Little Face (35 page)

`Did you see them together, ever?'

`No.'

`Why Lady Muck?'

`That's what me and Daz used to call her. We saw her in the pool
and Jacuzzi all the time.'

`You and Beer were members of the health club?' Simon didn't try
to disguise his disbelief.

`Don't be daft. I wouldn't pay those prices. Nah, we used to dodge
reception and get in through the cafe bar, Chompers. Any idiot could
do it, but not everyone's got the inititative.' Lowe's solicitor flashed him
a look of pure loathing, then turned back to the chipped pale pink varnish on her fingernails.

`Lady Muck was in nearly every day, and so were we,' said Vinny.
`Being men of leisure, you know how it is. Well, you probably don't.
I swear she used to listen to our conversations. We used to have a
laugh, say that she fancied us and that was why she was following us
around. She must have known we weren't members, but she never said
nothing. We reckoned she got her rocks off listening to us.'

`What did you used to talk about?'

`Business,' said Lowe self-importantly. `Times we'd been inside. If
she was listening, we'd go way over the top, talking about shooters and
taking people out. Daz used to say listening to us talking like tough
guys made her ... you know.' Lowe winked. `We were just talking bollocks. Lady Muck didn't fancy us, she was just a nosey cow.'

`Did you and Beer ever mention your lock-up in front of her?'

`Probably. We used to laugh about it all the time, that all those
toffee-nosed parents had no idea their brats' bums were being changed
on top of our merchandise.'

`I thought you said the drugs were for your own personal use?'

`Just a turn of phrase.'

Normally Simon would have been furious to have a sleaze like
Vinny Lowe in front of him talking shit, but he had too much nervous
energy racing around his brain. Anger would have required more
attention than he could have mustered. Now that a firm link had been
established between the Fancourts and Darryl Beer, Simon had a sense
of increasing momentum, and was wrestling with the slight disorientation that always gripped him at this stage in a case. Part of him was
afraid to discover the truth. He had no idea why. It was something to
do with options narrowing down, the feeling of being pushed into the
mouth of a tunnel. He was pretty sure Charlie, Sellers and Gibbs
never felt this way.

If only it were tomorrow morning. But that was just a formality,
wasn't it? The phone call? He knew the truth, didn't he? Or was
there something more? Was he afraid of finding out something else?
Simon couldn't shake off a sense of foreboding, of something deeply
unpleasant lurking just around the corner, something he couldn't
avoid because he couldn't stop walking towards that corner ...

Alice. That was what really terrified him. What would he find out
about Alice? Please let it be nothing bad, he prayed, staring at the photograph in his hand, the family portrait. He shuddered. He didn't want
to look at it, didn't want to think about it, but why?

`Just to clarify,' he said to Lowe, mainly to distract himself from the
ominous awareness he knew was struggling to reach him. `Which of
the two women in the photograph is the one you and Darryl Beer
referred to as Lady Muck?'

Lowe pointed to Vivienne Fancourt. Simon felt a surge of relief.

Thursday, October 2, 2003

I AM SITTING at the dressing table brushing my hair when David walks
in. `Do you remember our honeymoon?' I say to him, determined to
speak before he does. `Do you remember Mr and Mrs Table, and the
Rod Stewart family? The evenings sitting on the balcony drinking
retsina? Do you remember how happy we were then?' I know that a
few shared nicknames won't bring back those feelings, but I want
David to remember, at least, that they once existed. Let him be as tormented as I am.

Scorn contorts his face. `You might have been,' he says. `I wasn't. I
knew you'd never mean as much to me as Laura did.'

`That's not true. You're just saying that to hurt me.'

`We only went to Greece. Anyone can go to Greece. Laura and I
went to Mauritius for our honeymoon. I didn't mind spending that sort
of money on her.'

`It doesn't matter how much money you spend, David. It never has.
Your mother always gives you more. How many times has Vivienne
bailed out your business over the years? More than once, I bet. If it
wasn't for her charity you'd probably be working in some grotty
factory.'

He clenches his teeth and storms out of the room. I continue to
brush my hair, waiting. A few minutes later he is back. `Put the brush
down,' he says. `I want to talk to you.'

`I've got nothing to say, David. I think it's a bit late for talking, don't
you?'

`Put the brush down! Look what I've got.' He shows me a photograph of my parents and me, taken when I was a child. He must have
got it from my handbag. It is my favourite picture of the three of us.
David knows this. He knows that if anything happens to it, it can never
be replaced. `I think your hair suits you better like it was then,' he says.

In the photograph I am five years old. My hairstyle is an unflattering,
masculine short back and sides. My parents were not the most stylish
people in the world. They didn't care a damn what anyone looked like.

`I don't like hairy women,' David tells me matter-of-factly. `The less
hair the better.'

`Laura had long hair,' I cannot resist saying.

`Yes, but hers wasn't limp and greasy like yours. And she didn't have
hair all over her body. I noticed, when you did your little striptease in the
kitchen earlier, that you haven't shaved under your arms for a while.'

`My daughter's been abducted,' I say in a monotone. `My appearance hasn't been the main thing on my mind.'

`Obviously not. I bet you haven't shaved your legs either.'

`No, I haven't,' I say. I know what is coming, but for once I can see
a way out of it. First, though, I have to plunge deeper in. `Why did you
do that, before?' I ask.

`Do what?'

`Pretend I'd refused to get changed, when it was you who wouldn't
let me take off that dirty jumper.'

`Because you deserve it,' says David. `Because you are dirty, deep
down, and it's about time Mum realised.'

I nod.

David walks over to me. He reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls
out Vivienne's white-handled kitchen scissors and a disposable razor.
He holds the black and white photograph of me with my parents in
front of my face. `This was a happier time for you, wasn't it?' he says.
`I bet you wish you could turn back the clock.'

`Yes.'

`You weren't a liar then. You weren't all disgusting and hairy.'

I say nothing.

`Well, now's your chance.' He nods at the razor, at the scissors. `Cut
your hair, so it looks like that. And then, when you've done that, I want
you to take off your nightie and shave off the rest of your hair.'

`No,' I say. `Don't make me do that.'

`I'm not making you do anything. You're free to do exactly as you
choose. But so am I. Remember that, Alice. So am I.U

'What do you want me to do? Tell me exactly what you want me
to do.'

`Take the scissors,' he begins slowly, as if he is talking to a retard.
`Chop off all your thin, straggly, snot-coloured hair. Then take off your
nightie and shave your legs and under your arms. And then, when
you've done that, you can shave between your legs as well. And when
you've done that, you can shave off the hair on your arms and your eyebrows too. When you've done all that, I'll let you go to bed. Big day
tomorrow.'

`And if I refuse?'

`Then I'll tear this into tiny pieces.' He waves the photograph in the
air. `It'll be bye-bye Mummy and Daddy. Again.'

An arrow of pain pierces the shield I have built, out of numb disbelief and necessity, to protect my heart. I wince and David smiles,
pleased to have struck home. `Okay, I'll do it,' I say. `But not with you
in the room.'

`I'm going nowhere. I'm the person you've wronged, so I'm entitled
to watch. Just get on with it. I'm tired and I want to go to sleep.'

`And I suppose you're going to tell Vivienne I did it by choice,
aren't you? More evidence of my depravity.'

`I had all the evidence I needed last Friday, when you decided to pretend our daughter was a stranger. But some people take a bit more convincing. Mum's not usually as slow as she has been about you. Actually,
I think she's beginning to get the message. That business this afternoon ... and when she sees what you've done to your hair, when she sees you
with no eyebrows, and finds a big pile of hair on the bedroom floor ...
because you're too much of a pig to clean up after yourself ... '

He has said enough for my purposes. I walk over to his wardrobe,
open it, and take out the Dictaphone that I put in one of his trouser
pockets this morning. I press the `stop' button, making sure that he sees
me, and back away, holding the little silver machine behind me. 'Everything you've said since you came in here is on this tape,' I tell him.

His face turns crimson. He takes a step towards me. `Don't move,'
I say. `Or I'll scream the place down. You won't be able to get the tape
off me and destroy it before Vivienne gets in here. You know how
quick she is when she knows something's going on that's not yet
under her control. So unless you want her to know what a sick,
twisted creep you really are, you'll do what I say.'

David freezes. He tries not to look worried, but I know he is. He has
always played the perfect little boy in front of his mother. His ego could
not survive exposure as a pervert and a sadist.

`Luckily for you, I'm not as sick as you are,' I say. `All I want you
to do is leave me alone. Don't speak to me or look at me. Stop thinking up new ways to torture me. Pretend I'm not here. I want nothing
more to do with you, you sad, pathetic scumbag.' David shrugs, pretending he doesn't care. `Oh-and one more thing.'

`What?'

`Where's Florence? What have you done with her? Tell me that and
I'll destroy the tape.'

`Oh, that's easy,' says David scornfully. `She's in the nursery. She's
here at The Elms where she's always been.'

I shake my head, sadly. `Good night, David,' I say. I leave the room,
holding the Dictaphone tightly in my hand, and close the door quietly
behind me.

Friday, October 10, 2003, 9 AM

`Is THIS A newly discovered eighth circle of hell?' said Charlie, gesturing at the mayhem around her. She and Simon were in Chompers,
Waterfront's brash, mock-American diner-style cafe full of parents in
sportswear with fake tans and their snotty, shrieking children. Survivor's
`Eye of the Tiger' was playing at full volume. `Why's it so packed?'

`They're all waiting for the creche to open,' said Simon. `It was supposed to open half an hour ago. I expect they've had trouble finding
new staff, after sacking Lowe's girlfriend. Look.' He nodded as a
young red-haired girl with a ponytail and freckles came in. She stood
at the door and waved. At the sight of her, most of the adults in
Chompers leaped out of their seats and began to gather together their
bags and toddlers. `Lisa Feather,' said Simon. `She was Donna's assistant. Maybe she's in charge now.'

`How come you know so much?' asked Charlie.

`I got here early. I've been in already. I didn't want to do it while the
kids were there.' He rubbed his watch strap with the index finger and
thumb of his right hand.

`And?' said Charlie.

And after he'd checked out the creche, while he waited for Charlie,
he'd made two phone calls. Yesterday he had thought one would be
enough, but in the middle of the night he'd sat bolt upright in bed,
knowing exactly why he'd felt apprehensive at the sight of that bloody photograph of Alice, David, Vivienne and Felix in the garden of The
Elms. He'd realised that he needed to make two calls, not one.

And now he had, and his hopes were confirmed along with his worst
fears. There was no uncomfortable rumbling in his subconscious now;
everything had risen to the surface. Simon saw the whole picture as
clearly as Charlie's face right in front of him.