Lee Weeks - Cold as Ice

‘You’re doing a good job, Tracy. No one gives you a rule book. You just learn along the way.’

‘That’s what Danielle said to me. There isn’t a right way of doing things.’

‘She’s right. Has Steve got any kids?’

‘God no.’

‘Not keen, huh?’ Jeanie smiled.

‘You know what? We’ve never really sat down and said, shall we?’

‘Did he know about Danielle?’

‘Yes – well he knew I had a baby but we didn’t talk about it much.’

‘What was it like when you gave her up? You were very young?’

‘I was fifteen.’ Tracy’s voice came out shrill. She took a breath, closed the suitcase and sat on the bed. ‘It was very difficult. I came from an ordinary family; I was one of two kids. My sister never did anything wrong.’ Tracy sat on the edge of the bed and tucked her hands beneath her thighs. Jeanie could see Tracy didn’t have a lot of practice when it came to talking about her past. Tracy looked up at Jeanie. Her eyes distant, sad. Gone was the super-efficient Tracy, in control. The fifteen-year-old, caught out and cracking up, sat before her on the edge of her girly white satin bed. ‘I was just unlucky, I guess. The first boy I felt deeply for and I ended up “up the spout”. I left it too late for an abortion; I had no idea what was happening to my body. My parents had never really told me much. I’d have done that if I’d had the choice – got rid of it – I mean, I was just a girl. I knew nothing about parenting. I lost so much schooling. My academic side just came to a standstill. I suppose… if I’d been really bright, really keen, I might have made it to uni but…’ She shrugged. ‘It wasn’t really talked about. It wasn’t on the cards.’

‘It must have been a difficult time.’

She didn’t look at Jeanie.

‘Devastating. My mum and dad were so upset. They couldn’t look me in the eyes after that.’ Tracy’s hands spread out along the satin bedspread as if she looked for comfort in its silky touch. ‘No more princess for me!’

‘They helped you in making the decision to give Danielle away?’

‘She wasn’t called that then. I named her Clare.’ Tracy flashed a look Jeanie’s way then smiled, embarrassed. ‘Yes they decided, with me, that I was too young. I couldn’t have coped. They decided it was best.’

‘Did you think it was?’

She shook her head. ‘I did at the time, or rather I didn’t know what to think.’

‘But you picked yourself up afterwards and went back to college?’

‘Yes, sort of – we papered over the cracks. We tried to behave like it never happened. I went to do a course in beauty therapy and I met Steve. He was doing a mechanics course. My parents were really anti him in the beginning but he was a friend more than anything else and I needed that.’

‘Is he still?’

‘What?’

‘A friend? The love of your life?’

Tracy gave a half smile but didn’t answer.

‘Marriage is hard work, isn’t it, Tracy?’

‘Yes. You need to do it when you’re young, that’s for sure. You compromise then, don’t you? You’re willing to bend an awful lot to accommodate someone. Too much, really. Then, before you know it you’ve lost yourself and you kind of hate them as much as love them.’ She turned her face away. ‘But you can’t imagine life without them, that’s the trouble. You get caught in a love trap.’

Jeanie could see Tracy’s reflection in the window, she could see that she was thinking hard what to say; her expression was a sad one.

‘Love loses something along the way, doesn’t it?’

Tracy shut the case and looked earnestly at Jeanie. ‘I certainly wouldn’t do it again.’ Jeanie smiled. They looked out at the street outside. ‘Is Jackson safe?’

‘Yes. I don’t think he’d come near Jackson here.’ Jeanie smiled. ‘You’re doing a good job, Tracy.’

It was midday when Carter left Tracy’s house; he drove to Camden and parked up on a quiet residential street with a smart-looking row of Victorian terrace houses. He walked along to the end of the terrace and smelt the bonfire as he turned up the driveway and walked past a battered-looking van.

He rang the doorbell and waited. No one came. He walked to the edge of the house and heard the crackle of the bonfire as flakes of soot drifted past him. Carter knocked on the side gate and tried the latch. He called out:

‘Mr Foster?’

‘What do you want?’ came the reply.

‘A word.’ Carter opened his warrant card and showed it above the garden gate.

The gate opened and a man stood wiping his hands on a rag. Behind him was a long garden with a clump of trees at the end and a smoking bonfire in the middle. ‘Gerald Foster?’ It struck Carter that Foster was a tough-looking man. He was over six foot. His frame was still upright and strong. He would have put his age at fifty. Foster wore heavy-rimmed glasses covered in a layer of dust. They were ones that had come back into fashion, clear at the bottom, black and heavy at the top.

The man nodded but he didn’t move from the gate.

‘I won’t keep you long, can I come in please?’

For a moment it looked as if Gerald Foster was about to say no but then he turned and walked over to the bonfire.

Carter followed.

‘Funny time to be burning stuff? Isn’t that ground a bit wet?’ Foster shrugged. He carried on past the bonfire and through into the utility room and kitchen at the back of the house. The kitchen table was covered with newspaper and tools being cleaned. Foster unscrewed a chain-saw that was secured in a vice screwed to the edge of a worktop and blew onto the newly sharpened chain blade. Christ, thought Carter – this is what happened to some men when there was no woman around. Foster had turned his house into a tool shed. ‘You’re having a tidy-up?’ Carter looked around the kitchen. There were large pieces of antique-looking mechanical equipment on newspaper. There was a wooden box under repair, its hinges hanging out, its broken lid resting on top of it.

Foster shrugged and turned his back to Carter while he washed his hands in the kitchen sink.

‘I’m very busy as you can see.’ He picked up a dirty towel from beside the sink and wiped his hands.

‘What’s all this stuff? You repair antiques? Looks like you have a lot on here.’ Carter knelt down to look at a piece of old machinery that looked like a pump.

‘It’s a hobby.’ Foster glared at Carter. ‘What’s this about?’ Foster’s voice was surprisingly soft for such a gruff-looking man, thought Carter. He looked nervous. He definitely wasn’t comfortable with visitors.

‘It’s about your daughter Danielle. She’s gone missing.’ Foster stared blankly at Carter for a few seconds then he shook his head and turned away, irritated. ‘We’re very concerned about her welfare. We think she’s been abducted.’

‘Whatever trouble she’s in she brought it on herself.’ Foster picked up a pair of shears from the kitchen table and began sharpening one of the blades on an oiled stone. ‘I haven’t seen her in two years. Don’t want to either. I’m finished with her – I’ve done my bit. Brought her up as best I could.’

‘Bit if a handful, was she?’ Carter nodded sympathetically at Foster. He didn’t answer; he continued sharpening the blade.

‘You could say that. She caused my wife’s death; she brought it on with all her shenanigans.’ He turned to look at Carter and make sure he understood. ‘She was never any good. I could see it as she grew. She had that look about her. Nothing but trouble and then she got herself pregnant and I told my wife not to have anything to do with her but she felt sorry for the little boy. Poor blighter.’ Foster lifted his eyes and looked at Carter.