Missing (51 page)

‘Will you have a problem with that?’ he probed gently.

Turning to stare straight ahead, she said tartly, ‘It’s your house. You can do what you like.’

He was about to remind her that it was her house
too,
when he realised that her answer could, possibly, be construed as a breakthrough of sorts. Deciding to leave it there for now, he allowed a few minutes to pass before glancing in the rear-view mirror and saying, ‘Luckily, no sign of the press following us.’

The tension in the car immediately evaporated as Kelsey sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘That was so annoying, the way they were waiting when we left the house this morning,’ she declared. ‘What do they think we’re going to do, stop the car and have a chat like they were our relatives, or something? I hate being in the papers about something like this, it’s embarrassing.’

‘But the upside is that one of them might find out where Mum is,’ he pointed out, ‘if he or she does their job well, especially now the police have called off the door-to-door search.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said, turning to look at him. ‘And it’s not like they haven’t got a clue where to start any more, because we know she’s in Richmond. So why don’t you
ask
someone to do it? Not that Justine James, though,’ she added quickly. ‘I can’t stand her.’

‘I don’t think anyone’s going to need asking,’ he remarked dryly.

Realising the truth of that, she sat quietly for a moment, then said, ‘Actually, I forgot to tell you this, but you know the day they discovered Mum’s bag and stuff on the moor?’

‘Mm,’ he responded, wondering where this could be going.

‘Well, I found Justine James in your study.’

He glanced over at her in surprise.

‘She said you’d given her permission to use your computer.’

Knowing full well he never had, Miles frowned.

‘She was lying, wasn’t she?’ Kelsey prompted.

He nodded. ‘Yes, she was. Did she say anything else?’

‘Not really,’ she answered, in a way that left him wondering if she were being completely truthful. However, he couldn’t imagine her covering up to protect Justine, so guessing she and Justine had had words he turned his mind to what Justine might have found, or planted, on his computer. A few suggestions started presenting themselves, and already he could feel himself growing cold at the thought of how she might use them.

A weak mid-morning sun was slanting into the untidy garden where Justine James was standing, staring curiously down at what lay at her feet. The soil was viscous and dark, specked with grit and leaves, and bound by a hairy tangle of old roots. The hole was no more than a foot deep, scooped from beneath a hedge where wild mushrooms clustered and weeds sprouted with limited hope. The bones inside were like small sticks, lying quietly, unobtrusively, in their hollowed niche, inert tokens of a small body that had once lived and breathed, a lively spirit that had infused its magic into flesh and blood.

Beside her, Elizabeth Barrett, a short, homely woman of around sixty, waited patiently, respectfully; no sighs or shifting of weight, not even a question or comment.

As she took it all in, Justine was hearing the Critch’s voice before she’d left. ‘We don’t want any screw-ups with this,’ he’d growled. ‘If the woman turns out to be a fruitcake you’d better find out now, or it’ll be your
funeral
we’re going to, not Avery’s, and neither of us wants that, now do we?’

His grin had made her itch to slap his face, but she’d merely seethed behind her smile, knowing she’d already discovered much more about Mrs Barrett than she was prepared to reveal – at least for now.

‘Would you like to go in again?’ Elizabeth Barrett asked.

Justine inhaled sharply, then started back down a narrow path that had been trodden into the grass, gazing, as she had on the way out, at an old swing that hung crookedly from a rusty frame, the seat planks rotten, the chains ready to snap.

Once back inside the bungalow’s narrow kitchen where the smell of old gravy mingled with polish and mould, she turned to look into Elizabeth Barrett’s cautious eyes.

‘Would you like some more tea?’ Mrs Barrett offered.

‘That would be nice,’ Justine replied, having to cough the scratchiness from her throat.

Mrs Barrett refilled the kettle and began to rinse out the pot. ‘I’ve kept all the cuttings from back then,’ she said. ‘They’re in a book. I pasted them in myself, after my husband died. He didn’t know I kept them, of course. He’d have made me throw them away.’

Doubting there would be anything there she hadn’t already seen, Justine said, politely, ‘Would I be able to take a look at them?’

‘I’ll get them down, when we’ve had our tea.’

Justine smiled her thanks and passed over the caddy Mrs Barrett was reaching for. ‘So how, exactly, did you first meet Mr Avery?’ she asked chattily.

Mrs Barrett blinked once or twice, then prised open
the
lid of the decorated tin. ‘It was my husband who met him,’ she replied. ‘He was a security guard in the building where Mr Avery worked. They used to say good morning to one another, and pass the time of day now and then, you know how you do. Three spoons, one for each person and one for the pot.’

Justine watched the tea go in, noticing how steady the woman’s fingers were, in spite of the shakiness in her voice.

‘We were living in Mortlake then,’ Mrs Barrett went on, passing the caddy back, ‘only a couple of miles from the Averys in Richmond. Not that we ever saw them, or anything – we didn’t even know it was where they lived until it all came out in the papers about their son going missing.’ She blinked again, quite rapidly, as though uncertain whether she’d said what she’d meant to, then she began staring fixedly at the kettle.

Justine waited, wondering what was in her mind now, if it was whirling like a kaleidoscope, or remaining still like a painting that faded over years, but never changed shape.

‘Of course he wasn’t in the car when Mrs Avery drove into the garage,’ Elizabeth Barrett went on, her gaze still focused on the kettle. ‘He was never there, that’s why no one was seen taking him. He was at home with me. Safe and sound.’ Her eyes flickered and a quick, self-conscious smile twitched her lips. ‘I did my best with him,’ she said. ‘Mr Avery made the right choice when he brought him to me. He wanted me to take care of him, you see, so I said I would. He was afraid, he told me, of what his wife would do to him.’

While impressed by how convincing Mrs Barrett was sounding, Justine knew that it was all the tormented fabrication of a woman with a tragic past.
According
to police archives Elizabeth Barrett had lost her own son to a cot death, and had been imprisoned for five years before being released on appeal.

The report had gone on to detail how the investigating officers in the Avery case had checked into Elizabeth Barrett’s claims when Sam had gone missing, and after establishing her background and the fact that her mental health had been affected as a result of it, they’d hushed the matter up in the hope of sparing Jacqueline Avery any more unpleasant press speculation.

Though Justine could have concocted a story from the file alone, she’d wanted to meet Mrs Barrett in person, and now she had she was forming a much clearer idea of how she was going to treat this exclusive. However, there was still a way to go, and the Critch was nobody’s fool, so she knew she must tread extremely carefully now, and watch her back at all times.

The kettle began whistling, startling Mrs Barrett from her reverie, and as she poured hot water onto the tea she started talking again. ‘My husband and me, we came here quite soon after we had the baby,’ she said, possibly meaning her own child, but there again it could have been Sam. ‘It was a bit of a tumbledown place then that Jim had inherited when his mother died. No central heating, the roof leaked, the garden was like a jungle … We really had our work cut out, but Mr Avery gave us a bit of money to get started, which was very nice of him.’

Justine frowned. There had been no mention of money in the police report. ‘How much did he give you?’ she prompted.

Mrs Barrett’s head twitched slightly as she thought.
‘I
forget now,’ she answered. ‘It was a long time ago.’

Justine nodded sympathetically. ‘So what actually happened to Sam?’ she asked, taking two teaspoons from the drawer next to her.

Mrs Barrett gave her a quick glance. ‘Sam,’ she said, as though reminding herself. ‘He wasn’t with us nearly long enough. But they never are, are they? They come, take over your world and then they go again.’ She began setting cups and saucers on a tray, followed by a packet of custard creams, a milk jug and a sugar bowl, then finally the pot. ‘Shall we go and sit down?’ she suggested. ‘It’s a bit more comfortable in the front room, next to the fire.’

Justine followed her into the sitting room, where she put the tray on top of a fireguard that caged in a small hearth of buttery-coloured tiles and glowing fake coals.

Choosing a threadbare armchair, Justine watched her hold a strainer over each cup as she poured. ‘So what actually happened when …?’

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk, thank you. When you said—’

‘Biscuit?’

To be polite she took one and nibbled a piece off one corner.

Holding her cup and saucer in both hands, Mrs Barrett sat down in a facing chair and looked at Justine. ‘I don’t know how Mrs Avery found out where we were,’ she said evenly. ‘She just turned up one day when my husband was out, and I was here on my own with the baby.’

Knowing they were going deep into the realms of fantasy now, Justine said, ‘What did she do when she arrived?’

At that Mrs Barrett’s head went down, and for a long time she watched the tea swirling around a tiny patch of bubbles in her cup. Then, picking it up, she took a sip. ‘Mr Avery said I was never to tell anyone what happened,’ she answered finally. ‘He came here after, with some other people, and … Actually, I think that was when he gave us the money, not when we moved here. It’s been a long time, so it’s all a bit muddled in my head now.’

‘Of course,’ Justine murmured.

‘Anyway, as Mr Avery’s lawyer, I expect you know what she did.’

Justine nodded slowly, aware that Mrs Barrett had never met Jacqueline Avery in her life. Only Miles had ever come here, with the police, after this tragically deluded woman whose dead husband had indeed once been a security guard at
The News
had begun to confuse the loss of her own child with the abduction of Sam.

Tears rose in Mrs Barrett’s eyes. ‘Mr Avery told me that if I accused his wife of murder again he would have to take some action against me,’ she said raggedly. ‘He was a powerful man, and I didn’t want to go to prison or anything, so I hid the baby in the garden and never told anyone about him.’

Knowing that the bones she’d been shown belonged to a dog, Justine looked at the woman and felt vaguely fascinated by how convincing she might sound to anyone who didn’t know her background. Using a gentle tone, she said, ‘Are you hoping Mr Avery will give you some more money? Is that your real reason for being in touch again now?’

Mrs Barrett’s gaze stayed vacantly on the fire. ‘His wife’s gone missing, hasn’t she?’ she said. ‘Poor thing.
I
understand how she feels,’ and giving a little sigh she raised her cup to drink some more tea. ‘I’ll go and get my albums now, shall I?’ she suggested, suddenly getting to her feet. ‘I won’t be long. You stay there, and help yourself to another biscuit. I made them myself.’

Justine looked at the Tesco packet and started to wonder how soon she could leave. Maybe she should take a look at the albums first, she decided, out of politeness if nothing else.

Jacqueline was wearing an auburn wig now, cut boyishly short with a sixties style full fringe. Her navy gaberdine was belted at the waist, and her glasses had a neutral frame with rose-tinted lenses. She realised it was only a matter of time before someone saw through her disguise, or her landlord was tracked down to his villa in Spain, or someone from the press discovered where she was living, but she wasn’t especially perturbed by this. She barely even thought about it, because her mind was in another place now, somewhere behind the candles, apart from this world.

As she walked away from St Anne’s church she was listening to a message from Miles on her mobile. When it was over she turned the phone off and continued to walk, feeling the drizzle on her face, and the chill air moving about her trying to steal its way in. Nothing was getting through, however, because it was no longer possible for her to be touched by the weather, or disturbed by the noise of traffic, or moved by a conscience that might once have reacted to the anger in Miles’s voice. She could feel for him if she allowed it, but she wouldn’t, because all she wanted was to stay with the sense of peace that was growing all the time inside her, soothing and healing, while a golden halo
of
light seemed to protect her from anything that might prolong the end to her old life and confuse her purpose for the days to come.

The only connection she felt to this world now was through Kelsey. Though she didn’t want to see her, she welcomed the contact between them, because they both still needed it. It was all a part of the process, a journey through forgiveness and understanding that might help Kelsey during the darkest hours ahead.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
– Kelsey would only be walking through, she must not stop. Jacqueline wanted her to understand that. It was why, since Kelsey had returned to school two days ago, she’d texted her each morning and spoken with her both evenings. For now it was enough; they didn’t need to go into any more detail yet.

Last night Kelsey had been chatty, as though talking to one of her friends – or even a mother with whom she’d always had a close and easy relationship. It was a fantasy in which Jacqueline had been willing to play her part, and she would continue to do so, until Kelsey understood that she could no longer be there for her. Being a good mother wasn’t something to be switched on and off, dabbled around with and summoned at will. It took a lifetime’s practice, and Jacqueline had made too many mistakes to be able to erase them at this late stage. Instead she was letting them go, shedding them like a skin, to emerge cleansed and whole for a new beginning.