Stolen (17 page)
Chapter Forty
Abby was wrong about thinking it was going to rain. The sun was blazing and the park was swarming with children and frazzled-looking parents. Abby started making her way through the crowds and wondered how she was going to be able to take it all in. It was impossible to see even half of the kids in the tents they were so tightly packed together. She made her way to the front of one where face painting was taking place. A small, shy boy was being coaxed onto the stool by his dad. The unnaturally chirpy face-painter asked what he’d like to be. The boy shrugged and kept his eyes on his dad.
‘What about a tiger?’ the face-painter asked with a growl. The boy shrugged again. His dad stood over him with his arms crossed. ‘Or a bear?’ she tried, with another growl suspiciously like the tigers, before looking to his dad for help.
‘Just do the tiger,’ he said and looked at his watch. The woman turned to her paints and picked up a brush.
‘A rabbit,’ the boy said quietly.
‘A rabbit?’ his dad and the woman said in unison. ‘You can’t be a bloody rabbit,’ his dad continued. ‘Do the tiger,’ he said to the woman.
The woman looked from the boy to his dad and then went for the orange paint. The boy sat looking down, the woman struggling to see his face well enough to get the paint on. The dad got his phone out and Abby moved on. She wondered what animal Beth would’ve chosen. She could hear a Punch and Judy show going on somewhere behind her. She’d always found them creepy and decided that she’d never take Beth to one of those then wondered if that made her like the man at the face-painting stall, deciding what his son could and couldn’t do. If Beth wanted to see Punch and Judy, she could.
Making her way towards the ice cream van she sat on the bench opposite. It was a good vantage point. Streams of kids lined up under the watchful eyes of their parents. Abby took them all in, judging them by sex and age, those that met the first few requirements were scrutinised more carefully. Occasionally she wondered if the other parents were aware of her watching. She often worried that the police would be called and she’d be hauled off and told she wasn’t allowed within two hundred yards of any school, playground or anywhere else kids might be, but so far no one seemed moved by her presence. No one ever really seemed to notice her at all anymore. Not like they used to. They were too caught up in their own lives to notice that Abby’s had fallen apart.
Beside her, two women plonked themselves down, waving three children off towards the ice cream van. One lit a cigarette and as the smoke drifted, the other got up and swapped sides. The smoker shouted at her oldest to keep hold of the youngest and he grudgingly obliged, grabbing hold of his sister’s arm and dragging her behind him sulkily. The women exchanged glances and rolled their eyes. Abby tried to smile and got up and walked on. As she made her way through the crowd surrounding a food stand she tried to take in the faces of the kids but they were too close together, too many to process.
Abby squeezed past. A young woman with bright red hair approached her, looking bored. She held out a flyer and said, ‘You should go,’ before moving on.
Abby looked down at the flyer. A performance of
Wind in the Willows
the next day. It was worth a try. She smiled, tears forming in her eyes, thinking it was exactly the type of thing she would’ve taken Beth to. Abby wondered if Beth would be the clever, happy, outgoing little girl that lived in her imagination or if she was sad and withdrawn like the unhappy boy in the face-painting tent. She touched the envelope in her pocket.
She’s happy. She’s okay.
Abby went to put the flyer in her pocket when something stopped her. There was something written on the other side, the ink had pressed through. She turned it over.
She’ll be there.
Abby’s breath caught in her chest. She looked around for the girl who’d handed her the flyer but could no longer see her through the mess of people. She started to push through the queue for the food stand, ignoring people’s complaints.
She squeezed through to the other side but she couldn’t see the girl’s red hair anywhere. She spun around searching for her.
Nothing.
She looked back at the flyer.
She’ll be there.
That wasn’t a coincidence. She closed her eyes. The girl didn’t have any more flyers with her. She only gave one to Abby, she was sure of it.
She needed to find her.
Abby started running through the park, eyes scanning the faces. She slowed down and started asking people if they’d seen her, the girl with the red hair.
When she’d reached the other side of the park she stopped, sitting down on a bench. Who was she? How did she know where Beth was?
Abby felt tears stinging her eyes; her mind was racing trying to process it. So she didn’t know who the girl was. Did that matter? She’d basically told her that Beth would be there tomorrow. She knew what she needed to do. Be there. If Beth was there, if she’d found her, did it matter who the girl was?
She looked at the flyer again and then pulled out the envelope, battered and curled from years of being kept in her pocket. She wondered if it was from the same person. If the girl had sent the notes to her.
Maybe she should call Gardner, let him know what’d happened. As she went to take her phone out of her bag it started to ring. She looked at the screen. Simon.
‘Hi,’ she said and wondered whether she should tell him. She wanted to. She wanted him to be there when she found Beth. But she knew he wouldn’t believe her, would think she was crazy, imagining things she wanted to believe were true.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way home, just wondered if you wanted a lift back.’ He paused. ‘If you’re done.’
Abby thought about it. Usually she’d have said no. She wasn’t done. She wouldn’t leave until everyone else had gone. Until every face had been seen. But there was no reason for that today. She knew Beth wasn’t there. She would be there tomorrow. And maybe tomorrow she would get her daughter back.
Chapter Forty-One
‘I saw Gardner today,’ Abby said as they drove home, her hand touching the flyer in her pocket.
‘Yeah?’ Simon said and glanced briefly in her direction but didn’t meet her eye.
‘Yeah,’ Abby said. ‘He asked after you.’ She waited for Simon to say something but after a while she realised he wasn’t going to and carried on. ‘I told him about that reporter.’
‘What reporter?’ he asked and Abby tried to recall whether she’d told Simon or not.
‘Some reporter called me and asked for a comment. About that girl, Chelsea.’
‘Just called you out of the blue?’
Abby nodded.
‘And? Did you tell him to go fuck himself?’ Simon said.
Abby looked at him and wondered why no one else thought it was a good thing that the media were interested again.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t say anything. She was after a quote about Gardner.’
This time Simon looked at her properly. ‘And?’ he said.
‘And I didn’t say anything,’ she said. ‘She was basically making connections about the fact that they haven’t found Chelsea yet and...’ Abby paused, her hand still on the flyer in her pocket. ‘She was after some bitterness, or blame or something.’
Abby looked at Simon but he still didn’t speak. ‘What?’ she said. ‘You think they’re right? That this is his fault?’ Simon glanced in the side mirror. ‘You think he hasn’t done his job properly?’ Abby asked, turning in her seat to face him. ‘You don’t think he’s trying?’
‘No, he’s trying,’ Simon said and finally looked at her. ‘He’s very attentive.’
Abby stared at him and felt a familiar burn in her stomach but rather than say anything she turned away from him, wanting to get home. She’d left the park feeling hopeful, that maybe tomorrow things would change, that they’d have a family again. But he was taking that away from her.
They stopped at the lights and Simon lit a cigarette. Abby wound down her window.
‘Jen came by again today,’ he said.
Abby turned to him. ‘Why? I don’t see her for months and then suddenly she’s there every day?’
Simon shrugged. ‘You made her leave before she got to see you yesterday.’
Abby snorted. ‘Maybe it’s not me she’s coming to see.’
Simon pulled away from the lights and flicked ash out of the window. ‘Well, it wasn’t actually,’ he said and Abby opened her mouth to say something but he cut her off. ‘She came to ask about Paul.’
‘Paul?’ Abby said. ‘What about him?’
‘She wanted to know if you were seeing him again,’ he said.
‘What?’ Abby said. ‘Why?’ Abby couldn’t understand why she would ask that. She hadn’t seen her husband – ex-husband – since he’d walked out the door five years earlier. Despite her many attempts to see him, Paul had avoided her completely after that day he’d left; allowing his solicitor to do all his talking for him.
‘She thought she’d seen him yesterday,’ he said. ‘She just wondered if you were back in touch.’
‘She’s wondering or you’re wondering?’ Abby asked.
The car stopped and Abby realised they were home. Simon turned off the engine and looked at her. ‘Are you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘And if I was I would’ve told you.’
‘Would you?’
Abby unbuckled her seat belt. Throwing it off, she opened the door. ‘Fuck you, Simon,’ she said and slammed the door.
Chapter Forty-Two
Gardner climbed the stairs to his first-floor flat, his legs getting heavier with each step. It’d been a long day. They were all long days these days. Meeting Abby only made it worse. He always looked forward to their get-togethers, which made him feel guilty, but always came away feeling deflated. He’d arrive feeling like at least someone needed him, still trusted him, and then left knowing it was nothing but desperation.
He shuffled to his front door and closed it behind him, shutting out the argument his neighbours were having in the hall. He wished one of them would give in and just do whatever the other wanted – wash the dishes, take the bin out – but he knew it’d never happen. He’d been there. Anyone who’d lived with someone for more than six months had been there. But he wished one of them would just be the bigger person and shut up. His head was banging.
He checked his watch. Gone eleven. Maybe it was too late. Maybe he should do it tomorrow. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled. It’d be pointless tomorrow. Just another empty gesture.
Gardner paced as the phone rang a couple of times and he wondered if it was too late.
‘Hello?’
Gardner felt a twinge of disappointment. ‘Hi, Dad,’ he said. He could hear the TV on in the background but his dad said nothing. ‘It’s Michael.’
‘I know.’
More silence.
‘I just wanted to say happy birthday,’ Gardner said. ‘Sorry it’s so late.’
‘I’m up.’
‘Right, well, just thought I’d ring and... see how you’re doing. There’s a card in the post,’ he said and cleared his throat. ‘You do anything today?’
‘Like what?’ his dad said.
‘I don’t know. Did David bring the kids?’
‘Haven’t seen him. Any of them.’
Gardner could hear the babble of changing channels and his dad muttering at the remote control. Some things never change. He could stay away from home for another five years and he’d still recognise his dad’s grumbles.
‘Anyway, what would I be doing if they did come? Having a party? Eating jelly and ice cream?’ his dad said.
‘Did he ring you?’
‘No. Why would he? He never bothers any other time.’
Gardner sat down. David could be an absolute tosser at times. He used to get away with his selfishness with their mum. No matter how disappointed she was by his lack of visits she was always charmed into submission by David’s kids. Put them on the phone for a few minutes and it absolved David of any responsibility. He doubted it worked on their dad. He wondered if Norman Gardner even cared whether he saw his kids or grandkids.
‘I just thought he might’ve popped in,’ Gardner said.
‘He’s probably busy,’ his dad said. ‘Same as you.’
They both let that hang in the air for a moment. Gardner wanted to argue that he actually was busy but somehow it didn’t excuse the fact he rarely called anymore.
‘I saw you on the news,’ his dad said. ‘Looks like you’ve got your hands full.’
‘Yeah,’ Gardner said.
‘She’s probably dead by now isn’t she? Poor kid. Deserved better.’
Gardner bit his tongue. He knew that his dad didn’t give a shit about Chelsea Davies. He probably hadn’t even watched the full report. He’d have come to the same conclusion as everyone else. Michael Gardner’s on the case, God help her. His dad didn’t give a shit about any of the cases he’d solved, any of the people he’d helped. He just saw the failures and revelled in them. It proved his point. The police were the enemy. You were better sorting your problems out yourself. No son of his would be a pig.
‘You still there?’ his dad said.
‘Yeah. But, look I’ve got to go.’
‘How’s Annie?’
Gardner froze. ‘What?’ he said.
‘How’s Annie?’ his dad asked again, as if he was stupid.
‘Dad, me and Annie haven’t been together for years.’
He could hear his dad mumbling to himself. ‘I know that,’ he said eventually. ‘I was thinking of whatshername.’
‘Who?’
‘The other one. The other girl you were seeing. I can’t keep track.’
Gardner sat down. It’d happened half a dozen times now. The confusion and then the lies to cover it. A chimp could keep track of the girlfriends he’d had since Annie.
‘Are you alright, Dad?’
‘I’m fine,’ he snapped. ‘Thanks for ringing but I’ve got to go.’
‘Alright. Happy birthday,’ he said and listened to one last grunt from his dad before hanging up.
Gardner sat there and listened to the neighbours still going at it. He got up and headed for the fridge before turning back and finding the half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort from the cupboard. He looked at the pile of dirty dishes and doubted there was a clean glass in the place. He raised the bottle. ‘Happy fucking birthday, Dad.’ He took a swig and turned on the stereo. Perfect. Nick Cave.
