Little Face (14 page)

I feel David's breath on my neck. `You're right to be scared,' he whispers. I gasp and nearly lose my balance. I was so focused on Vivienne, I didn't hear him come in. `She'll see through your act straight away.'
How he must have hoped, right up until this moment, that I would
back down, apologise unreservedly for my madness, enable him to
greet Vivienne with a reassuring, `Don't worry! It's all blown over!' He
is trying to frighten me because he is frightened.

He succeeds. I want to phone Simon Waterhouse, scream at him to
come and save me. I want to hide in his embrace and hear him say that
Florence and I are going to be safe thanks to him. I have turned into
every therapist's text-book patient. Needy, unable to cope with the
expectation that I will behave like a responsible adult, I have created
what is known in the trade as a drama triangle, casting myself in the
role of victim. David is my persecutor and Simon my rescuer.

The front door opens with a click, closes with a wooden thud.
Vivienne is back.

Friday, October 3, 2003, 9 PM

`I'M NOT SAYING definitely not. I don't know yet. I'll do my best.'
Simon bit back the urge to say, `Didn't we speak earlier today? And has
anything important happened since then?' It had been easier when his
mother had worked full-time. There hadn't been so many phone calls.

`But when will you know?'

`I don't know. It depends on work. You know what my job's like.'
Did she fuck. She didn't have a clue. She thought Sunday dinner was
more important.

`So, what's your news?' asked Kathleen Waterhouse. Simon could
see her even though he couldn't, knew she was pressing the phone hard
against her ear, as if trying to embed it in the side of her head. She
feared the connection with her son might be lost if she didn't exert
maximum force. Her ear would be red and sore afterwards.

`No news.' He'd have said this even if he'd won the lottery that
morning, or been invited to man the next space shuttle. In theory, he
wanted his chats with his mother to be relaxed, enjoyable. He often
imagined the things he would say to her, jokes or anecdotes he would
tell her when they next spoke, but they all died on his tongue the
instant he heard that timid `Hello, dear. It's Mum.' That was when he
remembered there was a script he could never abandon, no matter how
much he might wish to. That was when he said, `Hi, Mum. How are
you?' and resigned himself to another wrangle over his availability for
Sunday lunch this week, next week, every fucking week.

`Have you got any news?' His next line, on cue. She would tell him
one item; she always did.

`I met Beryl Peach today, in the launderette.'

`Oh, right.'

`Kevin's staying at home for a while. You could see if he wanted to
meet up.'

`I'm probably going to be too busy.' Kevin Peach had been Simon's
friend at school. Briefly. Until Simon had got fed up of being the mascot, the token `mad bastard' of Peach's little coterie. They enjoyed
watching him start fights for no reason, egged him on to approach girls
who were way out of his league. They copied out his carefully written
notes and still blamed him when they didn't get the As he got in
exams. No thanks. He had a new social life now, The Brown Cow after
work with Charlie, Sellers, Gibbs and a few others. Police friendships were easier to keep at a surface level, work-related banter.
Except Charlie. She was always trying to go beyond that, to take more
and go deeper. To know more.

`So when will I see you, if not on Sunday?' Kathleen Waterhouse
asked.

`I don't know, Mum.' Not until Alice had been found. Simon
couldn't stand seeing his parents when he was feeling at all shaky.
Their company, the stifling atmosphere of the house he grew up in
that hadn't changed in over thirty years, could turn a mild bad mood
into the most deadening misery. Poor sods; it wasn't their fault. They
were always so pleased to see him. `Why don't we wait and see about
Sunday?'

The doorbell rang. Simon's whole body stiffened. He prayed his
mum hadn't heard it. He'd get the full list of questions: who is it? Well,
who might it be? Wasn't it rude to call round unexpectedly at nine
o'clock? Did Simon know anybody who would do that? Kathleen
Waterhouse was afraid of spontaneity. Simon had spent most of his life
trying hard not to be. He ignored the doorbell, hoping that whoever
it was would give up and leave.

`How's the house?' asked his mother. She asked after it every time
she phoned, as if it were a pet or a child.

`Mum, I've got to go. The house is fine. It's great.'

`Why have you got to go?'

`I just have, okay? I'll ring you tomorrow.'

`All right, dear. Goodbye. God bless. Speak to you later.'

Later? Simon gritted his teeth. He hoped it was a figure of speech,
that she didn't mean later tonight. He hated himself for being unwilling, unable, to ask her to phone less often. It was a reasonable request.
Why couldn't he do it?

The bloody house was fine. It was a two-up, two-down terraced cottage in a quiet cul-de-sac next to the park, five minutes walk from his parents' place. It had a lot of charm but not much space, and was probably
the wrong choice for someone as tall as he was, but that hadn't occurred
to him at the time. Now he'd got attached to it, and it wasn't too much
of a hardship to duck as he moved from one room to another.

Property prices had been on the verge of becoming ridiculous when
he'd bought it three years ago, and he still struggled, every month, to
pay the mortgage. His mother had neither wanted him to leave home
nor understood why he felt the need to. She would have been unhappy
if he'd moved much further away than he had. This way he'd been able
to say, `I'm just round the corner, nothing will change'. Change: a thing
to be dreaded.

The bell rang again. As he made his way down the hall, he heard
Charlie's voice. `Let me in, you fucking hermit!' she called out amiably.
Simon looked at his watch, wondering how long she was planning to
stay. He opened the door.

`For God's sake, relax.' Charlie pushed past him, a brown packet in
her hand. She made her way through to the lounge without being
invited, took off her coat and sat down. `I just came to give you this.'
She thrust the padded envelope towards Simon.

`What is it?'

`Anthrax.' She made a face at him. `Simon, it's a fucking book, all right? Just a book. No need to panic. I'm sorry I didn't ring, but I was
just in the pub with Olivia and she gave me this. She had to go early
so I thought I'd pop round and give it to you, for your mum.'

Simon opened the envelope and saw a plain white paperback called
`To Risk it All' by Shelagh Montgomery, his mother's favourite author.
Under the author's name, in black capital letters, were the words,
`UNCORRECTED BOUND PROOF'. Charlie's sister Olivia was a
journalist and did a lot of book reviews. The few Simon had read had
been unnecessarily savage. `Does this mean it's not published yet?'

'That's right.'

`Mum'll be really pleased. Thanks.'

`Don't thank me. Read the first paragraph and you'll see it's one of
the worst books ever written.' Charlie looked embarrassed, as she
always did when caught in the act of being considerate. She often gave
him books she'd got from Olivia, either for him or for his mother to
read, depending on whether they were serious or trashy. Every time,
she mocked the book mercilessly, determined to hide her thoughtfulness under a veneer of sarcasm. It was almost as if she were ashamed
of having virtues.

`So, you've still not decorated.' She looked around disapprovingly.
`Anyone'd think a ninety-year-old widow lived here. Why don't you
paint over that hideous wallpaper? And those ornaments! Simon,
you're a young man. You aren't supposed to have china dogs on the
mantelpiece. It's not natural.'

The dogs had been a house-warming present from his parents.
Simon was grateful for the book, so he tried to suppress his irritation.
He and Charlie were so different, it was a wonder they managed to
speak to one another at all. Simon would never have dreamed of
passing comment on somebody else's home, yet Charlie seemed to
inhabit a world in which rudeness was a sign of affection. Sometimes
she brought Olivia to The Brown Cow, and Simon was amazed by the
way they hurled insults back and forth. `Fucking mentalist', `psycho
bitch from hell', `freak-show', `gormless mong'-the two of them reg ularly exchanged these and other slurs as if they were the warmest of
compliments. They ridiculed each other's clothes, behaviour, attitudes. Every time Simon saw them together, he felt relieved that he was
an only child.

In Charlie's world it was acceptable to drop in on someone at nine
in the evening, without warning, to give them a book that could easily have waited until the next day at work. `You asked why Laura
Cryer left The Elms alone,' she said, picking up Moby Dick from the
arm of a chair and flicking through it as she spoke. `I checked the files.
She was dropping off her son's comfort blanket. She'd forgotten to
pack it. Vivienne Fancourt was having him for the night, babysitting.
Laura was supposed to be going out to a club.'

`A club?' Simon wasn't in work mode, and found it difficult to
switch so quickly. His mind was still on how to get rid of Charlie so
that he could get on with his book. He noticed that she'd just closed
it without bothering to replace his bookmark. Again, he stifled his
irritation.

`Yes, you know, one of those places young people go to have fun.
Cryer was single, just waiting for her divorce to come through.'

`Maybe she'd found someone new and Fancourt was jealous.'

`She hadn't. Friends said she was actively looking. She was lonely,'
said Charlie, somewhat aggressively.

Simon felt thwarted, as if circumstances were deliberately conspiring to protect David Fancourt. He had to be guilty of something, if not
murder. Probably murder, though. Alice's disappearance and Laura's
death were connected somehow, Simon would have bet his life. `Would
you mind if I paid Darryl Beer a visit in Brimley?'

Charlie groaned. `Yes, I bloody well would. Why would you want
to do that? Simon, you've got to try to resist these ... strange tangents
you like to go off on.'

`Except for when they turn out to be bang on, you mean?'

`Yes. Except for then. But now isn't one of those times. Now is the
time for you to admit you're wrong and move on.'

`Yeah? And when have you ever done that? You're just as stubborn
as I am, and you know it. Just because you say something doesn't make
it true. You always do this!'

`Do what?'

`Try to turn your personal opinion into some kind of universal
moral law!'

Charlie recoiled. A few seconds later she said, `Don't you ever
wonder why you're so shitty to me when most of the time I'm actually
quite nice to you?'

Simon stared down at his hands. Yeah, he wondered.

`It isn't my personal opinion,' she went on quietly. `It's Beer's confession. It's the DNA evidence. The only person around here with a
spurious, groundless opinion is you! Darryl Beer killed Laura Cryer, all
right? Take my word for it. And that case has got nothing to do with
this one, with Alice and Florence Fancourt.'

Simon nodded. `I didn't mean to offend you,' he said.

`So, have you fallen for her? Alice?' Charlie asked. She looked
almost frightened. As soon as she'd said it, Simon knew that this was
the true purpose of her visit. She had wanted-needed, perhaps-to
ask him this question.

He resented it. Who did she think she was, to ask him that? It was
only his residual guilt that prevented him from asking her to leave, guilt
because he couldn't feel the way she wanted him to feel.

Charlie was the only woman who had ever pursued Simon. The flirting had started on the day he was seconded to CID. At first he'd
assumed she was taking the piss, until Sellers and Gibbs convinced him
otherwise.

If Simon could only develop a romantic interest in Charlie, it might
make them both happy. It'd certainly make his life a damn sight easier. Unlike most men-certainly most policemen-Simon didn't care all
that much about looks. So what if Charlie had large breasts and long,
skinny legs? Her trim figure, combined with her obvious keenness and
availability, was part of what he found off-putting. She was way out of his league, like the girls he'd fixated on at school, before countless
humiliations had taught him to know his place. And she had been successful in two careers. She was the sort of person who could do well
at anything she set her mind to.

She'd got a first in ASNAC-Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celticfrom Cambridge. Before joining the police, she'd been a promising
young academic for four years. After she was denied a promotion she
knew she deserved by a head of department who was resentful of
Charlie's superior intellect and publication record, she started from
scratch in the police and became a detective sergeant in record time.
Her achievements both impressed and intimidated Simon. Mostly,
she made him feel inadequate.