Missing (38 page)

‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll take good care of them. At some point I need to talk to you about doing
a
live link with the studio tomorrow morning. They’d like it to be from Sharon’s home, with her kids around, if possible. And Theo.’

‘I’m sure they’ll both be amenable,’ Vivienne responded, heartened by how much thought was already going into setting it all up. ‘This is Pete Alexander who I believe you’ve already spoken to,’ she said, as Pete came to meet them. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take this call,’ and leaving them to it, she clicked on to answer her phone.

‘Hi, are you OK?’ she asked softly as she turned back outside.

‘Fine,’ Miles replied. ‘Where are you?’

‘At Susie’s horse sanctuary. We’re using the barn here for our auction. What’s happening with Kelsey?’

‘She’s gone back to school. Relations were restored somewhat before she went, but not completely, so I’m still worried.’

‘Of course, but maybe it’s good for you to have a little time apart. It’s been pretty intense this past couple of weeks.’

‘You’re right about that,’ he said dryly. ‘Anyway, I guess you’re busy so I’d better not keep you. I was just wondering if it would be convenient for me to come over later?’

Feeling a swell of love, she said, ‘Of course it would. I’ll stand Theo down, so come whenever you like. We’ll be at the cider press from about five.’

‘Thank you.’ His voice was deep and soft. ‘I’m afraid it has to be conditional on Kelsey,’ he added. ‘If she calls and wants me to go and get her …’

‘Don’t worry. Just come if you can. We’ll both be looking forward to seeing you.’

*

Justine was regarding the Critch with barely a trace of the contempt that generally seethed at her insides when she was near him. Her predominant emotion was triumph for how effectively she’d just managed to silence the egotistical moron.

As she waited the incessant hubbub of the newsroom outside swirled on around the glassed-in pod that was his, an urgent river flowing around the immutable rocks of his brain. For him the world had stopped with the words she’d just spoken, and wouldn’t move again until he’d fully grasped what it could mean.

‘Let me get this straight,’ he said finally, his gingery whiskers sparking in the funnelled glow of his desk lamp. ‘This woman is not only suggesting that Miles Avery’s known all along his son was dead, but she can even show you where the body is buried?’

‘She said remains, which is all there would be now, obviously,’ Justine responded, feeling like putting her feet up on his desk.

He got up, walked to the door then turned back again. His round, hairy belly was straining to make an appearance through the buttons of a pale pink shirt that was only half-tucked into his low-slung trousers. Sartorial elegance had never been his strong point, any more than subtlety had ever played a part in his chequered career.

‘So what next?’ he asked, and could hardly have looked more excited if saliva had started to drool from his lips. ‘Have you set up a meet with her yet?’

In a gratifyingly condescending tone – that was very likely to bypass him completely – she said, ‘Actually, before I go any further with this I think we need to discuss a return to a full-page column every Sunday
that
allows me to contribute to other – non-rival – publications where I choose.’

He appeared neither shaken nor surprised – why would he, when she was talking his language? ‘You failed to mention moolah,’ he reminded her. ‘It has to be part of the deal, so let’s have it all on the table.’

‘You can make me an offer. I’m not greedy, but I do need a new car.’

‘Just don’t make it a Merc.’ Then, hardly pausing for breath, ‘Don’t piss about with this, Justine. Make doubly sure that woman’s on the level, because we really don’t want you burying yourself along with those bones, now do we?’

No, we most certainly don’t
, she was thinking to herself as she started to leave.
But I’m sure as hell going to enjoy shovelling the dirt over yours
.

Jacqueline came to a stop beside a weeping willow whose branches hung like knotted hair down to the river. For a while she gazed at its reflection in the grey light of dusk, shimmering and ethereal, sinking to a murky, invisible depth. Was there a world beyond, hiding behind the impenetrable darkness? Somewhere bright and tranquil that would welcome her to the golden pastures of a painless existence, if she yielded herself to it?

Turning her back on the unanswerable questions she stared in through the gate in front of her, across a small, triangular courtyard with neat beds and golden trees, to a row of town houses on the far side. She knew which was Vivienne Kane’s because she’d seen her there two days ago, moving about the kitchen on the ground floor, setting a table in the dining room and answering the phone. She hadn’t caught a glimpse of
the
child, but a buggy had been outside the back door, so she’d supposed he was in there, snug and safe, the very essence of his mother’s
raison d’être
.

She hadn’t hung around long, and she didn’t now. People hurrying home from the station were noticing her, having to walk around her to get past, and throwing her strange or irritated glances.

The air was dampened by a fine drizzle as she started back along the towpath, passing elegant river-fronted homes and inhaling the sour stench of the exposed shore below. The tide was low, sucked back to the centre of its bed, a dull, uneven ribbon of liquid that gleamed like metal in the lamplight.

Soon she came to the grassy banks and park benches in front of Pier House. She walked on by, not stopping, but not hastening either. She kept her eyes ahead, glancing only once at the windows of Vivienne’s office where Vivienne’s partner, Alice Jackson, was sitting at her desk, talking on the phone.
Kane and Jackson, PR Consultants, Pier House, Strand on the Green
… She could even recite the postcode by heart.

Yesterday when she’d come she’d got only as far as Kew Bridge before spotting a clutch of reporters outside the building. Their presence had told her Vivienne was inside, so the fact they weren’t in evidence this evening must mean Vivienne wasn’t there.

As she climbed the steps to the bridge the roar of traffic began thrumming a wild tattoo in her head, humming and honking, stopping and starting. It was jammed in both directions, four strips of loudly impatient vehicles with bicycles skimming along the sides like militarised flies. She quickened her pace, until halfway across she stopped beneath one of the Victorian lamp posts to stare back at Pier House. No
one
was visible now, but the lights in the office were still on.

A few minutes later she was crossing Kew Green, moving south with the traffic towards Richmond. She wondered if the clock at St Anne’s would chime the right hour if she waited for the time to come round. She walked on, counting her steps, murmuring the numbers aloud, only falling silent if someone passed by. The rhythmic chant of the words pulled her into a kind of trance, fixing her on nothing, sealing her from the world outside her cocoon of sound.

Tomorrow she’d go back in the hope of finding Vivienne and her son at home.

It was long past five o’clock, and there was still no sign of Miles. However, there had been no call or text to say he couldn’t make it, so Vivienne was far from giving up hope yet.

Earlier, she’d found it both curious and pleasing to discover how like home the cider press had felt when she’d carried Rufus in through the door. Laura, the housekeeper, had already lit the small wood burner, so the place had even smelt welcoming with its smoky pine scent and lingering fragrance of beeswax polish.

Now, having settled Rufus on a rug in front of the fire and surrounded him with cushions and toys, it was cosier than ever, and more romantic, since she’d closed the curtains against the wintry dusk, and the candles she’d found under the sink were flickering warmly over the whitewashed walls. A bottle of champagne was in the freezer compartment undergoing a rapid chill, and just in case Miles was able to stay for dinner, she’d driven to Bovey Tracey as soon as the crew had finished filming to buy two steaks from the butcher. At
the
same time, Sharon and Stella had popped into a local farm to pick up all the fresh veg she’d need to concoct Stella’s very own recipe for ratatouille.

Confiding in them had been almost impossible to avoid when she’d felt such a sense of elation after speaking to Miles. It had been written all over her face, and once they knew, it had become debatable who was more excited about Rufus meeting his daddy for the first time, them or her. Theo had to be told too, of course, so he was going to his cousin’s from the photo shoot, as arranged, where she’d promised to join him later if Miles was unable to stay. As for Pete, as soon as the crew was ready to depart, apparently thrilled with the interview, he had led the way over to the Smugglers in Kenleigh where they were all spending the night before setting up early the next morning for the live link from Sharon’s house.

So everything was running smoothly to date. Sharon’s camera-shyness was hardly noticeable in Pete’s and Theo’s capable hands, while an embarrassing tendency to overact on Stella’s part perhaps wasn’t a wholly bad thing. Most importantly, though, in amongst the teasing and humour, they’d managed to get the point of the auction across in a way that was both moving and compelling.

So now Vivienne was free to relax for the evening, and she would just as soon as Miles turned up.

Looking down at Rufus she felt a surge of pride rise up in her simply to see the way he was sitting on the rug, his little legs spread wide to keep himself balanced as he waved about his toddle-along tortoise and chattered on in his earnest baby way. Just thank God he had no idea what was supposed to be happening now; he felt no nervous anticipation, not to
mention
the crushing disappointment she could sense looming if Miles failed to come.

Deciding to wait until six before ringing, she lay down next to Rufus and put her arms behind her head. Almost instantly she started to laugh as, taking his cue, he launched himself onto her.

‘Hello,’ she murmured as his face appeared over hers.

‘Mum, mum,’ he muttered, making her wince as he dug a foot into her side.

‘I love you, Rufus Avery,’ she declared, swinging him up in the air.

‘Pane, pane, pane,’ he cried in excitement.

‘Aeroplanes?’ she teased. ‘You want to play aeroplanes?’

‘Brrrrm, brrrrm,’ he responded, kicking out his limbs and dribbling into her face.

Laughing, she tilted him towards the sofa, before quickly jerking him back again.

He gurgled happily and bunched his fists to his mouth.

‘Boom, boom,’ she reminded him.

‘Buh, buh,’ he echoed, clapping his hands together.

She set him off on another dive, then lowered him onto her chest so his face was almost touching hers. ‘Love you, love you, love you,’ she whispered.

He blew a wet raspberry through his lips and tried to bite her chin.

‘Kiss?’ she asked, but he was much more interested in one of her earrings, which he’d just spotted and was trying to eat.

Beside them the logs glowed red inside the wood burner, while the candlelight flickered and danced around the walls and the air filled with the heady scent
of
melting wax and burning pine. She was straining her ears for the sound of a car arriving, but all she could hear was the incessant flow of the stream outside, and the grunting of a belligerent stag, probably not too far away. There seemed to be no wind now, nor any hint of rain. The press was a cosy cocoon of warmth, protecting them from the chill, dark night, but not, alas, from the anxiety of what might be delaying Miles.

‘Mrs Davies the housekeeper is here, sir,’ DC Joy said, going into Sadler’s office. ‘And guess who brought her.’

Sadler finished his email to Richmond CID confirming details of their meeting earlier, clicked send, then said, ‘I don’t need to guess, I know.’

Joy watched him spin round in his chair. ‘Are you going to let him listen to the tape too?’ she asked.

Sadler scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘That depends whether or not the housekeeper’s able to identify the voice. If she confirms it’s Mrs Avery …’ His eyes came up to Joy’s. ‘Well, we still won’t know for certain, because we’ve already established the housekeeper’s loyalty to Mr Avery, so if he’s told her to say the voice is his wife’s, for all we know she’s willing to go along with it.’

Joy wasn’t looking convinced. ‘She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who’d be an accomplice to a crime,’ she said.

Sadler threw her a meaningful glance. ‘Our prisons are full of people who look like butter wouldn’t melt,’ he reminded her, ‘but on your advice, Detective Constable, I’m trying to keep an open mind. Is everything set up down there?’

‘We’ve got an interview room in the custody area,’ she told him. ‘I’ll ask Mr Avery to wait in reception, shall I?’

Sadler nodded, and picking up his mobile he followed her out into the corridor.

Several minutes later Joy was watching the housekeeper’s soft, crumpled face as Sadler, having explained what was about to happen, leaned forward to start the tape.

‘Hello. My name is Jacqueline Avery …’

‘Oh my goodness,’ Mrs Davies exclaimed, clasping her hands to her cheeks. ‘Yes, that’s her.’ She looked up in shock, her eyes darting anxiously between Sadler and Joy as Sadler stopped the tape. ‘It’s her,’ she repeated, as though afraid he might doubt her.

Joy glanced at Sadler, expecting him to challenge the old woman, but for the moment he appeared to have nothing to say.

‘Are you sure?’ Joy asked.

‘Positive,’ Mrs Davies answered.

‘Would you like to listen to the rest of the tape, just to be certain?’

‘I don’t need to, but I will if you want me to.’

Sadler nodded the go-ahead, so Joy restarted the tape.

At the end of it tears were shining in Mrs Davies’s eyes. ‘I always knew he’d never done nothing wrong,’ she said, searching for a Kleenex. ‘See, she’s not dead at all. She’s there, speaking on that machine, telling you she’s all right so you can stop that blooming nonsense around his house now, turning up his garden, and having helicopters flying all over the place. Frankly, if you don’t mind me saying, I think you owes him an apology—’