not until after midnight. I was meant to stay until Saturday, but, as I said, exceptional circumstances have forced me to change my plans.’ He grinned to himself.
Exceptional indeed.

‘I’m afraid our cancellation policy—’

‘It’s okay. I understand it’s short notice.’ He didn’t know if it was her lovely Scottish accent or the steroids that had calmed him down, but he didn’t want
to row with her.

‘I’ve cancelled that for you, sir, and sent you an email confirmation.’

‘Thank you.’

‘That’s quite all right, sir. I hope you’ll be able to visit us in St Andrews another time instead.’

Maggie caught Umpire’s eye and he nodded. Taking it as a sign he was happy for her to continue, she advanced towards Lesley, who was by now visibly shaking, and crouched
down by her chair.

‘We don’t mean to upset you by asking about Rosie’s skirt,’ she said gently. ‘We just need to establish why it’s been found like it has.’

Lesley recoiled from her. ‘Please stop asking me questions. I don’t know why Rosie’s skirt was outside and I don’t know where she is!’

Maggie looked quizzically at Umpire. He shook his head resignedly.

‘Let’s leave it for now,’ he said.

‘I don’t feel well,’ Lesley mumbled.

‘Do you want to have a lie-down? We can come and get you if there’s any news,’ said Belmar. In an aside to his colleagues he explained that Lesley had complained of feeling
faint. Umpire agreed she should get some rest.

‘We can call a doctor if you want,’ Maggie offered.

‘No, that’s not necessary,’ said Lesley. ‘I’ll just lie down for a bit.’

The three of them watched as she shuffled out of the room and closed the door behind her.

‘Well, clearly she’s not telling us everything,’ said Umpire, raking his long fingers through his hair. ‘Press her again on the skirt when she gets up. I want to know
when it was bought and exactly when Rosie’s worn it before, and who she was with when she did. And I think we do need to ask her dad about it. He may not know about the skirt but he might
have an idea where she’s been sneaking off to to wear it.’

Belmar cleared his throat. He looked nervous and fiddled with his cuff as he spoke.

‘Sir, about Mr Kinnock. It doesn’t look like he’s been staying where he said he was in Scotland.’

Umpire frowned. ‘Meaning?’

‘Mrs Kinnock asked her neighbour Sarah Stockton to call his hotel in Scotland because he wasn’t answering his mobile. Mrs Stockton did call, but she says the hotel told her Mr
Kinnock had checked out on Sunday morning after only staying for one night. Yet Mrs Kinnock said he was meant to be there until the following Saturday morning, before flying home.’

‘What’s the hotel called?’

Belmar checked his notes. ‘The Old Course Hotel. It’s the closest to St Andrews golf course and the most exclusive, five stars.’

‘The neighbour’s sure that’s what the hotel said? He’s definitely in Scotland because I’m sending someone to Heathrow to meet his flight from Edinburgh and
I’ve had confirmation of when it’s due to land.’

‘She was adamant, sir,’ said Belmar.

The DCI looked pensive for a moment and Maggie knew better than to interrupt him when he was thinking.

‘I’ll have someone call the hotel and double-check what Mrs Stockton is saying. Maybe she’s confused,’ he said after a pause. ‘But if Mr Kinnock did stay somewhere
else for the past two nights, we need to find out where, and why. Your job in the meantime is to find out more about the family dynamic, the parents’ relationship, etc. You know the
drill.’

Mrs Kinnock said to me upstairs that her husband and Rosie are very close and she feels like she just gets in their way,’ said Maggie.

‘The neighbour was also quite helpful on that score,’ Belmar chimed in. ‘She said the parents appear to live quite separate lives. Dad’s always away on golf trips –
or so he says – and the mum stays at home. She doesn’t go out much, apart from the odd shopping trip, and they don’t have many visitors. It sounds like Mrs Kinnock lives quite an
isolated life.’

‘Mrs Kinnock also said Rosie’s cut herself off from the friends she knew living in Mansell. Maybe she’s done the same,’ said Maggie.