Just What Kind of Mother Are You? (11 page)

When Joanne first moved to CID she found it hard to live alongside the job. She wasn’t like those TV detectives, the ones who never switch off, the ones who drink heavily, who go against the boss and lose their family to the force in the process.

Joanne’s problem was more subtle than that. She found she suffered from a heavy guilt the minute her thoughts drifted elsewhere,
the minute she went back to the mundane tasks of normal living.

If she wasn’t thinking about her current case, she felt that she
should
be.

She was more used to it now. She managed it better. She’d come to liken it to the creative process she’d heard artists speak about. When their attention was diverted by other things, their subconscious was busily working away on their behalf, figuring things out, solving problems.

Joanne found that if she let her mind wander, if she let it relax, then ideas and answers would pop up like traffic cones. One minute they were absent and the next they were everywhere she looked.

She hears the buzzer signalling they’re ready for the next patient, and her name appears. The old lady next to her seems a bit perturbed that Joanne is going in ahead of her, but Joanne doesn’t bother to explain she’s not really having the flu jab after all.

She’s nervous because she’s going to have to undress. She’s not prudish, not even shy, she just doesn’t like to see the look on the face of whoever she is undressing
for
.

She knocks once before going in, and Dr Ravenscroft, Joanne’s GP since childhood, greets her. ‘Joanne! Good to see you. Take a seat. How are you today?’

‘Well, thanks.’

‘And how’s your aunt? I’ve not seen her in a while.’

‘Same old, same old – they don’t call her Mad Jackie for nothing.’

He chuckles.

‘She’s still living with you, then?’ he asks.

‘Think I’m going to be stuck with her for ever.’

He smiles sympathetically. ‘And what about you? Are you still busy fighting crime?’

‘Trying to.’

‘Wonderful. Wonderful.’ He starts typing, bringing up her notes. ‘Now, what can I do for you today?’

‘I’d like a breast reduction.’

He doesn’t look up. ‘Not really a fan of them myself,’ he mumbles absently, and Joanne’s not sure what she’s supposed to say to that. ‘You’re having upper-back pain, sweat rashes?’

‘Pretty much,’ she answers. ‘The back pain’s not continuous but it’s vicious when it hits. My main problem, though, is here,’ and she motions to the area between her neck and shoulder.

‘Trapezius,’ he says. ‘Gets quite tight in there, does it?’

Joanne pushes her thumb in. ‘It’s almost solid. I’ve got permanent indentations on each side from my bra straps.’

She reaches beneath her blouse and hooks the right strap out from where it’s become embedded within the muscle. The relief is temporary as she gives the skin a quick rub. She slides her index finger inside the groove the strap has made; it’s half an inch deep. It feels fiery hot to the touch.

‘Does it affect your work?’ he asks.

‘Sometimes.’

She doesn’t want to tell him in what way. Doesn’t really want to share that she can’t run without feeling humiliated, can’t conduct an interview without first feeling embarrassed. She’s done her best to put a brave face on things in the past and not let this get in the way, but it seems now that she’s approaching her late thirties, the fear of being viewed with ridicule is not so easy to shrug off.

Doctor Ravenscroft nods gravely. ‘You know you won’t be able to breastfeed.’

‘I don’t even have a boyfriend … breastfeeding’s not exactly top of my agenda.’

‘It might be one day,’ he says, his tone suddenly breezy. ‘Nice chap comes along, sweeps you off your feet …’

Joanne just looks at him.

‘Never say “never”!’ he says. ‘Lovely girl like you, there’s bound to be some fellow waiting in the wings, ready to take you home and make you his wife …’

‘But where would I put the unicorn?’ Joanne says flatly.

Joanne gets her referral to the plastic surgeon.

Leaving Dr Ravenscroft’s room, she walks past the phlebotomist, past the treatment room where all the oldies are having their flu jabs, past the cleaner’s store cupboard and back through to the main waiting area. She’s about to leave through the double glass doors when she hears something that makes her stop.

‘Do you pay for your prescriptions?’ the assistant in the pharmacy is asking the man.

‘Yes,’ comes the reply. Then, ‘Oh, actually, no. I don’t pay for this one … it’s for a child … see?’

Apologetically, the assistant says, ‘Of course it is. It’ll be ready in just a moment.’

It’s Guy – Guy Riverty – who’s waiting for a prescription. What is he doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be out with the search parties?

The first thing that pops into Joanne’s head is that he must be picking something up for Kate. Something to calm her nerves, to make her sleep. But then he’s just said it’s for a child. No prescription charge. It’s exempt.

Joanne decides to wait inside her car.

She climbs in, and the temperature gauge reads minus seven. She turns the ignition to get the heat going and automatically there’s a blast of music. One of Auntie Jackie’s Michael Bublé CDs that she’s been listening to. ‘Smug bastard,’ Joanne mutters, and kills the stereo.

She switches her headlights on so she can’t be seen so easily
inside the car, and remembers something Lisa Kallisto said earlier in the day. She said Kate’s son had health problems. ‘Been sickly for as long as they’d been friends,’ was more or less what she’d said, and Joanne decides that’s the reason for Guy being here.

So she calls it a day. Guy must be here for a prescription for their son, she thinks, and dips the clutch, puts the car into gear. Just as she edges forward, though, she sees Guy Riverty emerge. He’s looking harried.

To be expected, she thinks.

He’s glancing around furtively.

His daughter’s missing, she reasons.

He drives off in his Audi Q7 V12 – a hundred grand’s worth of car – without his headlights on.

Yeah, well, he’s distracted.

But then, at the top of the road, instead of taking a left towards home, he goes right.

Bit odd, Joanne thinks. So she follows him.

13

J
OANNE KEEPS WELL
back. Stays a safe distance behind Guy Riverty. If he were to slow down for any reason, and she were to get too close, he’d see her in his rear-view mirror. He has a personalized numberplate – GR 658 – and his huge Audi, bright white in colour, is lit up like a Christmas float. If you were up to something dodgy, it would be the last car you’d want to be driving. It’s about as conspicuous as you can get.

They drive through Bowness village. It’s the busiest place in the National Park in the summer months, but now, in these dead weeks of mid-December, there’s no one around. The shops are shut. Joanne remembers they tried staying open till seven this time last year in the run-up to Christmas. ‘Shop Till Late!’ they advertised, but no one had bothered this time around. There’s no money now. Everybody’s skint.

She sees Guy pull into a space just along from Bargain Booze, so Joanne parks about twenty yards away from him. He gets out, disappears inside, and a minute later he’s back out again, lighting what looks like a Café Crème cigar. Then he climbs into his car and drives off without checking his mirror, almost colliding with an old Peugeot 206, before tearing off down the hill.

The road’s been gritted heavily, but still, he’s driving too fast. Even by Joanne’s standards he’s driving too fast. It’s a narrow road, cars parked up on the left-hand side, and in these conditions he’s not leaving any room for error.

But Joanne can forgive that. Your daughter’s been abducted, you’re allowed a bit of leeway.

He approaches the mini-roundabout and he should turn right here. If he’s heading back home, he needs to do a right.

He doesn’t. He heads on towards the lake, and then it’s as if he knows he’s being followed because he pulls a quick left on to Brantfell Road.

‘Fuck,’ Joanne whispers.

Brantfell Road is steep. Must be about a 30-degree slope, and it won’t have been gritted properly. It’s not a real thoroughfare, just leads to housing, so it’s not a priority. Guy Riverty has disappeared up there out of sight in a matter of seconds, and Joanne can’t even get her Mondeo to tackle the first part.

She puts her foot down on the accelerator and her tyres spin uselessly. There’s an old guy standing watching. He has an ancient black Patterdale Terrier shivering at his feet. The old guy shakes his head at her. Then he starts circling his finger, telling her to turn around, telling her she won’t make it up Brantfell.

‘Yes, okay, okay,’ she mouths at him, irritated.

What is it with old men?

Sometimes they stop to watch her parallel-park on the street where she lives, shaking their heads if they deem the space she’s trying to get into to be too small. You’d never get a woman doing that. You’d never get a woman stopping to say you were about to hit something, or taking the responsibility upon themselves to wave you in, directing you like you were the pilot of a bloody aeroplane. Women just walk on past when she’s trying to get into a tight space, perhaps throwing her a look of
Rather you than me
, but they’d never stop to watch.

Joanne forces herself to smile at the old guy when, really, what she wants to do is slam her fist on the dashboard. She’s lost him. She’s lost Guy Riverty.

The old guy approaches the driver’s-side door and motions for Joanne to lower her window.

‘Too icy for you up there, my love.’

His nose is purple, his eyes milked over and pale.

‘Looks that way,’ replies Joanne.

‘You could try Helm Road instead, but if it were me, I’d leave the car down here. I wouldn’t be chancing it.’

His terrier is looking up at Joanne. It’s gone grey around the muzzle, a dead ringer for Spit the Dog. Joanne smiles at it, feeling kind of sorry that he’s dragging it out in these temperatures.

‘It’s proper icy underfoot,’ the man tells her. ‘I’ve only made it down with these on,’ and he lifts his foot, showing her the plastic ice grips he’s attached to the sole of his boots. ‘Like snow tyres for shoes, these,’ he says proudly.

Joanne knows she won’t make it up there on foot in her work shoes. They’re not good on ice.

‘Do you live on the hill?’ Joanne asks him.

‘Yep, Belle Isle View. I shouldn’t be out really, broke my fibia when we had this weather last year, but Terence gets nowty if he’s not had his evenin’ walk.’

Terence looks like he’s about to drop down dead, she thinks.

‘You ever see that white Audi around here?’ she asks him.

‘That car what just went up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t think so. Doesn’t live there, that’s for certain. I know everybody up there and no one’s got one o’ them. There’s a couple o’ Range Rovers, though.’ He smiles at this. ‘… Folk who can’t really afford ’em, just showin’ off. Reckon they’ll all be gone soon enough, when the money’s dried up. They’re all on the tick, you know.’

‘Isn’t everything?’ replies Joanne. ‘So you can’t remember seeing that car before now?’

He shakes his head. Then he cocks it to one side, looks at her kind of puzzled. ‘Why d’you want to know anyway? You his wife?’

Joanne laughs. ‘Just interested,’ she says, and tells him thanks.

She lets the car roll back a little before attempting to turn, the wheels spinning a few times more than she’d like, but finally she makes it.

As she’s about to get going again the old guy starts waving at her from the pavement.

Great, more driving advice, she thinks.

‘I’ve remembered something,’ he shouts. ‘I’ve not seen that car up ’ere before now, but I have seen
him
. He used to drive summat else flashy, can’t say what, but I remember the little cigars. Always got one in his mouth when he passes.’

Joanne shouts back, ‘Much obliged,’ and she can see he’s pleased he’s helped her.

Joanne gives him a small wave, and she’s gone.

‘That you, Joanne, love?’

Joanne steps in through the front door and the heat hits her. She walks straight to the thermostat and turns it down. Her Auntie Jackie has this place like an oven. Says she can never get warm. But every night, as soon as the two of them have eaten, they pass out on the settees with the heat. Like a couple of Magaluf tourists after a late lunch and a jug of sangria.

Mad Jackie’s been living with Joanne for almost a year now, since declaring herself bankrupt. Shortly before she moved in, Martin, Joanne’s boyfriend of three years, moved out. He decided he didn’t want to take the relationship any further.

Joanne’s friends rallied round, calling him a bastard, taking her out to get pissed – the usual cure for a broken heart. All of them were certain he had someone else, some slag somewhere.

Turned out he didn’t, though. Turned out he didn’t have
anyone else and he was still on his own. This was something Joanne struggled with privately. She didn’t think it could be worse than being dumped for another person … but it absolutely was. She felt humiliated. Especially when she saw him around Windermere and he pulled this kind of pained expression, as if he were physically hurting from letting her down like that.

Joanne had taken to flicking the ‘V’s his way when they caught sight of each other. Silly, but it made her feel better.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ she shouts to Jackie, kicking her shoes off.

The lounge door opens. ‘Your tea’s in the oven,’ says Jackie, arms folded across her chest. ‘Why are you so late? Thought you’d be back an hour since.’

‘Got held up.’

Auntie Jackie looks comical in her uniform. She’s a carer. She wears a lilac dress, white tights and white clogs. And she’s no lightweight. Jackie’s had a ton of stress this last year and, like a lot of women, she swallows her stress along with any carbs she can find lying around the kitchen.

‘You heard about that missing girl?’ Jackie asks.

‘Yeah, I’ve been up there today. Me and Ron Quigley are on it.’