Missing (29 page)

She was just scrolling down the left-hand margin to
see
what special files he’d set up, hoping it might be as easy as finding one marked ‘Vivienne’ or ‘Jacqueline’, when a three-word heading in the main inbox happened to catch her eye. Blinking with bemusement, she looked at the sender’s ID. A woman, but no one she’d ever heard of. A quick glance at the date and time showed the email had arrived less than ten minutes ago, which meant Miles couldn’t have seen it yet.

With a spinning curiosity, and fingers made unsteady by excitement, she clicked on to open the email, half expecting it to be from some kind of nutter, or, more likely, a journo with a particularly sick way of grabbing attention.

However, less than a minute later, having read the carefully phrased sentences and opened the photograph attached to the message, she could only sit staring at the screen, so stunned that she couldn’t, as yet, quite grasp the enormity of what she’d discovered.

Taking a split-second decision, she forwarded the email to her own computer and erased it from Miles’s. Sweat was beading on her forehead and prickling under her arms. She felt slightly dizzied by what she’d done, as though it wasn’t quite real. Her heart was still thudding as she returned to the named files on the left, but whatever they contained couldn’t be more explosive than the message she’d just read. Nevertheless, her fingers moved rapidly over the keys as she entered a search for Vivienne.

If she heard the sound of footsteps in the hall she didn’t register them, nor did she connect with the door opening as someone came in, all she knew was how violently she started when a voice said, ‘What are you doing?’

She spun round to see Kelsey standing at the door.

Kelsey’s eyes rounded. ‘Oh my God, it’s
you
. What are you doing here?’

In spite of how flustered she was, Justine managed a reasonable nonchalance as she said, ‘I’m just … I was using your dad’s computer. He said I could …’

‘You’re snooping,’ Kelsey declared, her lip curling in disgust.

‘Of course I’m not. I left my laptop at the hotel so your father said I could file from his.’

Kelsey’s eyes remained hostile. ‘So where is he?’ she wanted to know.

‘I – I’m not sure. He was here a moment ago.’

Still the girl’s suspicion showed no sign of letting up. ‘I’m going to call him,’ she said, taking out her mobile.

‘No! Don’t! I mean …’

Kelsey stopped in alarm.

‘Actually, he’s with the police,’ Justine told her, surprised by how relieved one small truth could make her feel. ‘They’re, um … They went over to the woods.’

Kelsey looked more scared than ever.

‘Oh, it’s OK, I don’t think it’s anything to worry about,’ Justine assured her, having no idea if it was, but it seemed the right thing to say.

Kelsey’s red-rimmed eyes began darting around the room, as though afraid someone else might be there, then they came to a stop on something on the floor. Justine followed their direction and felt her heart sink with dismay. The front-page story about her new baby brother.

If Justine thought, even for a minute, that Kelsey wouldn’t register the headline she was so quickly corrected that her head almost spun.

‘That’s your name on that story!’ Kelsey said savagely.

The girl was definitely her father’s daughter.

‘You wrote that! You don’t care about how my mum—’

‘Hang on, hang on,’ Justine said, putting out her hands as though they could calm things down. ‘Your father knew it was … Well, he said himself, it had to come out sooner or later, so … so he asked me to do it, before … anyone turned it into something … Well …’ With a helpless gesture, she said, ‘I have no control over headlines.’

Kelsey seemed more upset than ever. ‘He wanted everyone to know?’ she said.

Justine was trying to make herself think. ‘I guess it’s best if it’s out there,’ she said uneasily. ‘Keeping things secret … Well, you can see what this has done. It’s started people thinking … you know, the worst.’

Kelsey’s haunted eyes were looking fearfully into hers. ‘Have you ever seen him?’ she said hoarsely.

It took Justine a moment to realise she meant Rufus. ‘No,’ she answered. ‘Have you?’

Kelsey started, as though shocked by the question, then shook her head. ‘Has my dad?’ she asked through tightly pinched lips.

Justine’s heart did a flip. ‘I’m not sure,’ she answered cautiously. ‘Do you think he has?’

Kelsey shrugged. ‘How should I know? He’s only just told me about him. Anyway, I couldn’t be less interested.’

Justine registered the defensive tone. ‘He’s your brother,’ she said, watching her closely.

Kelsey’s eyes sparked. ‘No he’s not. He’s
hers
, not my mother’s, so how can he be?’

Encouraged by the vehemence, but realising she
was
already on borrowed time, Justine said, ‘I think we should have a little chat, you and me.’

Kelsey immediately backed off.

‘Not now,’ Justine persevered. ‘I have to go, but if you give me your mobile number …’

‘What for? It was because of you that my mother tried to kill herself, and me.’

‘I had no idea she’d do that,’ Justine said awkwardly. ‘And I didn’t write the whole piece myself.’

Kelsey continued to glare at her.

‘Try to think of it this way,’ Justine said gently, ‘she came back after she read that article. And that was what you wanted. Wasn’t it? To have your mum back.’

‘I didn’t want her to do what she did.’

‘Of course not, but remember what else happened?’

Kelsey looked wary.

‘To Vivienne?’

It took only a second for comprehension to dawn.

‘That’s right. It got her out of your life,’ Justine said with a reassuring smile.

Now Kelsey was looking puzzled.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Justine said, reaching for a pad, ‘I’ll give you the number of my mobile, and if you’d like to talk some more you just give me a call. Any time, day or night, and if you don’t want anyone to know, I promise not to mention it to a soul.’

Chapter Thirteen

RAIN WAS STREAMING
down on the umbrella being held over Miles, in a haunting, mesmeric tempo that seemed, oddly, to deaden the horror and even disperse the shock. The ground underfoot was sodden, the trees dripped and creaked in the wind, while the fields that stretched and faded into the moor seemed to sigh and shift in their impenetrable veil of mist.

There was a lot of movement around the edge of the woods, forensic scientists in pale overalls, masks and gloves collecting and bagging evidence; other scene-of-crime officers in issue waterproofs treading carefully about the mire; an Alsatian and a spaniel sniffing eagerly at the base of a sycamore, where crimson-topped funghi were sprouting in profusion amongst the roots. Miles was barely registering it all, though he was aware he was at a possible crime scene where every scrap of substance mattered.

Apparently the dead man, Timothy Grainger, had died from asphyxiation, brought about by choking on his own vomit. A senseless, tragic end, but not in itself suspicious. However, what had turned up since certainly was, though the implications barely registered with Miles, as he stared down at the crumpled, slime-covered coat a member of the forensic team was
holding
for him to look at. In spite of its condition he was in no doubt it was Jacqueline’s. As were the Bali shoes and Hermès scarf which had also been found in the Fendi carry-all buried in another ditch, some fifty metres or so from where Grainger’s body had been discovered.

‘Over here!’ someone suddenly shouted.

Miles looked up. One of the SOCOs was kneeling at the base of the sycamore, drawing something out from under a blanket of saturated leaves. ‘A handbag,’ he declared, holding it aloft.

Miles and Sadler walked over to join the small crowd that was gathering around the tree. With gloved hands one of the forensics took the bag and began fishing around for the contents. This time Miles wasn’t required to identify the find: the wallet spoke for itself. It was full of Jacqueline’s credit cards. Her driving licence was there too, along with a small bundle of store receipts and a slim gold pen inscribed with her initials. A gift from him two Christmases ago.

He watched, as though in a dream, as gloved fingers dug into the bag again and pulled out a set of keys. He knew them instantly; they belonged to Moorlands.

‘Got an envelope here, sir,’ a young officer called from a few feet away.

Everyone turned round. He was kneeling at the edge of the woods, rain cascading over him as his knees sank into the pulpy earth. ‘Nothing in it,’ he told them, ‘but it’s addressed to Mrs Avery.’

Miles watched someone take it from him and insert it in a transparent plastic bag.

Sadler said, ‘Do you have any idea how any of this might have got here, Mr Avery?’

Miles swallowed, but when he tried to speak his voice wasn’t there.

Sadler waited.

Miles met his eyes, careful to let nothing show in his own. ‘I think my wisest course right now,’ he said, ‘would be to contact my lawyer.’

Sadler continued to regard him, but when Miles said no more he turned away and began trudging back through the autumn debris to his car. As he waited for Miles to join him his eyes moved through the dense, ghostly mists billowing around the moor. ‘I’ll take you home,’ he said, and leaving Miles to open the passenger door for himself, he squeezed past a PSU van to get around to the driver’s side.

Neither of them spoke again until they were back at the house, when Sadler, with the engine still idling, said, ‘We’ll find her, Mr Avery.’

Ignoring the undertone, Miles kept his own voice neutral as he said, ‘I certainly hope so,’ and pushing open the door he got out of the car.

Vivienne’s face was pinched with anger as she hoisted a heavy carrycot up the steps to her sister’s front door. Behind her a posse of press was squealing to a halt around her Beetle, having pursued her at dangerous speed from her mother’s.

‘Vivienne! Vivienne!’ they began shouting as they leapt out of their vehicles.

‘How old is Rufus?’

‘Is it true Miles didn’t know about him?’

‘Do you know where Jacqueline is?’

As the front door opened Vivienne shoved her way inside and thrust the carrycot at Caroline before storming down the hall into the sitting room.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ Caroline demanded, coming in after her.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Vivienne seethed. ‘You, or your damned drunk of a husband, sold your story to Justine James. Well, let me tell you this, Caroline, if anything happens to my son as a result of it, I will hold you fully responsible.’

‘Oh, ever the drama queen,’ Caroline sneered, throwing down the carrycot. ‘They were always going to find out, and only someone as arrogant as you would think—’

‘Listen to me,’ Vivienne growled, stepping in close. ‘There are at least half a dozen reporters out there, so if you don’t do as I say, right now, I’m going back out there to tell them who sold me down the river. What a nice headline that’s going to make for you,
sister
dearest.’

Though Caroline flinched, her tone was still scathing as she said, ‘You don’t come round here giving orders …’

‘Oh yes, I do. You owe me for this, and now you’re going to pay. Everyone out there thinks Rufus is with me, and you’re going to play along by letting them think it too, at least for the next hour. By then I’ll be long gone, in your car, and I’ll leave you mine.’

Caroline blinked in confusion.

‘Keys,’ Vivienne demanded, holding out her hand.

‘What the hell makes you think—’

‘Give me the damned keys. I take it your car’s in its usual place, out the back?’

‘Yes, it is, and that’s where it’s going to stay.’

‘Here, take mine,’ Roger said, coming into the room and fishing a set of keys out of his trouser pocket.

Vivienne looked at him, and despite her anger felt
her
heart stir with pity. Her brother-in-law had been an extremely handsome man once, full of confidence and always smiling. Now he was little more than a pathetic shadow of his former self, with bloated features, bloodshot eyes and a personal odour that reeked of booze.

‘I’ve been banned,’ he told her, ‘so it’s no use to me, and it’s insured for anyone to drive. We did that so anyone could drive me home.’

Feeling wretched for him, Vivienne took the keys and squeezed his shaking hand. ‘Please get yourself some help,’ she whispered, as she brushed a kiss to his stubbly cheek.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ he said, turning after her, ‘I feel bad about telling Justine.’

Knowing he meant it, Vivienne gave him a reassuring smile. There was no point trying to make him feel any worse, it was done now, so there was no going back. ‘Thanks for the car,’ she said.

‘It’s in the second garage at the end of the lane,’ he told her. ‘The key’s on the ring.’

Half an hour later Vivienne was back at her mother’s with Roger’s battered Polo parked outside, and so far no sign of the press having followed her. She wouldn’t have much time though, she needed to be gone from here, with Rufus, before they got wise to her ploy and came back again.

‘Vivi, are you sure about this?’ her mother was saying, as she came in from loading up the car. ‘You don’t have to take him now. I mean, I’m not going anywhere yet, and he might be better off staying here until everything blows over.’

Hefting a box of Rufus’s toys up into her arms, Vivienne looked at Linda over the top of them. ‘He’ll
be
fine with me,’ she told her. ‘I’m his mother, for heaven’s sake …’

‘I know, I know, it’s just that I can’t help worrying, especially now—’

‘I should think the fact they’ve found Jacqueline’s clothes would make you a lot less worried,’ Vivienne cut in, sounding much snappier than she intended.

‘I didn’t mean that. I just … Oh dear, I don’t feel right about this, Vivi. Maybe if Miles had called …’

‘Well, he hasn’t. Now, please make yourself useful and bring the other box out to the car.’

As she walked swiftly down the garden path she couldn’t help wondering how many of the neighbours might be watching. They obviously knew by now that Linda Kane was the infamous Vivienne’s mother, which made ‘dear little Rufus’ (as the woman next door had dotingly called him the day before as though he were in some way afflicted), the living, breathing son of the suspected uxoricide Miles Avery. She couldn’t remember now which of the Sundays had used such a ludicrously pompous word, when wife-murderer would have made the point much more potently. In the end she’d tossed every one of the papers into the bin, unable to stand the scurrilous, hand-rubbing glee that seemed to permeate every word.