Creeping Ivy (16 page)
‘I had a nightmare,’ she said, sidling towards Emma’s chair. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ said Emma to her goddaughter, not even bothering to disguise her amusement or her affection. ‘And what are you doing out of bed, madam?’
‘I had a nightmare,’ Lucinda repeated slowly and clearly as though to a foreigner or a fool. And then she spelled it out, letter by letter. Trish was impressed, but she could not help remembering Charlotte and the night when she, too, had interrupted dinner. Lucinda was only two years older, but she seemed decades more confident and able to take care of herself. Trish could hardly bear the contrast.
‘So what?’ asked Emma.
‘So I need to talk about it,’ Lucinda said, leaning against Emma’s side and gazing beatifically at her parents, who were doing their best not to laugh.
‘Do you, though?’ said her father. ‘Well, before you start, you’d better say good evening to Trish Maguire.’
‘Good evening, Trish,’ said Lucinda obediently.
‘Good evening,’ she answered, hard put to it to decide whether she found Lucinda’s precocity amusing or irritating. It was all too clear that she had everything in that house arranged just as she wanted it.
‘Now,’ said Tom, ‘what about this nightmare?’
‘People were chasing me,’ said Lucinda readily, but then it took her a moment to think what to say next. ‘And I couldn’t get away. And then there was a huge crane and the only way to flee was to jump off. But I woke up before I got to the floor.’
‘Flee, eh? I see, and you were so upset by it that you brushed your hair and changed your nightie, were you?’ said Willow, not managing to hide her pleasure in Lucinda’s ease with words.
Lucinda paused for thought again while Trish thought how lucky she was to be so at ease with her parents and able to have such absolute confidence in them both. The contrast between Lucinda’s life and Charlotte’s hit Trish even more sharply.
‘No,’ Lucinda went on eventually, ‘but I knew you were having a dinner party and I thought it wouldn’t be polite to be messy, so I changed first.’
‘Lulu, stop telling porkies,’ said Tom, sounding more severe than he felt. ‘It’s jolly nice to see you, even though you should be fast asleep, but I’d rather you just came down and said you wanted to join in than told lies about dreams you haven’t had.’
‘I have had it,’ she said, climbing up on to Emma’s lap and helping herself to an olive from Emma’s plate.
‘Just not tonight, eh?’ said Emma from behind her. Lucinda pushed a strand of gleaming hair behind her ears and admitted it, adding, ‘Rusty says nearly everyone has chasing dreams and it’s not true if you hit the floor you wake up dead.’
Willow frowned. ‘Who said it was?’
‘A girl at school. So I asked Rusty. She knows everything,’ said Lucinda, watching her mother from under her long dark lashes. Trish thought she must be expecting some kind of strong reaction, but all Willow said was: ‘Do you ask Mrs Rusham lots of things?’
‘Yes,’ said Lucinda impatiently. ‘I said Rusty knows everything.’
‘A fair amount,’ said Tom, ‘but not quite everything. Your mother knows quite a lot too, and so do I.’
‘Yes.’ Lucinda rejected the olive she had just removed from Emma’s plate and chose another one. ‘But it’s not the same.’
‘Lucinda,’ said Trish suddenly. ‘Are all your nightmares about people chasing you?’
‘Oh, no. Sometimes there’re dogs and sometimes there’s a garage with lots of cars and a man in uniform and I get lost in it. And sometimes I don’t know what it is; I’m just frightened.’
‘And does being frightened ever make you think there might be something in your room? When you’re awake, I mean?’
Trish became aware that Willow was getting restive, but Lucinda seemed quite happy to talk about her fears to a new and interested listener.
‘Not now. When I was little I thought the dogs might be there. So I had a nightlight so I could see they weren’t.’
Later, when Tom had managed to persuade his daughter to leave the party, Trish said, ‘Willow, I’m sorry I did that. I didn’t mean to frighten her or worry you.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she was fine. But what was it all about?’
‘It’s just that the last time I saw Charlotte, she told me about a monster nightmare that had been frightening her. I’m not sure I took it seriously enough. I mean, with all this having happened, I’ve been wondering if her fears were only to do with the nightmare.’ She frowned. ‘I suppose I wanted to find out whether they were normal for her age. Lucinda’s dogs did sound pretty much the same. How little was she when they were bothering her?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Willow, her face looking tense. ‘She’s never told me anything about them before. Clearly she prefers to confide in Mrs Rusham.’
‘Will,’ said Tom, looking worried.
‘No, it’s OK. It’s the price one pays for handing the boring bits of childcare over to someone else.’
‘Don’t let it get you down, Willow,’ said Emma with a glinting smile. ‘Lulu was trying to wind you up. She had one good go about the chasing dreams and when you didn’t rise she had another. She’s far too sharp for her own good.’
‘Or mine. You’re probably right, Emma. But it’s a worry, all the same, how you can think you know your child through and through, and then discover something important that she’s kept from you. What else might there be?’
‘In Lulu’s case?’ Tom said robustly. ‘Nothing. No one could eat so well, organise her friends and both of us so firmly, and do as well at school if there was anything wrong. Don’t start getting neurotic about her.’
Even in her misery Trish was amused to see the dignified, rich, middle-aged novelist stick her tongue out at her important husband. Then she turned to say, ‘Trish, you’re not eating. More lamb?’
‘Honestly, I don’t think I can manage any more. It’s amazing, but I’m not tremendously hungry.’
‘That’s Mrs Rusham for you. Amazing is exactly what she is, and at everything she does. Help yourself, Em. You’re not eating anything.’
‘I’m not fantastically hungry either, actually.’
Emma left as soon as they had finished coffee, saying that she was going to walk home. Trish would have given her a lift, had it not been for Willow’s unmistakable signal that she wanted Trish to wait.
While Tom was seeing Emma out, Willow said, ‘I’m bothered that she’s not talking about Hal. D’you think she’s OK?’
‘No,’ said Trish. ‘But I don’t see that there’s anything much we can do about it. She told me you’re feeding her a lot at the moment. I’d have thought that was all you could do until she wants to talk.’
‘I just wish I could help.’
‘Sometimes it’s easier not to be helped or asked questions.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ Willow, who had spent most of her life hiding her feelings and her real character from everyone around her, had the grace to look ashamed of herself. ‘But I’m so fond of her that I worry. If you think of anything I could do that might be useful, will you let me know?’
‘Of course I will,’ said Trish, relieved that she was not going to be grilled about Hal and what he might or might not be doing.
‘And I did wonder whether you’d like me to talk to my contact at Holland Park Helpers and find out what they’ve got on Nicky Bagshot. It struck me that if you knew a bit more about her background, you’d have a better idea of where she fits in with what’s happened to Charlotte.’
Trish looked at her in surprise. Willow seemed faintly self-conscious.
‘You were very discreet, but it was plain enough to me at least that you’ve been digging to see what you can find out about them all. I thought that could be my contribution. I can’t bear the thought of what might be happening to that child. Ah, that sounds like Tom’s step. I’ll give you a ring if I find anything. It was wonderful to see you this evening, Trish.’
‘Sweet of you to have me, Willow,’ she said, unable to believe that someone of Willow’s age and apparent confidence did not want her husband to know of her offer of help. ‘And you, Tom. It was great to get away from the flat for a bit. I spend the whole time longing for the phone to ring and then hoping it won’t because I know the only news we’re likely to get is bad. Then it reaches the point when any news seems better than this not knowing.’
‘And then we made you talk about it,’ said Tom, putting his arm round his wife’s waist. ‘I’m sorry. You must want to forget it.’
‘Except that I can’t. No one could. Charlotte’s in my mind the whole time. It’s agony not being able to do anything about it and looking at first one person and then another, thinking that all of them must have had something to do with it and yet knowing they couldn’t. Look, I … I’d better go before I lose control. Thank you for this evening.’
‘I hope there’s some news soon. Good news, I mean. Good night, Trish,’ said Willow, her severe face softened by pity. ‘Keep in touch.’
It wasn’t until Trish was almost back at the flat that she realised she had been driving much more slowly than usual. When she had locked the car and opened her front door she realised why: she was reluctant to know what response Ben might have made to her message.
Her joints seemed to have stiffened as she walked across the hard floor to her answering machine. The flat seemed bigger and emptier than ever, and more lonely. There was a red light flashing on the machine. She pressed the button.
‘Trish? It’s Ben. You sounded awful on our machine. Has something happened? I mean, is there some news? I’m so sorry we weren’t here when you rang. We’ll be back ten-ish this evening. Ring whenever you get in. Whenever. We won’t be asleep until much later.’
Rubbing her left eyebrow with the ball of her thumb, Trish dialled Ben’s number. When she heard Bella’s sugary, languorous voice, she almost cut the connection. But it was too important for that.
‘Bella? Hi, it’s Trish Maguire here. Sorry to bother you so late. Ben’s left a message saying I should ring at any time. Could I have a word with him, please?’
‘He’s in the bath. Is there some news of Charlotte?’
‘No. It’s just that I need to talk to Ben about something I heard today when I was questioning some of Nicky Bagshot’s colleagues.’
‘I don’t see how he can help you, but if you tell me what you want to know, I’ll ask him.’
‘I’d rather ask him directly, Bella. Could you be very kind and ask him to ring me back later? As soon as it’s convenient. I’ll wait u p.’
‘No. I …’ Her voice was muffled, as though she had put her hand over the receiver. A moment later a different voice said, ‘Trish? Ben here. I was in the bath – sorry. What’s up? How can I help?’
‘Ben, I was in the park today, talking to some of the other nannies who knew Nicky and Charlotte, and they told me about a man they saw every Wednesday afternoon.’
‘So?’
‘He was a tall, tired-looking man in his forties, usually dressed in beige corduroy trousers, a waxed jacket and desert boots. He used to stand at the fence of the playground every Wednesday to watch Charlotte.’
There was a short silence. Trish thought she could just hear breathing in the silence. It was not the same rhythm as Ben’s. Bella must be listening.
‘Have you told the police, Trish?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, I think you should, don’t you?’
‘Probably. I just wanted to know what you thought about it first.’
‘I can’t see why. I think you should talk to the police. I saw a very nice woman sergeant called Lacie. Kath Lacie, I think. Get in touch with her. She’ll follow it up. I’d better let you sleep now, Trish. You must be so tired. Bye.’
Trish put the receiver very gently back on its cradle and stood looking at it, wishing that she could understand what he was trying to do.
‘Why did you want to meet with
me?
’ asked Bella Welbock of the two police officers who had come to her consulting rooms at eight-thirty on Tuesday morning.
She was dressed in her usual working clothes of a loose natural linen jacket over a plain cream roundnecked shirt and a chocolate-brown skirt. They were, she had decided when she first went into practice on her own, formal enough to give her clients’ parents confidence, but not so authoritative as to inhibit anything the children themselves might want to say.
The room was decorated to the same ends in three different greys and white. There was a large red, cream and grey kilim on the polished floor and the furniture was simple. All the toys she used in her work with the youngest children were kept in a tall glass-fronted cupboard. A long desk made of a red-painted door slung across two low-level grey metal filing cabinets stood under the window. Her computer weighted down one end of the door and the other held a rack of the reference books she used most. In between were wicker baskets of letters to be answered, bills to be paid, and filing. At the other side of the room was a long couch, where the woman sergeant was sitting, and two armchairs. Her constable had one; Bella, the other.
She was angry that they had the right to interrupt her day, but grateful that they had at least made a specific appointment so that she did not have to force one of the children to wait. They hated that; any interruption or distraction affected them like a deliberate rejection and it could take weeks to overcome the resulting obstinacy and hostility.
‘What is it you’ve come to ask?’ she said, as usual rephrasing a question that had apparently been too hard to answer.
‘Whatever you can tell us about your old man’s relationship with his ex, the rich banker.’
Disliking the constable’s lack of subtlety, Bella glanced at the woman sergeant and was interested to see that she, too, disapproved but had not bothered to intervene.
‘There’s not a great deal I can tell you,’ she said frostily. ‘And I don’t see that it’s relevant. I hear you’ve found a witness who walked by our house and saw him through the window, working in the study on Saturday afternoon.’
‘Yes, we did,’ said Sergeant Lacie. ‘He was there at one-thirty. We haven’t found anyone who saw him any later than that. What we need now is some indication of his relationship with his ex-wife.’
‘He doesn’t have a relationship with her. That ended when they divorced.’