‘You go to the same church as Bridget. She must know who you are.’
He shakes his head. ‘You’ve got to be joking. She’s not got a loving heart, that one. And that might be my fault, but I don’t care if she calls herself a Christian, or what. There’s no way she’d ever forgive me.’
‘And Kerry?’
‘Kerry was everybody’s favourite, and it ruined her. She could be a monster. A real monster.’
‘That’s why you helped Sean out?’
‘That man was a saint. Don’t you listen to what anybody says.’
‘And Miles and Maya’s father?’
‘He’s fucked off. Knows what’s good for him.’
‘Did you kill him, Tommy?’
‘As if I would.’
‘Maybe I should ask Smet.’
‘Maybe I’ve told you enough and you should be fucking grateful and let just this one sleeping dog lie.’
‘How come you forgave Sean, for what he did to Bridget?’
‘She lost that baby, is all. It was bad fortune, but he loved Kerry. God knows, he loved those kids, too, even though they weren’t his.’
‘Who killed Sean, Tommy?’
‘Sean killed Sean. You believe it. It’s what I want to believe, and that’s the truth.’
‘Where’s Lesley Crawford?’
‘How the fuck would I know?’ He takes Staffe by the arm, leads him to the front door. ‘That’s me done. You leave my family out of it, you hear. I’ve co-operated, but that’s the end of me. Got it?’
Staffe sees her anew, as if for a first time. Her hair is down and he thinks she might have straightened it. Her back straight, she looks elegant. But this time, he doesn’t feel any kind of flutter around the heart.
As she brings him up to date with her end of the case, he tries to work out why he isn’t remotely attracted to her. The answer is unwelcome, and all about Eve.
Alicia Flint says, ‘We’ve checked the cameras all the way along Zoe’s route, and at the railway station.’ She senses that she doesn’t have his undivided attention so she touches his elbow. ‘You were right.’
‘Right?’
‘We interviewed at Wavertree railway station to see if anyone remembered Zoe. But we didn’t ask at the other end.’
‘We didn’t actually know where she was going.’
‘I assumed it was Parkgate – like you said.’
‘There’s no station.’
‘The nearest station is Neston. Nobody knew her. But she’d have to get a bus.’
‘What about the bus driver?’
‘Bingo!’ says Alicia Flint. ‘She went to Parkgate the day she disappeared.’
Alicia gets into a large car outside Nottingham railway station and he gets in alongside. She unfurls a laptop and navigates her way to the file she wants, taps a button, says, ‘This is from Wavertree station’, points at the screen and plonks the computer on his lap, begins the drive to the university campus.
Looking at the screen, Staffe says, ‘That’s Zoe. Who is that with her?’ He squints, angles the screen and peers at the image. ‘It’s … it’s Anthony. When was this?’
‘The same day. The day she disappeared. It’s twelve minutes after the argument with her father.’
‘But he’s hugging her.’ On the screen, Zoe Bright looks around, nervously, as if she might be looking for snipers on a skyline. She clocks the camera and pushes Anthony away. He holds out a hand to her. She takes it. ‘Is that a package? What is he giving her?’
‘We had the frame digitally enhanced. What do you think it is?’
Staffe peers at the screen again. ‘A book?’ He feels a smile pool upon his face. ‘
Beloved
?’
‘Clever boy.’
‘That means he knew she was going away. Maybe he was expecting her not to come back. What has he said to you about this?’
‘We can’t ask him. His solicitor is saying he is in no fit state to be questioned.’
‘That was no suicide attempt.’
‘He was provoked.’
‘You mean I provoked him,’ says Staffe.
‘They could get litigious. My hands are tied.’
Staffe tries to fathom why Anthony Bright would bid his wife farewell, the day she disappeared, seemingly knowing that she was about to be taken, and catering for that by handing her a favourite book. And then refuse to co-operate in the investigation of her disappearance – indeed, go to extreme lengths to prevent the police questioning him.
‘Have you ever heard of the House of the Holy Innocents?’
Flint shakes her head.
‘No cranky religion in Anthony’s life?’
‘We stripped his house and there was nothing like that. In fact, nothing much at all. You saw their house.’
‘She was a reader with no books.’
‘And no DVDs. Only a few photographs on the walls. No albums.’
‘As if it had been wiped clean?’
‘You think Anthony’s our man,’ says Alicia.
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m thinking Lesley Crawford. She’s why we’re here.’ Alicia Flint turns into the driveway of Moore House, where the Dean of the Faculty of Culture, Letters and Thought has his office. It is a neo-classical building but with Edwardian bay windows. Clematis gropes at the upper storeys and students gaggle and smoke on the lawn that slopes out front.
‘Zoe and Crawford know each other. They read the same books – I mean, precisely the same books. They were here at the same time, involved in the same subject: one an undergraduate, the other a research student.’
‘Surely that means Crawford wouldn’t abduct Zoe,’ says Alicia.
‘Zoe knows and trusts her. It would be easy, wouldn’t it?’
‘But the closer we get to Crawford, the more danger we could put Zoe in. Have you considered what Crawford might do, to protect the path back to her?’
‘Of course. Sean Degg might have paid that price.’
‘She knew Degg?’
‘She’s a member of the House of the Holy Innocents, that crackpot church I told you about, and so was Bridget, Kerry’s sister. Bridget and Sean used to have a thing.’
‘Jesus.’
At reception, they are taken straight through to see the Dean: Professor Robert Flanders. He sports a full, jet-black beard and wild, silvery hair. He wears a crusty old suit and Hush Puppies, and stands with his arms pointing out, his feet planted east and west, a befuddled look on his face, as if he is disturbed in the middle of building new logic.
He offers sherry, which Staffe and Flint decline, then calls through for some coffee, pours himself a large schooner of
fino
.
Staffe says, ‘We told you that we are trying to discover whether a Doctor Lesley Crawford ever taught an
undergraduate
called Zoe Flanagan. Doctor Crawford was here writing up a DPhil between 2005 and 2008.’
‘I summoned the class lists.’ Flanders hands pieces of paper to Staffe and Flint. ‘This is Miss Flanagan’s transcript. It shows all the modules she took. I have checked with human resources and Doctor Crawford didn’t ever teach on these modules.’
‘Are you sure?’ says Alicia Flint.
‘Why would I say this to you, were I not sure?’ Flanders smiles, drinks lustily from his sherry. ‘However, Doctor Crawford did supervise some dissertations on Miss Flanagan’s programme of study.’
‘She supervised Zoe?’
‘We can’t tell. We have two and a half thousand students in this faculty.’
‘Wouldn’t the programme leader remember her?’
‘Probably not. And in any event, she’s moved on.’ Flanders drains his sherry and points to three large boxes under the window. ‘I took the liberty of requisitioning these from our archive. All the dissertations from 2008.’ As Flanders leaves the room, bottle of
fino
in hand, he says, ‘The building closes at seven during the vac.’
They each take a box and begin by checking the carbon covering sheets with the tutors’ faded, barely legible comments.
Twenty minutes in, Flint holds a copy aloft, waving it in the air. ‘Ahaa. We have a signature of the esteemed Doctor Crawford.’
Staffe takes a copy of the letter from Breath of Life and compares its signature to that on the comment sheet of the twenty-page dissertation. ‘Yes. That’s her.’ He looks at the paper, sees that it is submitted by a Suzanne Byrne, and its title is
Jane Austen, mother of chicklit: a blueprint for the inevitable demise of feminism.
‘Quite the reactionary, our good doctor.’
‘I don’t know,’ says Flint. ‘I think the bra-burners have got something to answer for. Here am I – got a 2:1, got a career, not seen my son for two days and I feel like a worthless harlot.’
They race through to the bottom of their boxes looking for a reprise of Crawford’s signature, and then, having failed to find a paper for Zoe, share the contents of the third box. Half an hour later, Staffe finds another script with Crawford’s signature on it. He checks the name of the student and sighs, puts it on the pile and looks at the next. He is tired. Too tired.
Then it hits him. ‘Zoe!’ he says.
‘You got it?’ says Flint.
‘No.’ Staffe goes back to the last paper. ‘But I’ve got
Anne-Marie
. She changed her name.’ He brandishes the paper.
‘We’ll need to get her deed poll papers.’
‘Crawford knows Zoe Bright, and now we can prove it,’ says Staffe.
‘And it looks as if she was one of the chosen ones. Look. She got a 74. That’s a First,’ says Alicia.
He looks at the script itself, sees the title:
Feminism can damage your health: the malnourished mother and the malevolent manifestos of the seventies.
Flint leans back and sits cross-legged, her arms wrapped around her knees. ‘What now?’
‘We can issue an order for Crawford’s arrest. But how does Anthony fit in? He can’t be in cahoots with Crawford, surely.’ Staffe writes a receipt for the Anne-Marie Flanagan papers. ‘You have to speak with Anthony again.’
Staffe follows Alicia Flint down the wide staircase from Flanders’s office and into the bright hallway, licked by the low, setting April sun. Particles of dust dance in the golden shafts that beam in through the weeping willows outside.
His mind flits.
He is thinking how grand Lesley Crawford’s scheme might be. He thinks also of his sister, Marie, and Cathy Killick, too. And if the future bodes ill for some who cross Lesley Crawford’s path, then what of the past? He says, ‘The past.’
Alicia comes towards him, says, ‘You all right?’
‘Just tired.’
‘You need a lift, to the station?’
He nods, already elsewhere.
On the return to London, Staffe had considered what he had failed to see. Clearly, Crawford had known Zoe Bright for years. Clearly, Crawford could easily have known Vernon Short for many years.
He has been pointing the wrong way. He should be facing the past.
Now, he regards Bridget Lamb, ‘How long have you been in the House of the Holy Innocents, Bridget?’
They are in Leadengate station and Bridget’s bottom lip is red and ragged. This business has well and truly caught up with her and whilst she has managed to stifle tears, she has chewed at her lip non-stop for half an hour.
Staffe recalls that her sister, Kerry, had done precisely the same, though in a more extreme fashion.
‘Should we take a break?’ says Pulford, feeling Bridget’s distress.
‘As soon as I’m satisfied that Bridget has told us everything about Lesley Crawford.’
‘I don’t know the woman. I keep telling you,’ says Bridget.
‘And I keep telling you, I don’t believe you. Until I do, you’re staying.’
‘Fine,’ says Bridget, crossing her arms, resteeling herself.
‘There’s a woman in Liverpool about to have a baby. Do you want her to go through what happened to Kerry?’
Bridget stares at her feet, crinkles her nose.
Staffe says, ‘She’ll be just like the others. Crawford tells them one thing and does another.’
‘The others?’ says Bridget, her eyes wide.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ says Bridget’s lawyer.
But it’s too late.
‘You know about the others?’ says Staffe.
‘What others?’
‘You thought you were the only ones, did you? Did Lesley tell you that she could save your unborn flesh and blood? The life that was knitted in the womb.’
‘What?’ Bridget looks confused.
‘Grace is the closest you will ever get to having your own bloodline.’
‘No.’
‘Did Crawford make you feel special? Well, you’re not, Bridget. You’re just one of many.’
Bridget shakes her head, looks at her solicitor who drags her chair closer, whispers confidences straight into her ear. Pulford says, into the tape machine, ‘Interviewee’s legal representative providing confidential counsel.’
‘Did Lesley Crawford tell you she had done it before?’
‘I don’t understand,’ says Bridget, to her solicitor.
‘My client is tired. We need a break.’
‘Did Lesley talk about Vernon Short to you? Did she mention his bill? Is that what made the difference, for you?’
‘That’s God’s will. It will stop the suffering. Anybody with a soul can see that.’
‘How many were there, before Kerry?’
Bridget shakes her head.
‘I suppose Lesley showed you the babies she had saved; not so different from the soul you lost.’ Staffe and Bridget gaze awkwardly at each other. ‘I’m sorry, Bridget. I can see how it would hurt, to learn what Kerry was going to do, simply because it didn’t suit.’
Bridget focuses, as if appraising him for truth.
He waits for a sign, but she becomes expressionless. For a moment, Pulford and the solicitor look at their notes. Staffe and Bridget are in a cocoon. As if alone in the world. He whispers, softly, ‘Were there others, Bridget?’
‘How should I know? Why should I care?’
‘Because you know how precious life is.’
She smiles, as if coming round.
‘Was Kerry having twins?’ he asks.
‘What makes you think she’d tell me if she was?’
‘I wonder,’ says Staffe, smiling back.
*
When Staffe sees Josie in the back snug of the Hand, he gasps. Somehow, here in the soft, dancing light from the hearth, Josie’s injuries seem so much worse. The flesh beneath her right eye is puffed up and plum-coloured, and her knuckles are bruised and grazed. He tries not to be too sympathetic, knows that would make her feel worse, but he can’t help putting his arm around her. He lets the hug linger, for an extra moment.
She winces, says, ‘I’m a bit tender. Any chance we can finger Tommy Given for doing this to me?’
Staffe shakes his head. ‘No forensics. No witnesses, and half a dozen sworn alibis. He was with his beautiful wife, don’t you know?’
‘Bastard.’
‘We’ll get him one way or the other. Get this, he’s Kerry’s uncle.’
‘What?’
‘Kerry didn’t know he was.’
‘So he’s related to Grace.’
Staffe nods, pensive. ‘And Bridget. But Bridget doesn’t know.’
‘Aah.’ Josie takes out some papers. ‘That reminds me. You wanted me to check those numbers from the booths on the New North Road. Guess what?’ There is life in her eyes now and they sparkle in the fireside glow. ‘I cross-checked the unidentified mobile number to all the other numbers on the case data universe. That same mobile number Sean Degg called, three hours before he died, appears on Malcolm and Bridget Lamb’s landline records.’
‘So the mystery mobile is a friend of Bridget’s?’
‘Or a foe she keeps close.’
‘I could kiss you,’ says Staffe.
‘Don’t,’ says Josie. ‘I’m embarrassed enough about facing that lot in the station. I’m a laughing stock.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘We’ll laugh about it one day. Now, how do you fancy some evening work?’
*
Josie puts down the phone. It is the last of the calls on her list. The sun had dropped low and the computers gloam in the Leadengate dusk. Josie, Staffe and Pulford have the place to themselves.
‘It’s a blank, sir.’
The Givens, it seems, aren’t registered at any of the clinics within eight miles of Cobham.
‘And how about the adoption agency, Pulford?’
‘They’re getting back to me, sir.’
‘Tonight?’
‘They promised.’
‘So let’s employ the time well.’ He points at the boxes of missing-persons files. ‘You take those, Pulford. Arrange them in date order. And Chancellor, shout out the medical appointments, clinic by clinic – in date order.’
‘I couldn’t get them all, sir.’
‘We’ll take what we’ve got. And we’ll start with City Royal.’
Pulford and Josie look at each other, behind Staffe’s back, neither quite sure whether he has lost it or not.
*
Three hours later, it is dark and Leadengate echoes with the silence of absent police. Pulford’s missing-persons files cover two desks in piles the size of wine cases.
Josie is looking through the admissions records of City Royal Hospital and all the other antenatal clinics in the City that they could requisition. Nine out of sixteen complied with the request for their appointments data. None would release patient records without the requisite court orders.
Staffe paces the room, wondering what to do with his theories. Sabine Given wasn’t on the radar of any of her local clinics. One of them – the Orchard in Stoke D’Abernon – said that their general practice showed a record of having treated a Giselle Given, though they would not say what it concerned. And yes, they recalled that the mother was pregnant. A beautiful-looking woman. They remembered mother and daughter well. No, they didn’t think it odd that the mother wasn’t registered there for antenatal treatment.
The phone rings and Pulford reaches across the paper piles. He takes the call, standing. It is the adoption agency and he checks his watch, sees it is gone ten.
The poor administrator on the other end sounds crotchety. She says, ‘The result is positive.’
‘Really! The Givens made an application?’
‘Three years ago. I can’t say any more.’
‘All I need to know is whether they were accepted.’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Look. If I need to use this, as evidence, I will come back to you with the authorisation, but a child is involved here. Can you give me any kind of indication?’
‘Not really.’
‘A new-born baby is missing. You’re part of that investigation.’
‘Oh, Christ.’
‘I won’t breathe a word,’ says Pulford.
‘The application didn’t see its fruition. It’s all I can say.’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ Pulford returns the phone to its cradle and claps his hands together. ‘Given applied to go on the adoption agency’s books three years ago. But they declined him. They can’t say why.’
‘Too old?’ says Josie.
‘Too bloody evil,’ says Staffe.
‘Why would he apply for adoption if he’s got a daughter?’ says Josie.
‘He didn’t, then. Giselle isn’t three yet.’
‘They must have had her soon after.’
‘Or not.’
‘Is Sabine the type to have an affair?’
‘I don’t think she’d risk it,’ says Staffe. ‘And from what I’ve seen of them together, she loves him to bits. God knows why.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘We need to crack on with the data match.’
‘We’re only half-way through.’
‘I’ll get coffees, shall I?’ says Staffe.
‘How noble,’ says Josie, putting the pad of her index finger in the margin where she left off and running down to see the pattern of attendance of each woman in the register. When the woman reappears only once or twice, Staffe checks the name against registered births. If there is no registered birth, Pulford checks to see if the woman appears as a missing person.
As Staffe comes back with the coffees, Josie says, ‘Soraya Constantine: last appointment February 2009.’
Staffe scans through the births register. ‘Son, born twelfth of May. Father’s name: Emmanuel Constantine.’
Josie sighs and leans back, scrunches her eyes shut to try to find some perspective. She reminds herself that every name that results in a birth is a thing to rejoice. ‘Thank God.’
‘What?’ says Pulford, looking across. ‘Aaah, I see. Right. But don’t go thinking you’ve moved into the good news department.’
The night outside is a deep indigo and they can all see themselves reflected back in the windows, by strip light.
Staffe fails to find the next name in the births register, nor is the mother-to-be in Pulford’s missing-persons stacks. This is what Staffe has designated a ‘possible’ and will have to be followed up, should the inspector have his application for overtime granted.
Pulford says, ‘Another needle for the bloody haystack.’
‘They’re not needles, Pulford. They’re lives.’
‘I know, sir.’ Pulford walks along the piles he has made, each for a three-month period, going back five years. Twenty stacks.
‘Bagshot,’ says Josie. ‘Have you got an Emily Bagshot? Last appointment at City Royal, July 2008.’
Staffe checks the births. ‘No birth,’ he says, waiting as Pulford drags the relevant stack onto his lap. He has lost count of the number of times they have done this.
‘She’ll have got married and changed her name, or not gone the full course … Aah.’ He stops, squints at the page in his hand. He holds it up, closer to his face. He stands, and the pile that was on his lap falls to the floor, scattering everywhere.
‘Pulford!’
‘Bagshot,’ he says, quiet as a scolded child.
‘Emily …’ says Josie.
‘Emily Mae. Born 1990, reported missing eighteenth of July 2008. Last known address, 33 Bevin House.’
‘The Attlee estate,’ says Staffe, moving towards Pulford, reading the paper over his sergeant’s shoulder. ‘Report filed by a Robert Hutchison, born 1987 and of the same abode. Case open.’ He goes to Josie, who is standing with the extract from the City Royal’s appointments register held out in front of her. Frozen to the spot, she looks at the scant information on the hospital register. He says, ‘Can you get down to the City Royal, see if our Emily had a consultation about a termination?’
Slowly, Josie shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to, sir. I mean, I don’t think I can. Not now.’ She is pale and done in. She reaches for the desk, sits heavily in the chair, blowing out her cheeks. ‘You don’t think …’
‘You come with me, then. We’ll make a call on this Hutchison fellow.’
‘I’ll check the hospital,’ says Pulford.
Josie says, ‘Do you think there’ll be others?’
‘God knows.’
‘If it’s anything like Kerry Degg, there won’t be any records of her appointments,’ says Pulford.
‘For her sake, then, let’s hope there are. And let’s pray we find her and Hutchison curled up like love’s young dream up on the Attlee.’
‘And if they’re not? What if she’s not there?’
But Staffe has turned his back, is disappearing out of the door.