Ready or Not (8 page)

‘
It wasn’t planned,’ she reiterated. And while a child is still missing, Sir,’ she said slowly, ‘I am never off duty.’

             
Clayton moved back to the desk. He wasn’t questioning her commitment; just the way she went about achieving results. ‘You’re becoming too involved again,’ he said. The moustache relaxed and his voice softened. ‘I don’t want to see history repeat itself. If it does I’ll have to take you off the case, you know that, don’t you?’

             
Kate nodded, hating herself for feeling like a reprimanded schoolgirl receiving a warning from the head teacher.

             
‘Dawn Reed and her partner are victims,’ Clayton said. ‘Their child is missing. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?’

             
She wondered why that rule seemed to apply to everyone else but never her.

             
He nodded towards the door and Kate took her cue to leave. She guessed that it was as much for his sake as for hers. She knew that he’d caught the shakiness in her voice and was encouraging her to leave before she got upset and made a fool of herself, or he was forced to deal with an emotional woman. It had never been one of Clayton’s strengths, although he’d always tried his best to be a sympathetic shoulder.

She was grateful for the invitation to leave
.

In the corridor outside Clayton’s office Kate leaned back against the wall and caught her breath. Her head throbbed and she tried not to let Clayton’s words affect her. ‘Sees things that aren’t there.’ It hadn’t happened for a while now, but she knew it would again, sooner or later
, and when it did she would be faced with ridicule by anyone who got to hear about it. She would be in the supermarket and she would see his face – the face she thought might belong to him now – and she would steady herself on her trolley, wait for him to pass; realise as she watched the stranger staring back at her defensively that it wasn’t him. It was never him. Kate closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

*

In her memory she placed her feet carefully so that the fallen leaves beneath her would not make a sound. She squeezed her eyes shut tight as though, if Daniel should see her, the fact that she could not see him would mean she had still not yet been found. She placed the palms of her hands against the rough bark behind her, running them over the tree, tracing the grooves and ridges in its trunk.

             
She didn’t know how long she had waited. She had little concept of time at the age of seven: it had felt like a lifetime, but was probably no more than a couple of minutes. Long enough to realise that she had not heard her brother approaching and that he was looking in completely the wrong area for her. She loved to hide, but she didn’t love to be kept waiting too long.

             
‘Daniel!’ she called.

             
She stayed behind the tree. She looked up at the sky between the branches; saw the ethereal trace of a plane’s journey etched white in the grey above her. She noticed that everything seemed unusually quiet; unnaturally still.

             
‘Daniel!’ she called again.

             
When he didn’t respond this time, she stepped from behind the tree.

             
She sighed despondently and set about the task of finding her brother. She was supposed to be the one hiding. Kate hated doing the seeking.

Nine

Kate stepped out into the car park, grateful for the fresh air and the change of scenery. The police station towered behind her, grey and looming; a suitably miserable setting for the way she was feeling. She felt as though she had been trapped in that building for days on end; the sadness, the frustration and the lack of joy trapped within those four walls seeping into her skin and draining her emotions. Not days – years. Each one taking another part of her that she would never be able to replace.

             
She was unable to shake off Clayton’s words and felt an uncharacteristic surge of resentment that she knew would be more fairly directed if aimed at herself. It was no good trying to blame him for her failings, any more so than it was worth blaming her mother, her father, Dawn Reed, Nathan Williams. Blaming them was easy. Blaming someone else was always easy. Taking responsibility for her own compulsions was something else altogether.

             
She crossed the car park and unlocked the driver’s door. She was going to pop into town and buy something highly calorific that she would no doubt regret in a couple of hours time.

Kate
was fumbling in her handbag for her phone when she sensed someone standing behind her. She turned quickly and dropped the phone, which hit the floor and bounced; the back piece and battery flying loose.

‘Sorry,’ the man said, raising his hands apologetically. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump.’

He leaned down to the ground and picked up the pieces of her mobile, handing them back to her and apologising. His skin briefly touched hers as the battery exchanged hands. 

‘Not a problem,’ Kate said apprehensively. She glanced at the battery in her hand and wondered if it had just shocked her. The tiny fine hairs on the back of her hand were raised, though it was probably just the cold.

She had expected the man to either say something or walk away, but he did neither. There was a strained silence in which she was able to give him the once over: dark hair styled effortlessly, striking blue eyes, athletic build; early to mid thirties. Kate felt herself blush. She was doing that far too frequently. Flustered, she busied herself by trying to put the pieces of her mobile back together.

‘Was there something?’ she asked, not raising her eyes from what she was doing.

‘Yes,’ the man said, without hesitation. He watched her struggling with the battery and put out a hand. ‘May I?’

Kate passed him the battery and phone, trying her best to act
casually. She smiled sheepishly as the man inserted the battery back into the phone with one simple push and she realised she had been trying to put it back in upside down and back to front.

‘Oh,’ she said, acknowledging her mistake
and feeling like an idiot.

The man said nothing, just handed the phone back.

‘Thanks,’ she said, putting it in her bag to avoid another opportunity of making a fool of herself. ‘So…what can I do for you?’

‘I take it you’re a police woman,’ he said.

She nodded reluctantly.

‘I was hoping you could help me find my son.’

God, Kate thought. Not another one.

*

Back inside the station, Kate took Neil Davies to the same grey, lifeless interview room where she had spoken with Caroline and Robert Jennings just an hour earlier.

             
‘I know, Mr Davies, your son is being fostered by Mr and Mrs Jennings. They left not long before you arrived,’ she told him. ‘They did tell me about you. They weren’t sure how to contact you and asked if I would let you know. I was in the process of finding your address.’

             
Neil waved a hand carelessly. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘No one’s fault. I just want the same as everyone else. I want to find my son.’

             
Kate sensed the interview would turn out to be a long and complex one, so she got them both a cup of tea – hers with no sugar; his, the same - and sat opposite Neil in the interview room.

             
‘How did you know he was missing?’ Kate asked.

             
‘Sophie,’ he said. ‘Ben’s sister.’

             
Kate said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

             
‘Ben’s been with the Jennings for about a year now,’ he told her. ‘It’s not a permanent thing. His sister is with a foster family as well, but a different one. Again…not permanent.’

             
‘The Jennings seem good people, Mr Davies,’ Kate said, sensing an edge of resentment in the father’s voice. ‘They’re both very concerned about Ben’s well-being.’

             
‘I know that,’ he said quickly, his tone changing. ‘I’m sorry – you misunderstand me. I understand the reasons why the kids are there and I appreciate what the Jennings have done for Ben. Are doing,’ he added, correcting himself. He sat forward in his seat and put both hands on the table, squeezing his right fist with his left hand. He looked up to see Kate watching him and immediately relaxed his hands. ‘I just know that it won’t be forever, that’s all.’

             
Kate watched Neil as he sipped his coffee. He held the cardboard cup in both hands, like a small child with a beaker. His eyes looked up at her while he drank; eyes that were incredibly bright – with unusually long lashes for a man – and there was an unexpected warmth within the icy blue that radiated when he looked up at her.

             
‘Their mother died three years ago,’ he explained, putting his drink back on the table. He looked away from her and at the far wall, distracted by the memory. ‘Car accident. We were all in the car, but Sarah didn’t have a seatbelt on. Her death…’ He paused and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Well…I didn’t cope very well after she was gone. I suppose I’d taken for granted just how much she did for the family. Without her…I don’t know, it was like we’d come unstuck. I didn’t do the best by my kids, I know that. But things are better now. Much better. It’s not forever.’

             
Kate was unsure whether Neil Davies was trying to convince her or himself.

             
‘I’m sorry,’ he continued. He laughed and the sound had a bitter edge. ‘I keep saying that, don’t I? – It’s not forever. I used to say it to myself all the time as a kid. I don’t know - I must have been a miserable kid or something.’ He laughed again. This time the sadness was obvious. ‘Nothing is forever though, is it?’

Kate looked away quickly when she realised she had been staring intently at Neil Davies as he spoke. Her eyes had been fixed on the contours of his mouth as it moved with his words; drawn to the creases that lined the skin beneath his cheekbones: the right side just slightly deeper than the left.

She felt a connection with this stranger; a feeling that she could neither name nor justify. She felt an unmistakable pity for him; a strangely maternal sympathy that, in the most bizarre and awkward of moments, made Kate want to lift her hand and gently pat his cheek.

             
She cleared her throat.

             
‘I’m sorry about your wife, Mr Davies,’ she said.

             
‘Please,’ he said, looking right into her. ‘Call me Neil.’ He passed a scrap of paper across the table. ‘Here’s my mobile number in case you need to get in touch with me.’

*

Kate’s first stop was at Ben’s best friend’s house. She had already spoken to the boy’s mother, but thought it would be best to see the boy in person. He may have known of Ben’s whereabouts, but children could be fiercely loyal and would cover for each other if asked to.

             
In the car she couldn’t stop thinking about Neil Davies. His story was haunting – the stuff of the kind of tragic romance novels she used to read when she was a girl, before real life killed her faith in fantasy and made her too cynical for such indulgences – and she wondered, not for the first time, how life could be so cruel and deal so many blows to so many people. If God was in his heaven he must be taking lots of days off.

             
She remembered Neil Davies looking up at her over his tea, his intense eyes fixed on her as she spoke.

             
She scorned herself for blushing, again.

Ten

DCI Chris Jones’
daughter, Holly, sat on the rug in the middle of the living room, an array of dolls her mother had sent with her scattered across the floor. She grappled with a blonde Barbie, tugging at the doll’s hair as she tried to prise its dress around its narrow shoulders. Everything that Holly played with now had been brought from her new house, on ‘loan’ for the day. The house was no longer child friendly and, besides the single bed with the Peppa Pig duvet in the back bedroom, there was little to show that a child lived there.

             
A child didn’t live there, not anymore. It wasn’t just the toys that were on loan, Chris realised; Holly was with him on borrowed time. He had offered to move when he and Lydia had separated and expected it would be the natural turn of events, but she had been adamant on being the one to go, taking their daughter with her. She didn’t want to stay in a house that had so many memories, she said, but as far as Chris could recall those memories weren’t as bad as her desperation to flee the place suggested, and not the sort that someone might feel the need to run away from. They argued, but who didn’t? And now it was he who wanted to flee this building; he who wanted to escape the constant feeling of failure as a father that greeted him every time he arrived home from work.

             
He was kidding himself and had been doing the same for years, he knew that now. He watched Holly finally manage to yank the dress from the doll and as she set about arranging a ski outfit for its brunette counterpart Chris wondered when his daughter had grown so tall. She seemed to look different somehow from when he had seen her just yesterday.

             
When she had left, Lydia had taken all of Holly’s things with her, right down to the Disney stickers on her wardrobe and the personalised hold-backs on her bedroom curtains. It would be easier for Holly, she claimed, if all her things were at her new home; it would help avoid any confusion regarding where her ‘real home’ was. It would be easier for all of them, a clean break. Easier for Lydia, Chris suspected. A chance to prove that she was the one holding all the cards and she was ready to take him for everything he had, including his own child.

             
It also meant that every time Lydia came around to drop Holly off she had a massive bloody bag of clothes and toys with her. Completely unnecessary, Chris thought. And typical bloody Lydia. Any amount of hassle only to demonstrate the hold she had over him; who was in charge.

             
He had slipped back into the lifestyle of a single working man a little too easily and the family home had reverted to the stereotypical bachelor pad: dirty dishes piled in the sink, washing left to fester in the machine; milk well past its use by date left to grow fur in the fridge. It wasn’t because he was lazy; it was because he was busy. When they were together Lydia had complained repeatedly about the hours Chris worked; ironically, her leaving meant he worked even harder and longer. The less time he spent in this silent house that seemed to taunt him the better.

             
The doorbell rang and Chris glanced at his watch. She was early. Again. If he was to collect Holly and arrive at their new house too early Lydia would fuss about with bags and coats, feigning busyness in a futile and childish effort to show that his access to Holly was in her hands. If she was early it meant Chris lost out on his time with Holly. He grimaced and went to the front door, dodging the fallen Barbies on his way.

             
‘You’re early.’

             
Lydia brushed past him without invitation. She was, as always, immaculately dressed; a three quarter length, pillar-box red winter coat and knee high boots and her dark hair - always perfectly styled - pulled away from her face in a loose knot. She looked great and she knew it. She gave Chris a glance to check he was looking at her and he noted the expression, storing it with the collection of others he had come to recognise.

             
When they had first met, Chris had been attracted to the obvious physical appeal of Lydia, quickly followed by her independence; a characteristic it seemed now she had worked hard to promote in those early days of their relationship. She had seemed level headed, grounded; all the things that Chris’ lifestyle and work pattern needed. She seemed to understand that his job was not a nine-to-five commitment and he wouldn’t always be around on weekends. She’d understood; at least, it seemed, until the ring was firmly on her finger and she was Mrs Jones. Then everything changed.

             
Lydia was physically beautiful, but it had soon become apparent to Chris that she needed to be constantly told so. She wasn’t as independent and carefree as she had appeared early on; nor was she as beautiful. She had a public face - the face she had worn to the door - and a private face that she changed into as soon as the door was shut behind her. She was suspicious and controlling; the very things that Chris had learned to despise through his work.

             
Ignoring his comment, Lydia headed straight for the living room and reached to retrieve the first fallen doll from the floor.

             
‘Come on, Holly,’ she said abruptly. ‘Time to go.’

             
Chris watched from the doorway of the room as his estranged wife hurriedly stuffed dolls’ clothes into Holly’s rucksack. Their daughter remained sitting on the rug, pouting as her mother took the last doll from her hand. Should he tell his ex-wife that Holly frequently asked if she could come and live with him? It would be points for him, but that would be the most selfish and futile reason for doing so. Let her see if for herself, he thought. If she treated her daughter with the dismissive carelessness with which she’d treated him for years then it wouldn’t be long before Holly made her wishes loud and clear for all to hear.

             
‘Come on,’ Lydia repeated.

             
‘Lydia,’ Chris said, stepping into the living room. ‘This isn’t working.’

             
She turned and looked up at him. ‘You’ve only now noticed?’ she remarked bluntly.

             
‘The dolls,’ Chris sighed. ‘The toys. The clothes. You can’t keep lugging this bag around.’