The Evil that Men Do (23 page)

‘Horses, I'll bet.' I looked around the room, rather pointedly.

‘She likes to keep her pictures to herself,' said Mrs Hoster in answer to my unspoken question. ‘They're in her room. She stays in there most of the time. She's so – so silent, so withdrawn. And so neat. She wants everything to be where it belongs. Oh, I saw you looking around. No, it doesn't look like a real home, but Gillie gets terribly distressed if anything's the least bit out of place.'

‘How does she feel about the animals, then? Even the best of them aren't exactly precise in their habits.'

‘Well, the bantams drive her to distraction, but my husband loves them, and he's put his foot down. They stay. We don't have dogs or cats, just because Gillie'd worry so if they weren't where she thought they ought to be. And Coco, of course  . . .'

‘Is special. Ponies always are.'

‘Mrs Martin. You said you have a special interest in troubled children. What would you recommend we do for Gillie? I mean, we're doing all we can think of, but  . . .' She lost control of her voice again, and looked down.

‘I'm no expert, Mrs Hoster, but I do happen to know someone slightly, who has worked a great deal with families in abusive situations. She's  . . . away just now, but she might be able to make some suggestions when she returns. But your own therapist—'

‘What's her name?' asked Mrs Hoster eagerly. ‘When will she be back?'

I made a decision. ‘Her name is Jo Carter.'

‘Oh, Jo! I know Jo. Not well, and I've not seen her for years. She helped a bit with some of the legalities of the adoption. I thought then she seemed both competent and sympathetic.'

‘A rare combination,' I commented.

‘You are so right! Most of them are either briskly efficient or treacly. Where can I get in touch with Jo? She might be just the person to point us in the right direction.'

I could see nothing in her face but concern for her child.
I hope this is the right thing, Lord
, I thought, and took the plunge. ‘I'm afraid Jo Carter is missing. She may be in some danger. That's another reason I'm out this morning: to look for her.'

TWENTY-FIVE

‘
W
hat do you mean, missing?'

‘I don't know all the details.' Well, I honestly didn't know them all. ‘But she isn't responding to her phone calls, which is most unlike her. She is neither at her home nor at her job with the women's shelter in Cheltenham, nor anywhere else anyone can determine. Her friends are very worried about her.'

‘Hasn't anyone called the police? How long has she been missing?'

‘Yes, the police are looking for her. But they can't be everywhere at once, so I decided to have a go myself.'

‘What makes you think she'd be out here in the country? She could be anywhere!'

‘I don't think she would be in the country, particularly.' I had no intention of mentioning the abortive phone call. ‘It's just that this is where I happen to be, with a dog who needs an owner, and I thought I'd see if I could find any trace of Jo while I was at it. I don't suppose you've seen her, have you? I believe she liked to walk in the country, so she might—'

I heard my mistake as soon as I uttered it, but it was too late to take it back.

‘
Liked
to walk in the country? Past tense? What are you saying?'

I opened my mouth to claim a slip of the tongue, and then shut it again. ‘I hope it isn't true. But I admit I'm afraid for her. I can't go into details, but—'

‘Why can't you? I'd think the details would make it easier to find her.'

‘Some of them are confidential, and not mine to disclose. I'm sorry. But there is reason to believe she might be in considerable danger, to put the best face on it.'

‘Only she? Or anyone?'

And there was the root of it, and the question I couldn't answer. ‘I don't know, and that, Mrs Hoster, is the absolute and honest truth. I think probably the  . . . the danger to Jo Carter is directed only at her, but I can't say for certain. If I were in your position, with a child to look after, I'd make sure she stayed under very close supervision. And please, if you do see or hear anything of Jo, let me know. I don't have a card, but my mobile number is  . . .' I pulled the phone out of my pack and punched a button or two, since I can never remember the number, and read it off to Mrs Hoster. ‘Do be extremely careful, please. There's too much we don't know, and there could be danger to you and yours if you approach the wrong person.'

‘I understand. But I do know several people who might be able to help. Gillie's had quite a few therapists in her short life, poor dear, and most of them would know Jo Carter by sight. I'll put out the word, shall I?'

I thought about that. ‘I think that would be a good idea  . . . so long as—'

‘So long as I'm careful whom I tell. I understand.' She leaned forward. ‘And what you must understand is that I would never, ever say or do anything that might harm Gillie.'

Somehow her flat tone of voice, sounding almost devoid of emotion, conveyed the ultimate in conviction. ‘I think I do understand.'

She relaxed a little. ‘Well, then, I'll phone you if I hear anything, and please phone me if you find her.' She handed me a card. ‘There are both the numbers.
Please
do call. I don't think I'll be able to sleep until she's found.'

‘And I brought this upon you. Mrs Hoster  . . .'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake, call me Helen. Now that I've told you my life story! You didn't cause all this, you only told me about it. I suppose eventually I'll be glad you did. But just now  . . .'

‘Just now you'd rather I left you in peace.' I realized I was holding a leash. Oh, good grief, where was the dog? If he'd run off  . . .

But he hadn't. He was snoozing peacefully in the farmyard next to the empty water bowl. I clipped his lead back on, detoured into the kitchen to return the bowl, and set off at as brisk a pace as I could manage. I was quite sure that the sooner I was out of sight, the happier Helen Hoster would be. And I didn't blame her in the least.

When we were well away from the house I let the dog off the lead, found a convenient rock, and sat down for some lunch. The sandwiches were pretty well squashed, but I was starving, and apparently Buster was, too, for he ate his share with obvious enthusiasm. ‘I am going to have to think of a name for you,' I said firmly. He cocked his head at me. ‘Even if we have you only for a few days, I can't go on calling you Buster. It just won't do.'

He shook himself in vigorous agreement, and I had my first good laugh of the day.

I shared with him the bottle of water I'd brought along. He didn't particularly enjoy drinking out of a bottle, but I managed to get a little water into him before I stood up. ‘Now what?' I asked. ‘Home, admitting utter defeat, or the next farm?' I unfolded the map, wishing, not for the first time, that they were smaller and easier to manage. At least it wasn't raining. Trying to read a large and floppy map in the wind and rain is no fun at all.

‘The next farm looks to be a couple of miles away,' I informed the dog, ‘and there's supposed to be a good footpath. Then from there it should only be a mile or so to get home. Shall we try it?'

Buster smiled and bounced a little, eager to be off. I folded the map to the relevant bit, consulted the compass in my stick, and set off.

For once the path was well-marked and easy to follow. The dog trotted along with me quite happily, running off to explore matters of importance to him, but always returning before I could be anxious about him. In only a little over half an hour we were nearing the stile that led into the farmyard.

There had been a purposeful, occupied feel about Helen's farm. This one felt different. I slowed as we approached the stile, and Buster stayed closer to me, whining a little. The sun went behind a cloud, and I felt a chill that wasn't entirely external.

‘Maybe we won't stop here, after all,' I whispered. ‘I've got a bad feeling about this.' I felt foolish, quoting movie lines to the dog, but I'd have felt sillier talking to myself. It was, in fact, nice to have him along. He was far too friendly to make a good guard dog, but just his presence was reassuring. I began to hope we wouldn't find his owner.

I climbed warily over the stile while Buster crawled under, and then put him back on his lead. ‘You stick with me, boy,' I said as we walked slowly on.

The front door of the farmhouse was shut tight, and no one answered my tentative knock. I was just as happy about that. I was being silly, I told myself, but I genuinely didn't like the feel of the place, and neither did the dog. He whined. He was probably just reflecting my own impressions, but for whatever reason, I was eager to get away from there.

‘You couldn't be from a place like this, little friend,' I said to the dog. ‘You're much too nice to belong to whoever lives here.' He tugged at the lead, pulling me down the path. ‘You're as eager to get away as I am, aren't you?'

And then he stopped dead and began to growl, low in his throat. He took a stance that looked threatening even to me, unaccustomed to dogs, and refused to move.

‘What? What is it? What's the matter? You're scaring me, dog.'

And then he began to creep towards one of the outbuildings, belly low to the ground, still growling. I had no choice but to follow. I wasn't about to drop his leash when he was acting so strangely.

It was a shed that hadn't seen much use for a while. It was empty. No cat lurked inside, no fox, nothing I could see to disturb the dog, but he came to a stop in the doorway and stood there trembling.

I saw the tiny shards of plastic first. There were only a few of them, in the angle of the wall and the floor, and I wouldn't have seen them at all if a ray of sunlight hadn't struck just there. They were a silvery colour. Just like the casing of the mobile phone in my pack.

Then I saw the dark stains on the door frame.

My legs turned to jelly. I reached for my stick, but it couldn't hold me; I slid to the ground.

This was the place. Had Alan known it was so close? Was that why he had been so opposed to my little expedition?

No. He would have told me. Protective as he was, he would never have left me to find this unwarned. I was a muddy mess, I realized after sitting there for a while. The dog was standing over me unhappily, whining. ‘Yes, well, me too, old boy,' I said. ‘The trouble is getting up. It's not as easy as it looks. I'm going to have to roll over on my knees, and that's going to hurt.'

I had little choice. I couldn't call Alan, because I had foolishly not noted the number of the landline at the cottage. I made a resolve then and there to get a mobile of my own. However, that didn't help in this situation. I could hardly call 999 and ask the emergency forces to come and give me a hand standing up. What I needed was something sturdy to lean on, but the only thing available was the dog, and while willing, he wasn't anything like big enough to bear my weight. I sat a little longer, working up my nerve, and then, with a series of grunts, worked myself around to my knees and then to one knee.

I paused to get my breath, and that was when I saw it. The sun was getting lower, and shining more directly into the shed. The doorway faced south-west, so the frame was illuminated as if by a spotlight. It was rough wood, and I saw, caught on the jamb, a single long blond hair.

Jo's hair was short and grey. Moreover, this hair was coarse and dry-looking, not shiny.

It was, I was quite sure, not human hair at all, but a hair from the mane or tail of a horse. Not Gillie's pony Coco; she was black.

I had with me my trusty Swiss Army knife, without which I never stir. Ignoring the pain in my knees, I got to my feet, pulled out the tiny scissors, cut off a bit of the strand of hair, and stuffed it carefully into my pack. Then the dog and I were off home as fast as our respective two or four legs could carry us.

Alan wasn't quite pacing the floor when we walked in. He did, however, give the impression that he had just sat down. The newspaper in front of him was open to the sports pages, which he never reads. ‘Ah, there you are,' he said with the utmost casualness.

‘Here we are, safe and sound,' I said, equally casually. ‘And I have something for you.'

‘And I have something for you.' He pointed to a small plastic bag on the end table. I dropped the dog's lead and picked it up, expecting chocolates, the traditional ‘I'm sorry I was unreasonable' gift.

Instead  . . . ‘Oh, you are the most wonderful man!' I bent over and kissed him, smearing mud on his clean shirt.

‘Goodness, what is this about? It's only a phone.'

‘Oh, it's just that I was so wishing we both had one. And I'm sorry I got you all dirty. I need to go and change.'

‘You fell.' It was almost an accusation.

‘Not exactly. And I'm perfectly all right, so don't fret. Just give me a few minutes.'

I took the time for a lovely scented bath. I needed to wash the impressions of that day away. When I had soaked until I was pink, I put on corduroys and a sweater against the cooling late afternoon and joined him in the front room.

He was sitting in front of a small fire, the dog by his side. Both were comfortably asleep and snoring. It was such a sweet picture, man and dog relaxing at the end of the day, that I hated to disturb them.

I tiptoed to the kitchen, poured two glasses of wine, and waited for at least one of them to return to consciousness.

It didn't take Alan long. He sleeps like a cat, after long years as a policeman required to be awake and alert at a moment's notice. He gave me an appreciative smile. ‘You look clean and scrubbed, like a nice baby.'

‘And here I was trying for sultry and seductive. Alas for jilted hopes. Cheers.' I raised my glass.