Dark Place to Hide (13 page)

Marion is bursting to sigh heavily at the enormity of carrying out these instructions, but doesn’t want Dr Pike to know how hard this is going to be for her. She’s going to have to keep Clara under lock and key – and without her daughter being aware of it.

Dr Pike asks if she has any questions and Marion’s mind goes blank in response. They get up and return to Clara who has her head down colouring in a patch of her drawing in bright green. Marion notices that there is a big tree in the centre with a palace at the top –
Jack and the Beanstalk
.

‘We’ll need to finish now, Clara,’ says Dr Pike. ‘You’ve made some wonderful pictures. Do you want to take them with you or leave them with me for next time?’

Clara ignores her, but puts down her crayon. She gets up and pulls on her cardigan. Marion doesn’t know whether to prompt Clara into answering – her daughter is never this rude. She takes Clara’s hand and falters by the door.

‘Thank you, doctor. Do I make another appointment for next week?’

‘Yes – that’s right.’ Dr Pike turns to the girl. ‘See you again soon, Clara,’ she says brightly, holding the door open.

Clara gives her a disdainful look, before pulling her mother out of the room. She turns back at the last moment.

‘Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble,’ Clara says with a frown. ‘How does your garden grow?’

5 August – Sixth day missing

The surface of my life is uncannily quiet and deserted. This morning I got up early and took Frank across the fields and down to the river. We saw no one the entire time. His unflagging joy and affection is the only thing keeping me going. You adore him, Dee. I’ve watched you rolling on the lounge floor together as you tickle his tummy and he tries to lick your face. You don’t know I’m spying on you. After a while I politely cough and you look up and laugh, caught in a moment of pure bliss.

As soon as I woke, yesterday, I confirmed with the police that you were still missing. Later they sent two officers round – Sergeant Peter Howis, who I’d heard of through Neil, but never met, and PC Rose Felton, who looked fresh out of college. They asked me reams of questions: Had you mentioned suicidal thoughts? Had you gone missing before? Had you been behaving oddly? I told them what I’d told Neil: the miscarriage, the infertility, the DNA test – everything. They took a look in every room – it’s called an open-door search, where every space including the loft, is checked. They inspected the shed, chicken coop, garage and examined undergrowth by the river at the end of our garden.

Sergeant Howis, the investigating officer, is a big bulky chap who doesn’t convey a great deal of warmth. Neil told me he didn’t often socialise with the other officers and when he did, he was never the one at the bar opening his wallet. During the visit, he confirmed that you would be registered as ‘low risk’ given the circumstances. He thinks, just like everyone else, that you’ve gone to get breathing space. The officers took your PC, however, and said they’d look for any
untoward activity and would trace your phone. They’ll also make house-to-house enquiries in Nettledon. At least that’s something.

Before they left they asked for your hairbrush, to add your DNA and fingerprints to the database at the National Missing Persons Bureau. They asked about your bank and said they would make a request to check your accounts. As a criminology ‘expert’, I know these procedures inside out, but being on the receiving end of them is decidedly dreamlike.

‘What about the car? Can you trace the registration?’ I asked.

‘We’ll be making other enquiries first,’ Sgt Howis explained.

‘I don’t care about the car itself – but it could—’

He put up his hand firmly. ‘Yes, I know. Let’s go one step at a time.’

Howis asked for a recent photo of you and I showed him several from frames displayed around the room and more from an album in the study. It felt uncomfortably intimate having him look at pictures of you. I glanced at a photograph of the two of us, my arm around your shoulders and almost felt jealous – I’m not that man any more.

The sergeant chose a recent one where you’re wearing a checked shirt, standing in front of the shed. Your hair has blown away from your face and you’re looking down to earth and relaxed. It’s one of the big differences between us; you always seem so natural and genuine. I struggle to appear easy-going. I fake being in control and pretend to be better than I am – whereas you are completely open. You don’t need to be guarded, to hide, to hold yourself in check. There’s nothing to cover up, nothing to be ashamed of – at least that’s what I’ve always thought.

PC Felton suggested I get some posters printed to display locally. She wrote the contact details on a card so I could liaise with their media officer, but as you’re considered ‘low risk’
there won’t be a television appeal at this stage.

That was yesterday. I’ve already arranged for posters to be printed; I need to collect those. Things are moving.

I go into the bathroom, roll up my sleeve and give myself the infertility injection, following the series of red ‘X’s’ I’ve marked on the calendar. It seems ironic doing this, boosting my sperm count, when you’re nowhere in sight. As they’re three times a week, a nurse at the Queen Elizabeth taught me how to administer them myself.

I empty the waste bucket in the kitchen and put nuggets down for Frank. My body goes about these normal activities, seemingly knowing what it is doing, but my mind is somewhere else, rolling around like a lost marble inside a long hollow tube.

Quite by accident I check the clock. I have to be somewhere.

The train pulls in to Wimbledon station and I use the map in the foyer to work out where to go next. I’ve never been here on the train before; we always come to see your parents in the car. I know I could easily hire one, but it feels wrong. Like I’m
replacing
the one you took – filling in the gaps. It feels too much like carrying on as normal.

I head up the hill towards the Village and turn right along Lancaster Road. The houses are impressive in this area; being an aeronautical engineer must have brought with it a cushy standard of living. As I turn into their drive, I realise I’ve never seen them on my own before. The place itself looks foreboding without you, with its two gateways and two bay windows either side of the porch. There are miniature pine trees in terracotta urns framing the front door, but they are brown and crisp. Lucinda has obviously had her hands full with Ted; she would never normally allow her plants to get into this state. I’m glad you’re not here to witness it, Dee.

I don’t know which way things will go today. I’ve tried telling Lucinda over the phone, more than once, that you drove off and haven’t been seen since, but she hasn’t taken it in. I’m hoping that being here in front of her, so she can’t change the subject or escape, is going to get the message across. I asked the police to hold off speaking to them until I’d been over in person. They have to be primed. They might even need a family liaison officer.

As for Ted, with his burgeoning dementia, I’m not sure how much he’s going to grasp of the situation. Nor do I know how I’m going to manage things after I’ve dealt the blow. All the unsavoury details behind why you might have gone – do I really want them to know all that?

The doorbell chimes with a resounding
bing-bong
. I expect the trim figure of Lucinda to come scurrying to the door – she’s usually super-efficient and knows I’m coming. Instead, there’s silence. I ring again and peer through the coloured panes of glass. I see Ted shuffling towards me. He opens the door, but doesn’t seem to recognise me.

‘She’s at the shops,’ he says definitively, as if that’s likely to cover most issues he encounters at the front door. At that moment I hear footsteps on the gravel behind me and Lucinda comes rushing to my side with a shopping bag in each hand.

‘Sorry – traffic was dreadful,’ she says by way of welcome. I follow her inside. I take one of the bags from her in the hall and carry it through into the kitchen. I look up and take in the scattering of Post-it notes attached to the fridge, the biscuit tin, the oven, the drawers. There was one on the back of the front door I noticed, when I came in, more on the hall table, above the coat hooks, by the phone. Your parents’ house has turned into a dense forest with yellow leaves flapping in the breeze when anyone walks by.

Lucinda leads me into the lounge and leaves to put the kettle on. Ted is already seated. I wonder what’s going through his mind. I sit on the edge of the sofa, my hands on my knees,
unable to keep my feet from tapping.

‘Chelsea won on Saturday,’ says Ted as he folds his newspaper.

‘Did they?’ I don’t know whether he’s referring to the weekend just gone or one several years ago. ‘I don’t really follow football,’ I confess. ‘It’s Formula One I enjoy.’

‘Father was a footballer, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Played for West Ham.’ At the last minute, I avoid adding a patronising
well done
to my reply.

Lucinda returns with a tray of tea. She didn’t give me any choice of hot drinks – coffee would have been better at this time in the morning. ‘I’ve forgotten the milk,’ she mutters. She looks up and instructs loudly, as if to a child, ‘Can you get it, Ted? The milk – it’s on the table in the kitchen?’

I remember that this was the subject of your last argument with your mother; you felt she was debasing your father by talking down to him.

There is a painful silence. I don’t know how to start.

Ted brings three rattling empty cups on a tray into the lounge, replicating the ones we already have, but has forgotten the milk. I don’t mention it. I make myself drink it black, but I can only manage two sips.

Ted breaks the ice. ‘Diane’s not with you, then?’

‘No. And I’m afraid that’s why I’m here. There’s some difficult news…’
Difficult
comes to me as a kinder word than
bad
.

Lucinda is holding up her cup and saucer staring at me.

‘She went to the village shop on July 30
^th
and she hasn’t come back,’ I explain.

Ted is the first to respond. ‘It doesn’t sound like Diane, taking off like that.’

‘No,’ I said, clearing my throat. ‘She hasn’t been in touch – not properly.’

‘What do you mean?’ asks Lucinda urgently.

‘Well – she left a text with Alexa and posted information on the Internet, but no one has actually spoken to her for six days.’

‘I think she’s married now,’ says Ted, bless him. He frowns and looks bewildered. Lucinda must have seen this look more times than she can bear. I want to hug him and tell him everything is going to be all right, but I’m not sure he’ll understand what’s going on.

I turn to Lucinda, who still hasn’t responded in a way that suggests she has grasped the enormity of the matter. ‘Alexa said you and Diane had a bit of an argument about something – do you remember?’ I ask.

Ted answers, although I was directing my question to Lucinda. ‘Did we?’ he says. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t always remember everything,’ he admits.

‘You said she had a miscarriage,’ says Lucinda, ignoring my question.

‘Yes – but she was coping very well.’ Were you? I don’t know, any more.

‘And then she left.’ Her words come out like hammer blows, resonant with accusation. This is all my fault.

‘She didn’t storm out or anything. She drove to the village shop to pick something up.’ I’m reluctant to mention my alcohol-induced headache.

‘But she doesn’t normally drive,’ Lucinda points out.

‘I know.’ That part was certainly out of character. ‘But she seemed fine. Popped out in her running gear. No big deal.’

‘And you’ve not heard anything since?’

‘No.’

‘And the police – what are they doing?’

‘They’re making enquiries. They’ll want to come and ask you questions.’

She looks up, a childlike curiosity on her face. ‘Will it be on the news?’

‘No…’ I’ve hassled Howis and Neil on this subject and got nowhere. ‘Diane is considered a low risk, so the police don’t think that’s a good use of resources.’ There’s a grate of bitterness in my voice.

Lucinda looks confused more than anything. There’s a long gap where we all avoid looking at each other. ‘It’s so unlike Diane,’ Lucinda concludes. ‘Where would she go?’

‘I know – that’s it. Where? I’ve contacted everyone I can think of. I’ve put posters up in the village.’

‘I haven’t seen any,’ Ted says, perplexed.

‘Not
our
village,’ snaps his wife. ‘Ted hardly goes out anyway,’ she says turning to me. ‘I can tell you it’s a full-time job looking after him.’ There seems to be a layer of resentment over everything she says.

‘She didn’t say anything to you at all, did she?’ I ask. ‘She hasn’t talked about being unhappy or having problems?’

‘Not really,’ Lucinda says, biting her lip. ‘She said the cottage was turning out to be a handful, but she was enjoying school and she mentioned…the dog…’

‘Frank? Yes…he’s staying with us for the time being.’

‘She said she thought he was lovely and it was making her broody.’

‘Right.’

‘You said she lost the baby. She didn’t know she was pregnant?’ I’m not sure if she expects an answer – she says it mostly to herself.

‘Not until she was rushed into hospital.’

Ted pipes up. ‘Is she all right?’

Lucinda sighs, doesn’t reply and starts returning the cups to the tray. I offer to take it out, but she shakes her head.

When she returns, I get to my feet. My job is done. Sadly, I have learnt nothing from this trip, but I’ve done what I came to do. I reach out to give your mother a hug, but she pulls away before we get properly into hold. She leads me to the door with Ted dragging behind like an old terrier.

I turn to him in the hall and give him a hug instead. He holds me close and I wonder how much true affection he’s been getting since his illness became evident.

I call out over his shoulder as I pull away, ‘You will let me know if you hear from her, won’t you?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Lucinda replies.

Ted looks blankly at the door handle. ‘Who are we talking about, again?’ he queries.