‘My daughter’s at school there,’ I blurt out. ‘Did you talk to her? She’s called Sally, she said that the police were going to—’
‘My colleague’s interviewing the students.’
I feel as if I’m doing this all wrong. I want to come across as sensible and capable. Not like a silly woman focused on all the wrong things.
She looks up. ‘Okay, let’s get started.’
I’m expecting her to run through the events of yesterday, expecting her to want exact times, arrangements, phone calls made, texts sent. I’m expecting her to want
the full minutiae
, so when she says, ‘What kind of mother would you say Kate is?’, for a second, I’m floored.
‘Sorry?’ I stammer. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Kate?’ she repeats. ‘What kind of mother would you say she is?’
And, without hesitation, I say, ‘The best. She is the best kind of mother.’
I think back to the health problems she’s had with Fergus, her seven-year-old. ‘Her son’s been sickly for as long as I’ve known
them,’ I tell her. ‘He had some kind of an eye problem no one could seem to resolve. And where I would be frantic, not coping and worrying about everything, Kate would make their trips to London to see the specialists an adventure. She’d make them something for Fergus to look forward to.’
I can remember Kate letting Fergus dress up as a superhero or a knight or a warrior. She’d create maps and games and quests for them to complete together on the train. I never once heard her complain about the disruption it caused them; never once did she act like it was a bind.
I look at DC Aspinall. ‘Kate is the kind of mother you want to be, the kind you wish you had.’
‘What about Mr Riverty?’ she asks. ‘Would you say that he’s also a devoted parent?’
‘Of course.’
She holds my gaze before flipping to another page in her notebook.
I chance a quick glance at Joe, and he raises his eyebrows. He’s thinking the same thing as me, that she might be suspecting Guy of something. Which is ridiculous.
I don’t know Guy
that
well – apart from that one time we went over there for dinner, we’re not the kind of couple who socialize ‘as a couple’. You know the types – where the men get together and talk about whatever it is men talk about, and the women stand in the kitchen complaining about how little their husbands do around the house. Joe and I tend to have separate friends. I see Kate socially and at school, but Joe and Guy would never go out for a pint together. Now that I think about it, I wonder why that is. I feel a stab of irritation, although I’m not sure exactly why.
‘How well do you know Mr Riverty?’ DC Aspinall asks.
‘How well do you know anybody?’ I reply, and I see immediately that philosophizing is not the way to go with her.
She says nothing and waits for me to answer the question appropriately.
‘Not that well,’ I say, ‘but well enough to get the measure of him, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘We’re just trying to get a picture of them as a family at this stage.’
‘You don’t think he’s involved, do you?’ I say, and immediately Joe admonishes me.
‘Lisa!’
he says sternly.
‘What? It’s what they do, isn’t it? The police? First they check out the family.’
DC Aspinall looks to Joe and then to me. She speaks slowly and carefully.
‘An enormous number of children go missing each year,’ she says. ‘Most are runaways, so we need to establish as fast as we can if the child has any reason to disappear of their own accord. That’s why we examine the relationships within the family – it’s important to know the dynamics before we start.’
‘So you’re asking me if I think Guy could be responsible for Lucinda running away?’
She tips her head to one side slightly, as if to say,
Could that be possible?
‘Not a chance,’ I answer.
‘How can you be so sure, if, like you say, you don’t know him very well?’
‘Because I know Kate and …’ I pause, not sure whether to say what I want to say. ‘I don’t know how to word this, so I’m just going to spit it out … Let’s decide that Guy is some kind of weirdo who makes his kids uncomfortable – Kate would be on to it like a shot. She watches those kids constantly, she tends to everything, she knows the name of every child in Fergus’s class, she knows all the families of Lucinda’s friends – where they live, what they do. She makes it her business to know. She
misses nothing. Those children are her life. They come before everything.’
‘Okay,’ DC Aspinall says, and she takes a gulp of tea. She nods at Joe. ‘Good brew.’
He smiles. ‘She’s got me well trained.’
‘Let’s go back to yesterday then,’ she says. ‘It was normal for the girls to have a sleepover on a school night?’
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘They’re great friends, they—’ Then I stop. ‘Actually, it’s not normal.’ Confused, I turn to Joe. ‘Has that ever happened before, Joe? Lucinda staying here on a school night?’
‘No idea,’ he says, shrugging. ‘She’s here a lot, so I can’t say I’ve ever paid it that much attention.’
I stare at DC Aspinall blankly. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Who arranged it?’ she asks. ‘Can you remember?’
‘Yes. Sally. She said she and Lucinda needed to work on an assignment together. I think it was a group thing. Kate would know. Anyway, Sally asked if Lucinda could come here for the night so they could work on it together, and then stay over. I can’t say I thought much about it, because, like Joe says, she’s here a lot.’
‘What about getting to school the next morning?’ she asks. ‘Would Mrs Riverty just assume you would take the girls?’
‘What? Oh, no. Both girls get the minibus. It picks up all the children in Troutbeck and takes them to school each day.’
‘What firm is that?’
‘South Lakes Taxis,’ I say, and she jots it down.
‘Can I ask something?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘When
did Lucinda disappear? Did she make it into school yesterday? Or has she been missing for a full twenty-four hours?’
‘We’re almost certain she went missing at the end of the school day. The register was taken at the start of the final lesson and she was marked down as present. But we’re re-checking that
with the students themselves. Would you say it would be usual for Mrs Riverty to contact her daughter during a sleepover?’
‘I would have thought so, knowing Kate.’
Had Kate tried to call Lucinda and not received a reply? It happened often enough with Sally. The first few times we went ballistic, but then, like I’m sure most parents of teenagers do, with time, we let it go.
I choose my battles with Sally carefully and I gave up on this one a while back, probably around the time I gave up on nagging about the state of her bedroom.
‘Kate sent a text to Lucinda, but it went unanswered,’ DC Aspinall says. ‘And I wondered if, as a parent, that would make you worried enough to call? To try to make contact with the parents?’
I thought about this. Could she really be putting some blame on Kate for not following up on a text?
‘There have been times when Sally has stayed over with Lucinda and she’s not replied to my texts. Girls get giddy, they get carried away in whatever it is they’re doing. You know what it’s like.’
Seemingly, DC Aspinall doesn’t know, because she makes no gesture of agreement.
‘But, to be honest,’ I say, ‘because I know she’s with Kate, I’ve never really worried about her if she’s at Lucinda’s. Perhaps if Sally stays at someone else’s house, perhaps if she’s with a friend I know less well, maybe that would make me call the parents and check on her.’
This seems to satisfy, because DC Aspinall stops with this line of questioning and she goes on to ask me about what sort of girl Lucinda is. Could she be hiding anything from her parents? When I sense we’re done I ask the thing I’ve wanted to know since she walked in.
‘What do
you
think’s happened to her?’
‘Impossible to say,’ she replies.
‘But if you had to say. If you had to call it one way or another, would you say you thought Lucinda—’
‘At this stage we’re exploring every avenue.’
I nod. A large part of me has been hoping to hear DC Aspinall say she thought Lucinda was a runaway. Then my guilt wouldn’t be quite so all-encompassing. But of course Lucinda hasn’t left of her own accord. Why on earth would she?
‘One last thing,’ DC Aspinall says, matter-of-fact, as she goes to stand. ‘We’ll be needing an account of your whereabouts, both of you … from around three o’clock yesterday afternoon.’
‘So, Charles,’ – the estate agent regards him, blinks – ‘are you wanting to view properties like this one? Properties right on the lake? Or are you open to anything?’
‘I’d prefer something with lake access if possible. Actually, I’d really like a boathouse – but I suppose if the right property came along then I’d be happy to go for anything—
’
‘I understand,’ she says, nodding. ‘Though I’m sure you’re going to love this one – it is exceptional.’
He hangs back as she unlocks the front door and deals with the alarm. No one home then, he notes. Once she’s inside the hallway, she turns, beaming at him, waiting for him to ooh and aah. Waiting for him to gush about the oak panelling and the original features. As if she herself had some hand in building the thing
.
‘Impressive,’ he says, to appease her, but he doesn’t really think so. Whoever owns this place doesn’t have any real taste. The stair carpet is cheap, and the stained glass fitted inside the porch is tacky
.
‘Let me show you the kitchen,’ she says. ‘It’s amazing.’
Her stilettos move fast across the parquet floor. He watches her walk and sees that the hem of her skirt is hanging low. A thread of black cotton has come loose and is snaking down her calf
.
‘It’s a wonderful room, flooded with light,’ she says. ‘A perfect family room, wouldn’t you say?’
He doesn’t even bother commenting on that. Feels like he’s in one of those aggravating relocation programmes where the women declare the kitchen to be the ‘heart of the home’. The kind of women who want a ‘usable space where we can all be together’, and their teenage kids look on as if they couldn’t imagine anything worse
.
The agent moves towards the wall of windows beyond the dining area and asks, ‘Where are you living at the moment?’
‘Grasmere,’ he answers
.
‘Oh? It’s just I’m not familiar with your name, so I assumed you weren’t from the area.’
She’s clumsy in her quest to figure out if he can really afford this place. She’s smiling at him, waiting for him to divulge more information. He doesn’t
.
He examines her: all that loose flesh squeezed into something that’s supposed to pass for professional attire. Look into this woman’s face and you’ll see her life. He pictures her running out of the house in the morning, stuffing a Mr Kipling’s French Fancy into her mouth, pretending she’s not wearing yesterday’s knickers, climbing into her car, which is littered with crisps and bits of crap
.
They move back to the kitchen and she runs her hand across the rose granite worktop
.
‘What line of business are you in?’ she asks casually. Before he answers he notices the wedding band on her left hand is cutting into the flesh
.
‘Commercial property, hotels,’ he says
.
‘Oh,’ she answers brightly. ‘Which ones?’
‘I’d rather not say at this stage, because I’m thinking of selling, and I don’t want it to be common knowledge. Often guests don’t like the idea of staying somewhere that’s for sale.’
‘I assure you I would never discuss a client’s affairs outside of—’
He smiles. ‘I’m not really a client though yet, am I?’ he says mildly
.
‘Prospective client, then.’
Suddenly she’s looking at him from beneath her lashes in a flirty, girlish way. ‘Is there another hotel you’re looking to invest in?’
‘I’m trying to get away from the hotel business, actually. Too tying. I can’t find decent managers, and then there’s the problem of the great British public … No, I’m thinking of trying my hand at an online business. Importing goods that are already selling well within the US.’
She nods seriously and, not for the first time today, he marvels at how willing people are to believe whatever you tell them. They really want to believe, even if their insides are screaming doubt. He’s enjoying himself now and relaxes his guard a fraction
.
‘Do you have a property to sell?’ she asks
.
He snatches his head around. ‘W–what?’ he stammers
.
‘A house? Are you renting right now, or do you have something to sell before moving?’
Why didn’t he prepare an answer to this? Why not look up some addresses before coming here?
He shakes his head, looks away. His palms begin to itch
.
‘Can I take a look at that?’ He motions to the literature she’s brought with her about the house
.
‘Oh,’ she says, ‘you don’t have one of these? Sorry, I thought you’d already seen this.’
She moves towards him and lays the brochure open on the worktop. As she gets in close he catches a whiff of her, and his stomach heaves
.
The room is warm and, as she leans forward, her jacket is pulled open a little, filling the air with a pungent smell of oniony sweat, fake tan and stale old fag breath
.
What the fuck does she think she’s doing getting this near to him?
He shifts slightly. His palms are itching furiously now. It’s a deep, crawling sensation beneath his skin. He tries to step away from her, but she’s oblivious. She’s running her fat index finger, the one with the fleck of polish near the cuticle, along the text. Suddenly she’s talking at break-neck speed about freehold leases and mains water and private drainage. His head is scrambled and he can barely breathe because this disgusting woman is taking up all the oxygen
.