Better Left Buried (7 page)

All pretty normal for a Saturday afternoon.

I look back at Lizzie. She's still staring out the window with an expression on her face I can't read. But I can see it's not good.

“Lizzie, what's up?”

I turn again and examine the street. That's when I spot him. Standing on the corner of Bute Road, leaning against the bit between the camera shop and the Italian restaurant, looking directly towards the cafe. Towards us.

Black hair. The same leather jacket and dark jeans.

“That's him!” I nearly leap to my feet as I turn back to Lizzie. “That's the man I was telling you about! The one who ran away. The one with the map.”

Lizzie doesn't look at me. The colour has drained from her face.

“There!” I say quickly. “Over by the camera shop. The guy staring right at us.”

Lizzie blinks, then fixes her eyes on me, her expression a mask of forced composure.

“What guy?”

“
Over there!
” I point out the window.

But he's gone. Vanished. Almost as if I imagined him. I scan the length of the street, but there's no sign of him. What on earth…?

I turn back to Lizzie. “For god's sake, you must have seen him. You were looking right at him!”

Lizzie gives a nervous laugh and shakes her head. “I didn't see anyone unusual.”

I gaze at her, astonished. “So what were you staring at?”

Her cheeks redden. “Nothing. I just remembered something, that's all.”

“What?”

“It doesn't matter. Anyway, I've got to go.” Lizzie reaches under the table for her bag.

I take a deep breath, then lean over and grab her arm. “Lizzie, don't leave. You said you were going to tell me something.”

Lizzie pauses and looks at me. Sort of. Her eyes keep sliding away from mine. “It's nothing. Sorry.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing'?” I give her arm a shake. “Why are you running away? Why are you being so…so weird?”

My friend seems immobilized. She sits there, staring down at her empty plate.

“Lizzie, please…this is doing my head in. I…I don't know what to…”

I'm close to crying. Again. I take another deep breath. “Dad's gone away and Mum is still in pieces and I'm starting to wonder if she's ever going to get better. And now this strange guy I keep seeing all the time…”

I glance outside, afraid he'll be there again, but there's no trace of him. “I'm scared,” I say. “I'm so behind on my music and the audition's in a few weeks and…and I feel I can't talk to you any more. It's as if this huge gulf has opened up between us and I've no idea why.” The words tumble out and I have to bite them off before I start sobbing in earnest.

Lizzie still doesn't speak, keeping her gaze fixed on the table.

“What's happening, Lizzie?” I can't keep the desperation out of my voice. “You've been so off with me recently. With everyone.
What's the matter?
”

She looks up finally and I see all the pain in her eyes. I can tell she's fighting tears too. She opens her mouth as if about to say something, then glances back out the window.

“I'm sorry, Sarah, I've got to go. There's something I have to do and I can't put it off any longer.”

She gets up, pulling on the cardigan she left draped across the back of the chair.

“I'll come with you then…” I jump up and grab my bag.

“No need,” she says abruptly, already making for the door. She turns before letting it close, her face stricken with something I can't even begin to fathom.

“I'll call you.” She wavers for a moment. “I'm sorry.”

I reach for my jacket, determined to follow. Lizzie can't just leave like this. What the hell is going on? But at that second my phone rings. I pull it out my pocket and glance at the screen.

Mum.

I hesitate, almost let it go to voicemail. Then relent and take the call. Her voice is hysterical. Her words punctuated by huge staccato sobs.

“Oh god…Sarah…come home quickly. It's ruined. All of it… Everything.”

By the time I arrive the police are already there, a yellow-and-blue chequered car parked right outside our house. One of our neighbours hovering by his window, hardly bothering to hide his curiosity.

I almost sprint inside, expecting to find Mum in pieces. But she's sitting on the sofa in the living room talking to a policewoman with short red hair, looking calmer than she sounded on the phone. Stunned, rather than in the first grip of panic.

It's my turn to freak out. My mouth drops as I survey the devastation. Nothing is where it was when I left the house this morning. Every single drawer and cupboard has been pulled open, the contents scattered everywhere. The shelves are empty, their books and ornaments forming a tide of debris on the floor. The furniture dragged away from the walls and the TV pitched off its stand, lying face down on the carpet, a tangle of cables trailing from its back.

I retreat to the kitchen. A sea of food and utensils and bits of crockery greets me at the door. At least half the bowls and plates are smashed, swept out of the cupboards onto the tiled floor. Tea towels are strewn around the room like rags, and there's a large puddle of milk by the gaping door of the fridge.

Nothing has been spared, it seems. Even the toaster is lying on the kitchen floor, an ugly dent in its stainless steel side.

Dazed, I go upstairs, barely registering Mum's voice calling me from the living room. Step over the towels littering the hallway, swept out from the airing cupboard. Glance in the bathroom. The sink is full of plastic bottles and packets of pills, the door of the wall cabinet left open.

My bedroom. A groan escapes me as I walk in. All my books, my sheet music, my collection of old classical CDs, clothes, college folders, everything massed in a heap across my rug. It looks like the news footage from the aftermath of some kind of natural disaster. A tornado maybe, or an earthquake.

“Sarah?” Mum calls again. I ignore her, trying to take in the ruins of my room.

Who did this? And why? Why make such a mess?

I survey the debris on my carpet. Bend down to retrieve the things at my feet, then pause – I guess I shouldn't touch anything until the police say it's okay. But in the middle, partially hidden by the book on vocal training Mrs Perry lent me, I spot my necklace – the silver one with the little amethyst Mum and Dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday.

I can't stop myself. I step forwards and pick it up, praying the chain hasn't broken. It hasn't. Without thinking I undo the tiny clasp and fix it round my neck, a talisman against the surrounding chaos. I'm keeping it safe, I decide – or maybe it's the other way round.

I glance about for anything else that needs rescuing and my eyes fall on a small granite pebble, streaked through with rose-coloured quartz. Odd. What's that doing here? It was my brother's – he always kept it on his desk.

I bend down again to retrieve it, running my finger over its rough surface, and for a second I'm back there, on the island in the lake by our summer house. Max teasing me, pulling faces and sniping till I lost my temper and grabbed this stone and lobbed it at him.

It hit my brother square on the forehead, immediately drawing a small bead of blood. I can still remember the shock on his face, more pronounced than the pain. Then the smile that broke out over his features.

“Didn't think you had it in you,” he said.

I often wondered why he kept it. As a trophy, perhaps, or a reminder to both of us not to let things go that far again? Or simply a memento of the place he loved so much.

But what's it doing in here?

“Sarah?” Mum's voice is more insistent. I leave the stone on my empty bookcase and head downstairs, glancing into the other bedrooms as I go. I've never seen such a mess, particularly in Max's room. The sight is so overwhelming that I feel numb. Almost anaesthetized.

How will Mum deal with this? All his stuff, everything she had left of him, ransacked and trashed?

By the front door, I pass a man brushing powder onto the frame, leaving great stains of silvery-grey, like blotches of algae. For a moment I can't think what he's doing, then realize he's dusting for fingerprints.

Where are we even going to start with this? I wonder as I go back to the living room. I gaze at Mum as if she might have an answer. She's pale, her face pinched and haggard, the police officer holding her hand. It's all so like when Max died: the police coming to the house, Mum sitting there, shaking, looking as if her world had caved in.

“What h-happened?” I gasp. “I mean, when…?”

Mum shakes her head. “I don't know. I was only out for an hour or so, at the doctor, then the chemist.”

“Sarah, isn't it?” the police officer says with a professional smile. “My name's PC Annie Wilson. Why don't you sit down?”

I sink into the armchair opposite. The cushion is wonky, as if someone replaced it in a hurry. I glance round the room again. I can't take my eyes off the wreckage.

How will we ever clear this up? I wonder for a second time. It seems impossible somehow, pointless, as if we'd be better off simply walking out the house and never coming back.

“Could I check what time you left this morning?”

I look up. The police officer is speaking to me. I give her all the details she asks for, examining her face for clues, as if she might know something we don't. But her expression gives nothing away, even when it's obvious that my answers aren't providing anything useful.

“How did they get in?” I ask when she's finished with her questions.

She nods towards the back of the house. “Forced open a window. They'd have been in within seconds.”

They must have climbed over the wall where it borders onto the alleyway, I think, shivering as I picture them creeping across the garden.

PC Wilson leans down and takes something out of the case at her feet. An A4 envelope. She pulls out several sheets of white paper and a couple of black ones. “Do you mind if I take your prints now? It'll save you a trip into the station.”

I must look a bit taken aback, because she tacks on a reassuring smile. “It's only so we can eliminate yours from any we find.”

“What about Dad?” I say. “I mean, he's away.”

“Don't worry. We'll get his prints when he gets back, or the Scottish police could send them over.”

I go first. PC Wilson writes my name at the top of a form with a series of boxes on it, then lays it beside the black sheet on the coffee table. She grips my fingers and presses each firmly, first onto the black paper, then onto the white. Little smudgy whorls appear in the boxes. I stare at them, fascinated despite the shock of it all.

My own unique pattern.

While Mum does hers, I examine the dark stains on my fingertips. Will they wash off or will we walk round like this for weeks? I imagine people wondering what we've done, not knowing we're actually the victims.

But PC Wilson pulls out a packet of wipes from her case and hands one to each of us. The black marks rapidly disappear.

As she puts everything away, PC Wilson glances around. “This is pretty awful. I haven't seen a burglary this messy in a long time.”

Too right, I think, suppressing the urge to say it out loud. Our lives are shaping up to be quite a disaster.

“We'll be interviewing the neighbours,” she adds, writing something in her notebook before tucking it back into the pocket of her jacket. “The good thing is we have a fairly narrow time frame for the break-in, so there's a chance we may turn up a useful witness.”

“But why?” I ask, bewildered. “Why us? It's not like we've got anything particularly valuable.”

She shrugs. “I can't answer that, Sarah, I'm afraid. I suppose something must have caught their eye. Have you noticed anything obvious missing?”

“My laptop,” I say, suddenly realizing it wasn't on my desk. Or in the pile on the floor. I bite my lip in anguish. It was nearly brand new.

She reaches into her case and pulls out a form, passing it to Mum. “If you could both go around later, after we've taken all the photographs, and write a list of everything you notice that's gone. You'll need it anyway for your insurance company.”

Mum's hand trembles as she takes it.

“I'm sorry. I know this must be a terrible shock. And coming so soon after…” PC Wilson lets her sentence trail off as Mum's face threatens to crumple, then looks across at me. “Have you got anywhere else you could stay tonight? Maybe for a few days while you get this cleared up.”

I think for a second. Aunt Helen. We could go there. But she lives an hour away in Guildford and Mum's clearly in no fit state to drive.

“Shall I call Aunt Helen? Ask her to come and pick us up?”

Mum doesn't respond. Just keeps her head in her hands.

PC Wilson nods at me. “Perhaps that would be best.” She pats Mum on the shoulder and gets to her feet. “We'll send over the local Victim Support person. He's very good. He'll give you our leaflet on property security. Window locks, maybe an alarm…that sort of thing.”

I thank her, though honestly it seems a bit late for that.

“Do you mind if I have another look around?” she asks. “I need to make a few more notes.”

I nod and she retreats into the kitchen. I sit beside Mum and give her a cuddle. I don't say anything. I'm too shaken up and, anyway, what's there to say?

I close my eyes for a few seconds, trying to quell the wobbly feeling inside. But I keep picturing whoever was in here, going through our house, destroying everything. Why did they have to make such a bloody mess?

Then it hits me. I can't believe I didn't think of it before. Oh Jesus…

I leap up and find PC Wilson in the kitchen.

“How did they know?” I try to work through the swirl of thoughts in my head. “That we were both out, I mean.”