Where the missing gather, p.9
Where the Missing Gather, page 9
‘I’ll get it back to the lab for some proper testing,’ Cal calls up impatiently.
Cal likes questions to be kept internal, till he has the answers ready to give.
‘I think what we’re looking at is a child,’ Georgie says quietly, under her breath. Not because she doesn’t want Cal to hear – or so Trish guesses anyway – but because she’s thinking it through. She’s not talking to any of them; she’s talking to herself, and the words she’s saying are horrifying to her.
Ricky Barr is watching them. He’s standing away, separate, over near the house. Trish can feel his gaze like a claw on her skin. Doesn’t want to look back at him, at least doesn’t want him to see her looking back at him, but the way he’s hunched up, arms around his body like that, almost swaying on his feet… Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye she could almost think he looks scared. He’s lost weight this year. He was always skinny, mind, lean and scowling. Suddenly Trish realises he’s not staring over at her, at Trish, he’s staring at Georgie, and there’s something passing between the two of them.
Just then Suze comes striding up to them, planting herself in between Trish and Georgie and giving her a friendly nudge.
‘You made it out in the end, then?’
Trish doesn’t reply. In fact, no one says anything more at all. Georgie has withdrawn into herself and Trish, well, Trish hasn’t decided what she’s going to do about Suze and Elise, not in the slightest, and so the best thing for her to say right now is nothing at all. She edges away though, just a fraction, to give her the space to imagine Uncle Walt standing here beside her; just enough to stop the scratching at her neck getting any worse.
WAYS TO NEVER BE HURT
‘I said no, Patricia.’
Trish’s mam is lying on the sofa that she dragged across the threadbare carpet last year and placed right there opposite the window – Trish thinks it’s unfair because there’s only the one sofa and when her mam’s on it like that there’s no room for Trish. Her mam says it’s so she can watch the sea, though when Trish tries that she can’t even see the sea from the window, lying down like that, all she can see is the sky through the smudges on the window and there’s nothing so interesting about that.
She pulls on her mam’s hand for a bit, tugs and leans back and pulls with all her weight, but it’s no good. Her mam’s not moving today. She could have guessed that from when she used her long name that Trish doesn’t even like and no one else ever uses.
‘Please?’
‘Those bees are dangerous, Trish.’
‘Uncle Walt says they’d never hurt me.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ she says.
‘And we wear the special suits—’
‘I’m looking out for you, Trish.’
‘You’re looking out the window.’
‘It’s still a no.’
Though her mam’s eyes have closed now so they’re not even looking at the sky any more, they’re looking at nothing at all and Trish gives up, lets go of her hand, and tips all the jigsaw pieces from the 500 Pieces puzzle she got for her tenth birthday all over the floor. It’s so hot in here, so so hot that sometimes Trish feels like she can’t breathe but her mam says there’s cold in her bones and so they need the heating, even in the summer, even if it means they can’t afford the telephone. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, she starts sorting edge pieces from middle pieces and glances up every few minutes to check her mam’s eyes and sometimes they’re open and empty and staring out into the distance and sometimes they’re closed.
The jigsaw is a photo of a field with lots of bright red flowers in but the picture on some of the pieces is peeling up at the corners and one time when Trish was angry she pulled at one of them until it peeled right off. Her mam was upset about that and started crying and asking her why she would do that to her present, she kept saying that it was a present, and why would Trish do that, until she seemed to forget Trish was even there and was just crying into her hands so Trish sneaked through to their bedroom where they kept the craft books and found the glue, smearing it over the broken jigsaw piece and pressing the picture back on. ‘It’s a present,’ she said to her mam when she showed her, and her mam had held her and cried into her hair and Trish hadn’t known what else to do until her Uncle Walt came round and suddenly she was lifted and spun in the air and laughing, and they were outside, running along the beach, splashing into the cold waves.
Her mam’s eyes haven’t opened in a while now and Trish stops pretending to do the jigsaw and watches closely as her mam’s body rises and falls with her breathing. She’s waiting till she’s asleep, just to be sure, though oftentimes Trish has managed the same trick while she was just resting her eyes or staring at the sea and she was back home before her mam even noticed she was gone. It’s different with Uncle Walt and the bees though, her mam really doesn’t like the bees, she doesn’t like them almost as much as Trish loves them. But Trish has got Uncle Walt on her side and that means she’ll win.
Standing, edging to the door – no movement from her mam – reaching on tiptoes to open the front door latch as quietly, quietly as she can and then, out at the top of the stairs, clutching her trainers in her hand and counting her way down in her bare feet, eight stairs and a turn, eight more and the landing where the Taylors live, eight stairs and the turn with the pot of marigolds, eight stairs to the ground floor and she’s out, pulling on her shoes, running, running away from the flats and towards the village and it is cooler, it is wonderfully cool and bright with the salt in the air from the sea and the breeze from the beach helping her on her way. The village is gleaming in the light, the roses in the gardens are orange and pink and yellow and red, and there’s green ivy climbing the buildings and the fountain with the angels and she’s here, she’s at Uncle Walt’s house and he’s opening the door and lifting her high in his arms and saying:
‘Your mam agreed at last, did she, my Trisha?’
Trish nods and grins and her nod turns into a shake of her head ’cause she can’t lie to Uncle Walt, she can’t, no one could.
‘Did you sneak out again, Trish?’
‘Mam’s sleeping. She’ll never know…’
Uncle Walt is grinning his grin and he’s so fun, he’s not going to tell on her; he’s on her side.
‘One hour,’ he says. ‘Then home safe and sound.’
She’s jumping and clapping and hugging him and he laughs his big jolly laugh.
‘It just so happens I have a new suit in your size, Trisha. I chose you a bright yellow one – do you approve?’
The beekeeping suit is the best thing Trish has ever seen and she pulls it on over her trousers and T-shirt as they stand in the field, side by side, getting ready. Inside the suit she is safe, safe as she is with Uncle Walt, which is as safe as she can ever be, the hood up over her head, every bit of her protected and look: the hives are glinting in the sun, and the promise of all those fluffy bees is just seconds away.
A RELUCTANT DRIVE BEFORE LUNCH
‘You’re not serious,’ DS Frazer says.
He’s not normally one to talk back, but it just forces its way out. Of all the places he absolutely doesn’t want to go, Burrowhead is at the very top of the list. When he was called into her office he thought maybe Betty Marshall’s case was going to be passed on to someone junior who had nothing better to do.
‘Ma’am. I mean…’ He clears his throat. ‘There’s no reason—’
‘There’s a very good reason. Three, in fact.’
Frazer wants to close his eyes but he’s not going to give her the satisfaction, so he straightens up, looks straight at her as she counts her reasons off on her fingers.
‘One, the Wyndham Manor hotel, as was, is only ten miles down the coast from the village. It’s derelict now, but if anyone’s going to remember your missing girl it’ll be the residents of Burrowhead. There’s a chance some of the older ones might even have worked there. Or know some people who did.’
That, unfortunately, is true.
‘Two, DI Strachan has been in touch this morning to tell me they’ve found human remains, decades old, buried in the field of one of the farms near the village. Now, your witness claims she saw a murder taking place in the 1960s, am I right?’
Frazer nods. ‘Ma’am.’
‘DI Strachan has found what appears to be fragments of cloth or clothing that she’s having analysed. If they can date them, and the dates match your case, then I want you on site. Reporting directly back to me. Understood?’
‘Ma’am.’
‘Good. Dismissed.’
Frazer turns to leave, but stops by the door. It’s glass, top to base, and the blinds aren’t even closed – everyone can see him. Not that anyone’s looking. He takes a deep breath and turns back into the room.
‘But what’s…’
The look she gives him is piercing. Those sharp green eyes, skin so pale she looks like she’s made of glass herself – though they all know damn well she’s not.
‘Is there something else?’
She’d already turned her attention back to her computer, is annoyed at being interrupted, though she was the one who called him in.
‘I was just wondering what your third reason for sending me out there again was. Ma’am.’
‘Oh. Well, I just thought a cold case like this, nothing too strenuous, knowing what you’ve been through recently—’
Frazer feels his shoulders tighten, and in response she’s on her feet and stepping closer to him. In her large window, overlooking the office blocks and the river snaking through the city, the glare is low and sharp, and they’re both reflected in the glass.
‘—and the rise in Islamophobia we’re seeing in the city since the attacks can’t be easy for you—’
‘What, because I’m black?’
‘No, no. I just thought a quieter—’
‘They’re racist out in the villages too, Ma’am, believe me.’
‘Look, I just thought a cold case might suit you.’
Her voice has changed now. Softer. It’s the sympathy again – God he hates the sympathy.
‘There shouldn’t be anything too violent going on out there, not this time. Take a few days by the sea and give yourself a chance to breathe. Alright?’
Frazer’s jaw is tight and he wants to argue but he can’t find the words. It’s been over six months since his compassionate leave and he came back to work in January for a reason – and the time he spent in Burrowhead in the spring was in no way helpful; Christ, he felt like he was going mad out there.
‘Good,’ she says, her pale hand resting briefly on his arm before she turns her back again. He can’t think of a reason to stay in the room, though by the time he’s left the building and is in his car all the arguments he could have used to avoid having to go back out to Burrowhead are crowding into his mind – not least the simmering anger of the place he’s still not got out from under his skin. At least you can avoid looking straight at it, in the city, if you’re inclined to turn the other cheek.
He’s parked in the basement garage, where it’s cool and shaded, but soon as he’s driven up the ramp and out the blue sky seems to be taunting him. Maybe it’ll be cooler out there, at least. Maybe that wild beach will have managed to keep the heatwave away. Trish will be there. No doubt with plenty to fight about again. Some people just seem to want a fight. More and more people these days, it seems to him. He pulls off his suit jacket while he’s stopped at the traffic lights. His air con is up but it’s no match for the sun pouring in the windows. At least this time he has a case of his own to focus on. Betty Marshall has reported seeing a murder, and he for one is going to take her seriously.
But how the hell is it getting hotter?
He checks the dial, which is turned all the way to cold, his eyes flicking back up to the road before holding his hand over the air vents. Lukewarm air is coming through. Cooler than the outside, yes, but not enough. He pulls off his tie too. It’s not like anyone will be smart where he’s headed. He was fairly sure they spent the duration of his last visit laughing about how he’d got mud on his suit. They see dirt as a stamp of pride, that lot. Trish especially, and that farmer Ricky Barr. Though she’d be fuming if she heard him mention them in the same sentence. Far as Trish was concerned Ricky Barr was the enemy of the village, but it looked to Frazer more like they were all versions of the same person: prickly and bitter, quick to judge and equally quick to blame, pretending to be tough when really they’re clinging to the village like they’re scared of the outside world. Trish seemed to wear it like an identity, with her buckled-up boots and tattoos that she never quite managed to hide under her sleeve. Tiny girl that she is. Young too, to be carrying round so much anger – though Frazer is often called young himself, so he knows plenty can happen before the age of thirty to show you what the world can do. Still, Trish took an instant dislike to him, and he doesn’t want to think too hard about why she did or why he cares so much.
The road feels strangely familiar. This single track that leads to the coast and to Warphill, he’s only travelled it the once – back in the spring – and then of course on the return journey, leaving that ragged brutal beach and the faces looming out of the dark, pleading with him, as far away as possible. He’s got enough nightmares of his own to deal with.
He’s going slower now though. He’s not going to make the same mistake as he did last time – there are deer in these woods, all too comfortable with wandering into the road. He taps the brake, keeps his eyes focused on the heat haze above the tarmac, sticky with the sun. Careful with each curve of the road, looking as far ahead as he can, trying to anticipate. The heat is doing something strange to the air out here. In the city, sure, it’s muggy and sweaty and dense, but out here the air’s loaded with it, like the heat is visible, glimmering, suspended between the surface of the road and the canopy of the tree arch overhead – and it is familiar but also strangely different, he doesn’t remember so many trees, such an intense covering of green that the light takes on an underwater ripple. Of course, it was early spring before, bare-branched and frosty. He doesn’t remember leaves because there weren’t any, just the sharp threat of pine needles and the twist of branches like old men’s fingers. Today, the foliage turns this stretch of road into a shimmering green tunnel, the sky visible only in fleeting gaps that twinkle like stars; for the first time he can see how beautiful it is. How could a few months have made such a difference? It’s not like that in the city. He puts on his shades and even then he has to squint in the light, the texture of it, glistening, truly.
A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead and he brushes it away with the back of his hand. This air conditioning is useless. He hits a button and the automatic windows open. There it is: the smell of the coast. Salt and fish and seaweed, baked in the heat, and something sweeter too, now, something that wasn’t here before. He licks his lips and realises they are dry and parched. The bottle of water he brought with him from the city is lying on the passenger seat, empty, though he can’t for the life of him remember drinking it all.
CASTING BLAME
Aaron and Lee’s caravan is right at the end, and Simon’s being meticulous – he’s suffered through uninformative interviews with the locals and students in every one of the caravans in between. Ricky has actually separated all possible friendship groups; there’s a local and a student per caravan, and not a pair of them can stand each other. It’s almost funny. The students are intrigued by the idea of a crime but think themselves above it, while the locals are all acting like they couldn’t give a shit and, occasionally, glancing over to where Aaron and Lee’s caravan is waiting. The two brothers together. So Ricky didn’t split them up. Maybe he was thinking of the students’ safety.
He knocks, once, hard, and Lee opens the door. The last time Simon had been this close to him, they were sat opposite each other in the cell at Burrowhead police station and he’d been left reeling with the spite of him. He looks a bit different today, mind. More hunched in on himself, his pretty face scrawny and rougher somehow, the hint of some bruising around the jawline – is that his brother’s doing? Aaron is standing behind him, his hair clipped close to the scalp, the smell of unwashed men about the pair of them.
Simon pushes his way in, sits down on the makeshift bench all the caravans have, and asks them – like he has asked everyone else – if they’ve seen anyone or heard anything suspicious since starting work here.
‘I take this job seriously,’ Aaron says. ‘Quit the butchers to be here, the work’s that good.’
‘I’m keeping my head down, aye,’ Lee pipes up. ‘Keeping my head down like yous lot wanted me to and now what, questioning me over nothing and all I’m doing is trying to work and it’s hard enough to get work and I’ve done my community—’
‘Shut it,’ Aaron snaps.
They’re kids, that’s the thing. Unpleasant, sure, Aaron’s a right bully and Lee’s a spiteful little shite, but they’re too young to have had anything to do with the remains Shona found on the farm, surely. If the body was buried thirty years back – and Cal seems to suspect it could be much longer than that – they wouldn’t even have been born. Still, he’s here, and the only suspicious things any of the others have hinted at involve Aaron and Lee Prowle being, well, unpleasant and suspicious.
‘You’ll no mind if I take a look around then?’ Simon says, standing, casually walking over to the cupboards and opening the doors – a couple of mugs, stained black, no sign of food except for a tin of corned beef, a damp-looking half-used pack of sugar and some lentils.
‘You making a dhal?’ Simon says.
‘Don’t eat foreign food—’
‘That crap was here when we arrived,’ Aaron says, shrugging. ‘And the whole place was dirty, weren’t it.’
‘Aye, dirty.
‘So we cleaned it up. Mam’d be proud.’
