Little Face (38 page)

I lift her tiny sleeping body and place her gently in the Moses basket, tucking her in with the yellow blanket. Then, as quietly as possi ble, I tiptoe out of the nursery and down the stairs, still in my nightie
and wearing slippers instead of shoes, so that I make no noise as I walk
through the house.

I do not put on my coat. To be outside in the cold for a few minutes
in only a cotton nightie will be nothing compared with what I have
been through this week. It will be easy. My coat will be found tomorrow morning, on the stand in the hall. I go to the kitchen, pick up my
keys that are still on the work surface under the window, and unlock
the back door. The front door is too thick and heavy. Opening and
closing it would make too much noise.

Once Little Face and I are outside, I lock the kitchen door. I am shivering hard, but I don't know if it's the cold or my nerves. Setting the
Moses basket down on the wet grass for a second, I stand on tiptoes
and drop my keys in through the open window. They land in exactly
the right place, beside my handbag and phone. When Vivienne reports
me missing, the police will think it is significant that all my possessions
are still at The Elms. It will make them more likely to believe that I did
not leave here of my own accord, that some harm must have come to
me. I do not feel guilty for misleading them. More harm has come to
me than I would have believed possible a few months ago.

There would be no point taking my bag, in any case. If I use my cash
or credit card I will be found almost immediately, before the police
have a chance to begin their investigation.

I pick up the Moses basket and walk round the house. Wet grass
tickles my bare ankles as I cross the lawn to reach the path. I pause for
a second in front of the house and look straight ahead of me at the iron
gate in the distance. Then I start to walk, accelerating gradually, feeling like an aeroplane on a runway.

I pass my car on the way to the road. I hate to leave it, but cars are
too easy to track down. It's only metal and paint, I say to myself, trying not to cry. If my parents are watching me from wherever they are,
I know they will understand. I hope they are not. They had a happy
life, and I would rather death were the end than have them alive in spirit somewhere, fearing for me in the way that I fear for Florence.
When your spirit is consumed by fear and uncertainty, it starts to die.

As soon as I am on the other side of the gate, I feel lighter, as if a
rock has been lifted from my back. It is odd to think that most people
are asleep now, while Little Face and I are waiting in the shadows by
the side of the road. I wonder how many nights I have slept soundly,
oblivious, while, not too far away, strangers have tiptoed through the
darkness towards an uncertain future.

I wait behind a tree with a sturdy trunk, the Moses basket at my
feet. Little Face is still asleep, thank goodness. She always is at this
time. Another hour and she will be close to waking up, her body telling
her it's time for her next bottle. David doesn't know that most nights
I also wake up as soon as she murmurs, that I know the workings of
her body clock as well as he does.

I look down the road in the direction of Rawndesley. I can see cars,
because the road is lit, but their drivers are unlikely to see me in this
dark space between Vivienne's fence and the row of tree trunks. I look
at my watch. It is exactly one-thirty am. Any minute now. Not much
longer to wait. At that moment, I see the Red Fiat Punto approaching.
It slows down as it gets closer.

Our lift has arrived.

Friday, October 10 2003, 11 AM

CHARLIE HOPED SHE hadn't made a mistake, asking Proust to come
with her. He'd done nothing wrong-not yet, they weren't even there
yet-but she already resented the inspector's presence. She missed
Simon. Purely as a colleague, in this instance. The two of them had
interviewed together many times, knew the routine, how to read one
another's cues.

She felt nervous as she and Proust drove to The Elms in Proust's
Renault Laguna. She couldn't stop sneaking little looks at The Snowman out of the corner of her eye. He was doing fine so far. He seemed
calm, undaunted. Still, Charlie felt as if she were in sole charge of an
unpredictable toddler. Things could take a turn for the worse at any
moment.

She wished he'd put the radio on. She'd suggested it once, on the
way to a conference a long time ago, and the inspector had given her
a lecture about the foolhardiness of listening to anything when you
were driving apart from the engine, in case you missed the sound of
impending danger-a faint rumble from under the bonnet auguring an
imminent explosion. Proust bought a new car every two years, and
subjected his vehicle of the moment to more services than an evangelical church.

They arrived at The Elms, drove in through the open iron gates.
Charlie half expected them to snap shut, like metal teeth, behind her. There was something too rigid about the perfectly straight, narrow
path that led all the way from the road to the big white cube of house
at the end. No turning back, it seemed to say. Too many trees at the front
of the house stalked the trim lawn, darkening it with their shadows.

They rang the doorbell and waited. Charlie concealed a smile
behind her hand when she noticed Proust adjusting his jacket, trying
to look as if he wasn't.

David Fancourt answered the door. He looked thinner, but was as
smartly dressed as he had been when Charlie last saw him, in beige
trousers and a navy blue shirt. `I don't suppose you've got any news,'
he said sullenly.

`Not yet. I'm sorry. You've met Detective Inspector Proust.' The two
men nodded at one another.

`Is it the police?' Charlie heard Vivienne call out. Before David
had a chance to answer, his mother appeared beside him. In one
smooth, subtle movement, she elbowed him aside, took his place.

David shrugged and stood back. His eyes were dull. He didn't care
who stood in front of whom. Charlie had seen this many times before.
Relatives of the missing gave up hope after a while, or pretended to.
Perhaps they couldn't bear the pity they saw in the eyes of the police
officers who came to the door week after week, month after month,
with no news. Charlie could imagine how one might decide, in that situation, to present a resigned front to the world. There was nothing
more patronising than being let down gently.

She was as sure as she'd ever been that David Fancourt had no idea
where his wife and daughter were. His mother, on the other hand ...

Something about the look on Vivienne Fancourt's face when she saw
Proust made Charlie decide not to say anything, to wait. The inspector looked blank but officious. Charlie tried to imitate his expression,
knowing she would hate to have it directed at her. It was a glare that
gave nothing to its recipient: no information, no comfort.

`David, could you leave us for a minute, please?' said Vivienne
after a few seconds.

`Why? My daughter's missing. . . '

`This isn't about Florence. Is it?' She looked at Charlie.

`No.'

`Then what's it about?'

`David. Please.'

Fancourt sighed, then retreated.

`You know, don't you?' said Vivienne.

Charlie nodded, battling against a sensation of unreality. It couldn't be this easy. It never was. Well, it sometimes was, but not now, for
God's sake, not with Proust as a witness. The inspector shuffled his
feet, adjusting his position slightly. Charlie knew he was as surprised as she was, could guess what he was thinking. This was the
difficult interview he'd been brought along to help with? A woman
so keen to confess that she does it on the doorstep? On the way back
he would say, `There's nothing to it, is there?' or something equally
maddening.

`You'd better come in.'

Charlie and Proust followed Vivienne to the room she called `the little lounge', the one that contained the framed photograph of David
and Alice's wedding. Charlie hadn't been able to get the picture out of
her mind, for some reason. Jealousy, probably.

Nobody sat down.

`If you're going to charge me, I'd rather you got it over with.'

`Charge you with ... ?' Charlie let the question hang in the air. She
didn't like the feel of this at all.

`Abduction,' said Vivienne impatiently.

`You know where Florence is,' said Charlie. Proust listened in
silence, his hands behind his back.

`Of course not. What are you talking about?'

`Abduction, you said ... '

`I didn't abduct Florence.' Vivienne was getting angry, as if Charlie
was stupidly lagging behind.

`You abducted the ... other baby?' Charlie still wasn't sure she believed in this mythical `other' baby. So what was she talking about?
Get back in control, she ordered herself. Take the reins.

'You don't know, do you?' said Vivienne, a superior sneer on her face.

`Why have you never mentioned to any police officer the fact that
you regularly used to see Darryl Beer at your health club?'

No flicker of fear. Damn. Vivienne looked surprised. `Why would
I mention it?'

`So you did see him?'

`Yes. But I didn't think anything of it. I see plenty of people there.'

`What if I were to put it to you that you killed Laura Cryer, that you
framed Beer?'

Vivienne turned angrily to Proust. `Is this some sort of joke, inspector? Me, frame someone for murder? I'm awaiting news of my granddaughter and this is all you've got to say to me?'

`What if I said we could prove it?' Charlie spoke before Proust had
a chance to.

`I would say you must be mistaken,' said Vivienne coldly. `Since the
events you are describing did not take place, you can't possibly prove
that they did.'

`You took his towel from the swimming area. You removed hair and
skin from it, and you scattered that hair and skin over Laura Cryer's
body, after you'd killed her.'

Vivienne almost smiled. It turned into an incredulous frown at the
last minute. `You can't honestly believe that,' she said.

Charlie stared at her. Even an innocent person would be nervous by
now, surely.

`You told the secretary at Stanley Sidgwick Grammar School, in
November 1999, that Felix would be starting in January 2001. How
did you know he would? Laura wouldn't have agreed to it. Felix was
happily settled in a nursery local to her and she wanted him to stay
there. So you must have known she'd be out of the way by then.'

Vivienne laughed. `You have got a vivid imagination, sergeant.
Actually, Laura did agree to it. True, she wasn't keen at first, but even tually I succeeded in persuading her. Felix would have enrolled at Stanley Sidgwick in January 2001 whether Laura was alive or dead.'

`You didn't persuade her,' said Charlie. `What you did was murder
her. She hated you, you told me so yourself. Why would she be persuaded by anything you said?'

`Perhaps because I was offering to pay the fees and it's the best
school in the country,' said Vivienne patiently. `Only a fool would turn
down an offer like that, and Laura was no fool.'

Charlie wanted to scream. It was just about possible. With Laura
dead, Charlie couldn't prove Vivienne was lying. She'd met the type
before: people who had such unmitigated contempt for everyone but
themselves that they were prepared to stand there and tell the feeblest
lies, straight-faced, without even bothering to make them plausible. It's
a shitty, pathetic lie, but it's good enough for the likes of you: that was
the attitude.

`Shall we go back to the abduction?' said Proust coldly. Charlie wondered what he was thinking.

`Indirectly, I was the cause of Laura's death, that I will concede,' said
Vivienne. `On the night of her murder, I collected Felix from nursery.
Without Laura's permission. She would never have given her permission, and I was sick to the back teeth of never seeing my grandson
properly or alone. So I kidnapped him. It was breathtakingly easy. The
teenagers at his nursery handed him over without a murmur. Wretched
place,' she muttered. `I am aware that what I did is probably against
the law, and that if I hadn't done it, Laura wouldn't have come here on
the night she was killed. She'd be alive today. She came to recover her
son from his wicked grandmother-that was what she thought of me.
I wouldn't let her take him, wouldn't let her in. She didn't even come
into the house that night, sergeant. So, arrest me for lying to the
police, arrest me for taking Felix by all means, but I refuse to accept
moral responsibility for Laura's murder. It was her own unreasonable
behaviour that drove me to act as I did.' She stuck out her chin in defiance, proud of her speech, the principled stand she had taken.

`Where are Alice and Florence?' asked Proust. `You know where
they are, don't you?'

`No, I don't.'

`May we search your property?' asked Charlie.

`Yes. Am I allowed to ask why you feel the need to?' Her voice hardened into sarcasm. `I still have Felix, if it's he you're looking for. He
lives here now. Legally. Legitimately.' She smoothed down her skirt. `If
that's all, I'll leave you to show yourselves out. I'm due at my health
club for a manicure in fifteen minutes. I advise you to stop inventing
preposterous theories and get on with finding my granddaughter,'
she said quietly on her way out of the room.