Кара Хантер - In the Dark

‘ Because it’s true ,’ they mutter, sing-song. They’ve heard that one before. All except Somer, who grins suddenly, then hides it by pretending to make a note on her pad. She has a great smile; it changes her whole face.

‘But what about the body, sir?’ Baxter again. ‘If Rob killed her, how did she end up in Harper’s shed?’

‘The two gardens back on to one another – Harper’s and Gardiner’s. And the fence at the bottom is pretty rickety – it wouldn’t be that hard to get through it.’

‘It’s a bit of a stretch though, isn’t it, boss?’ interrupts Everett. ‘I mean, Rob Gardiner burying his wife’s body in the garden of exactly the same house where we found a girl in the cellar? I mean, what are the odds against that?’

I shoot a look at Baxter, who pretends I haven’t.

‘It’s a good point, Ev. And you’re right, I don’t believe in coincidences. Usually. But if we reject the possibility of coincidence entirely there’s a risk we bend the evidence to make it all fit. And I don’t know about you, but the more we find out about these two crimes the more dissimilar they seem. So let’s investigate them that way. At least for now.’

People start to stand up, shuffle papers, and I beckon Everett.

‘Can you look into what Vicky says about herself in her journal – see if that helps us with an ID?’

‘There isn’t much, boss –’

‘She talks about looking for a new flat and not being in the city for very long. So ask the job centre about girls called Vicky who were on their books two or three years ago and then suddenly stopped signing on without any explanation. And try the letting agents too.’

She’s not convinced, but she’s a pro. ‘OK, boss. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘What is it?’ I ask. Because there’s something. Something she wanted to add, and didn’t.

‘I was just remembering how badly she reacted when you wanted to put her picture in the paper. Have you any idea why?’

I shake my head. ‘Right now, none at all.’

***

Janet Gislingham is asleep on the sofa when her husband gets back from work, and it’s only when she rouses herself and goes to check on her son that she realizes he’s home. Billy is dozing, nestled in his blue and white blankets, in his blue and white nursery, surrounded by soft toys and piles of clothes in a year’s worth of sizes all still in their plastic packaging. There’s no item of babyware Janet hasn’t thought of, bought already or borrowed just in case. And above the cradle, a mobile Gislingham’s equally football-mad brother made for his first nephew, hung with cut-outs of famous Chelsea football players. Drogba, Ballack, Terry, Lampard, rotating slowly in the warm air.

Gislingham is standing at the cradle, and Janet watches as he reaches down and gently strokes their baby’s silky hair. Billy shifts slightly under his father’s hand, making tiny dreaming noises, his little hands curling and uncurling. The love on the man’s face is as painful as loss.

‘Chris?’ she says, her hand still on the door. ‘Is everything OK?’

But he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move at all. All is still except for the baby’s tiny mews. She’s not even sure if her husband knows that she’s there.

‘Chris?’ A little louder now. ‘Are you all right?’

Gislingham starts, and turns to face his wife.

‘Course I am,’ he says, with his usual smile. ‘How could I not be?’

But when he comes towards her and folds her in his arms, she can feel his tears wet against her face.

***

It’s gone nine when I get home. I spent over an hour with Walsh and his story never changed: he’s never been in the cellar, he knows nothing about either Hannah or the girl, and he didn’t steal anything from the house. His only explanation for the fingerprints is that he helped Harper sort out some junk years ago and it must be those boxes that got taken downstairs. Stalemate, in other words. We’ve put him in the custody suite overnight, but we’re going to have to bail him if we don’t get something a lot better than what we have right now.

In this job, you get good at the unexpected. Spotting when even very little things aren’t where they ought to be. But when I push open my front door at 9.15 I hardly need super-sensitive powers to realize something’s changed. Lilies in a tall glass vase I haven’t seen in months. Bryan Ferry on low. Even – and this really is a shock – the smell of cooking.

‘Hello?’ I call, dumping my bag in the hall.

Alex appears in the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Should be ready in ten minutes,’ she says, smiling.

‘You didn’t need to wait. I could have shoved a pizza in the microwave.’

‘I wanted to. I suddenly felt like making something for a change. Glass of wine?’

In the kitchen there’s a pot of casserole on the hob. A Spanish recipe she used to make a lot. Memories of a weekend in Valencia. She pours the Merlot and turns to me, cradling her own glass. One of the last of the wedding present set.

‘How was your day?’

That’s different too. Alex doesn’t really ‘do’ small talk.

I drink some wine and feel it go straight to my head. I think I forgot to have lunch.

‘Horrible. It looks like it was Harper’s nephew who imprisoned and abused that girl. We found a journal she wrote while she was down there. It’s horrific, what she went through.’

She nods. Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t be telling her any of this, but we don’t speak strictly in this house. Just like we don’t do small talk. ‘I feared as much,’ she says. ‘And Hannah?’

‘That’s not good either. Her best friend just told us Rob may have been hitting her. He’s right back in the frame.’

Her face is grim. Probably as grim as mine.

She turns back to the casserole. Garlic, oregano, a hint of anchovies. My stomach turns over. And I stand there, with my wine, trying to decide. Do I tell her what Vicky wrote about the boy? Do I tell my wife that she was right and I was wrong – that the boy’s own mother once hated him – perhaps still does? That he’s spent the whole of his short life imprisoned with someone who never wanted him? And if I do, will that only make it worse? Will it only make her even more determined to give him the love she thinks every child deserves – the love she still has but can no longer bestow?

‘There’s time,’ she says, still preoccupied with the pan, ‘if you want to go up.’

‘It’s OK, I won’t bother to change.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I meant if you wanted to check on him.’

I knew he was here. Of course I did. The food, the music, the smile, the flowers. They’re all because of him. But knowing that and going up there, seeing him –

‘It’s all right, he’s fast asleep,’ she says, mistaking my hesitation. Perhaps deliberately. ‘He went out like a light. I think he’s completely exhausted.’

She looks round at me. It’s a test. And I’ve never been able to bear failing Alex.

*

The landing light is on, even though it’s not yet dark, and the door to the bedroom is ajar. I move forward slowly until I round the corner and see his head on the pillow. The dark curls, the teddy bear Jake loved when he was this age. The boy is curled up tight like a dormouse, the grimy toy still clutched in one hand. I listen to him breathing, like I used to listen to Jake, standing exactly where I am now.

***

The phone rings six times before Quinn picks it up.

‘It’s me,’ Somer says. ‘Are you in the car? I can hear the traffic.’

‘What do you want?’

‘To try to sort things out. To talk.’

‘Not sure there’s anything to talk about. It was OK while it lasted, but you know what they say about shitting on your own doorstep.’