The courier, p.3
The Courier, page 3
‘Let’s leave it there for now, Sharon,’ Denise says delicately. ‘Thanks for sharing. That’s what we’re all about – sharing our pain, along with our coping strategies. It helps to know what each other is going through.’
Denise is the mother hen of the group and our unofficial leader. A bookish woman called Elaine organises the sessions and takes care of the admin but it’s Denise we look up to. We all know her story: her Dion went to school one morning in the nineties and never came back. Murdered is the presumption, but no one has been charged. Denise has fought the longest and the hardest of anyone here.
She peers over the top of her red glasses. It’s one of her trademark looks. I’ve seen it printed in the paper. Everyone looks at their feet except me.
‘Laurel,’ she says, ‘we haven’t heard from you for a while.’
I start at my name and regret not looking down. My heart thuds and I feel my face growing hot.
‘How are you?’ Denise asks gently.
I know it’s not really her fault, but Denise makes me feel like I’m back at school. Actually, scratch that – I always did well at school. She takes me back to my job in banking, where expectations were so high it was easy to fall short. Or back to my marriage. I was always disappointing Dominic.
Group isn’t a place where you can brush off questions with a stock response so I don’t answer right away. Sharon blows her nose. Everyone waits. I wonder what’s safe to tell them. I can’t tell them what happened with Patrick because I don’t want to get into trouble. Everyone gets online deliveries and never for one second considers that the person at their door might be going through their own issues, that they’re human too. I don’t want to shatter that illusion in case it gets back to Zippi. It wouldn’t be the first job I’ve lost for that reason.
‘I’ve been having these dreams.’ My voice sounds odd when I’m not speaking in my perky courier tones. It’s been a few days since the last dream, but they feel so real and linger with me for days. ‘I wake up terrified. Like it’s happening all over again.’
‘I think we all get those.’ Denise’s voice is warm. I see others nodding. ‘Do you want to tell us about them?’
I close my eyes and see the window with the suction handle stuck to it and the spiderweb of cracks. I never knew they could be removed in one piece but I’ve watched it done on YouTube many times since. It can be done in under ten seconds – there’s a knack to it. My dreams don’t usually get much beyond that image. It haunts me, popping into my mind at unwelcome moments. I’ve got better at controlling it when I’m awake, but what can you do about your subconscious?
My eyes flick open and I see everyone is watching me. I’m sweating. I tug at the zipper of my fleece and pull it down a few inches. I don’t need to look to know that an angry red rash will be climbing my neck.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t feel up to sharing today.’
Audrey rushes in. ‘Of course you are going to relive it. What an awful day. I can’t even begin to imagine—’
‘Thank you,’ I say stiffly, cutting her off. I don’t need Audrey to tell me how bad it was. It was the worst day of my life. The day when I split in two: before and after. I think that’s how everyone feels who has lost a child. We talk about it here in those terms.
There’s an unofficial divide in Missing Mums between those of us whose children were taken and those whose went of their own accord. Denise and I have always banded together. I’ve felt her support even when she hasn’t spoken. She is silent now and I can’t read the look she is giving me. I try a small smile but she doesn’t even nod. Perhaps my case isn’t high-profile enough to hold her interest. Sophie hasn’t been on the front page of every paper like Dion.
‘Let’s take a break,’ Denise says.
Most people get up and cluster around the trestle table where the biscuits are laid out on paper plates. Sharon and another woman go outside for a cigarette. I stay seated. I find the chit-chat awkward when we know such intimate details about each other. I’ve never felt able to debate the merits of chocolate Hobnobs versus plain after the things we’ve said.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Denise sits next to me and pulls her chair in close. She always looks well put together with her long braids piled on top of her head and statement earrings. Today’s pair has orange feathers that brush her shoulders. I’m in my work uniform, all black – trousers, flat shoes, fleece but no cap and the contrast makes me feel embarrassed. I should take better care of myself.
Denise clears her throat. ‘Thanks for sharing. It helps us all to know others are going through the same things.’
I nod but I think of Sharon. I don’t want to be uncharitable but she and I are not in the same boat. Her situation doesn’t help me.
‘Has there been any progress with your case?’ Denise asks.
I shake my head and drop my gaze as I feel the prickle of tears. If I’m honest, my search for Sophie has dried up to a trickle. I no longer spend hours trawling the internet for photos of children her age or driving around new areas of London with one eye on the road and the other scanning the pavement. The notion that I’m giving up is too painful to admit, let alone say aloud. A lump that feels like the size of a mango is stuck in my throat.
‘Keep going.’ Denise squeezes my shoulder as if hearing my thoughts and her kindness makes tears leak into my eyes, but I blink them away. ‘I’ll tell you what, let me take it up with my contacts at the Met. See if there’s any way we can get new lifeblood into it.’
‘No.’ The word bursts from my mouth before I can stop it and Denise’s eyebrows knit together. I didn’t mean it to come out with so much force but when she gets something in her head she’s like a terrier with the scent of a squirrel. I know she means well but Sophie is my daughter and her disappearance is my loss. What to do about it is my decision.
I rearrange my face into what I hope is a grateful smile.
‘Really, there’s no need.’ Thankfully my voice comes out softer, more controlled. ‘I speak to them regularly and they’re doing their best.’
The little line between Denise’s eyes doesn’t go away. She speaks again and I think I hear a note of incredulity lifting her voice. ‘After the inquiry I have contacts right the way to the top. Are you sure you don’t want me to give them a nudge?’
‘I’m sure.’ I think quickly and come up with a reason Denise might accept. ‘I don’t want my detective to think I’ve gone over his head. You understand that?’
Denise nods. ‘Who is your detective?’
A worm of anger wriggles its way under my skin. Why won’t she leave me alone? Group isn’t about pushing people. It’s a safe space.
‘Can we just leave it?’ I demand.
Denise looks startled. She pulls at one of her earrings and the lobe stretches. My insides are whirring. I glance at the door. The desire to flee is almost overwhelming but Denise puts her hand on my arm. ‘Of course. It’s your case and it’s up to you how it’s handled. Let’s get a biscuit, shall we.’
She releases my arm and leads the way; I don’t have any choice but to follow her over to the table where the others are chatting. We hover on the edge of the group and I try to catch the gist of the conversation. Audrey is talking about an American dating programme where the contestants fall in love without seeing each other. She thinks it’s a romantic concept but it sounds ludicrous to me. I try to join in but as I don’t own a TV it’s a bit awkward. Denise returns to my side with a couple of digestives. She’s still frowning and she stands close so she’s speaking almost in my ear.
‘You do have support, don’t you?’
I guess she means beyond group. I nod. She waits, and I see that hasn’t satisfied her.
‘I’ve just met someone actually,’ I find myself saying.
Finally, she smiles.
‘A writer.’
Audrey stops talking and turns her sizable body towards me like an oil tanker turning. I sense a few others listening too.
‘How did you meet him?’ Denise asks, a new bounce in her voice.
I have no choice but to press on with the lie. ‘Through work.’ Her eyes dart to the logo on my fleece and I carry on quickly. ‘I don’t usually chat much to people but we just hit it off.’
‘It sounds like the plot of a film,’ gushes Audrey.
I smile as she begins to outline a possible future for Patrick and me. She finishes with, ‘And then, of course, he’d bury you under the patio.’
We all laugh, and she shrugs.
‘Romance doesn’t sell,’ she says.
The conversation moves on and I’m grateful that the attention is off me. I edge over to the urn and make myself a cup of tea, just for something to do with my hands. It’s been a tense evening and I’m sweaty beneath my fleece despite the chill in the room. Denise’s eyes follow me; it’s like I can see the cogs turning in her head, trying to work me out.
When it’s time to go, I slip out ahead of the others to avoid any goodbyes. I cross the road to where I parked the van and hop up onto the front seat, just sitting for a moment and enjoying the quiet. My van is my kingdom. It may be a second-hand transit but it’s clean and there’s a heady scent of strawberry from the air freshener dangling from the mirror that I find strangely moreish. I dig my fingers into the foam seat, resisting for as long as I can before reaching across to the passenger side and opening the glove compartment, where I keep my flask. It’s handy that these days reusable plastic water bottles have gone out of fashion – metal is so much more discreet.
Chapter Four
I arrive at the depot the next morning with a hangover, my mind still whirring. Who does Denise think she is? I know she meant well but her questions sent me into a downwards spiral, bringing up memories of Sophie that I had to drink to suppress. As my stomach roils, I hate myself for being so weak. Driving for a living means I should control my alcohol intake, I know that.
I scan the delivery log. There’s nothing for Paradise Found. Again. I’m beginning to feel anxious. I know that the residents don’t need me exactly, but I don’t want them to forget about me. I’m part of the community. And what about Patrick? Now we’ve had a conversation, I might be able to get to know him better. Who knows where it might go? It could be one of those moments we recount to our kids. The first time we met, Daddy thought Mummy was a strange lady!
Without a trip to Paradise Found, the day passes in a blur of slammed doors and fast fashion bags. People think they’re original but I see the same size and shape parcels again and again. I’m not in the mood to chat so I finish my deliveries early and the evening stretches ahead of me, empty. It’s been a long time since I had any plans other than group and that’s over for a week. Usually I settle in with a drink and my notebooks but today I have a restless energy. I start for home but on the way I change my mind. I drive against the traffic instead, taking the familiar route to Paradise Found. I won’t go inside, of course. The entry code is for professional use only. That’s a company rule and I do try to follow them, when I can. But sometimes, just being close makes me feel better.
I’ve been listening to whining guitar music but I switch over to love songs as I make my way there. What I like best about Paradise Found is the way that it’s so unexpected. One moment you’re driving past a Carphone Warehouse, the next you’re inside the gated street – an enclave in a brash part of central London, only two streets back from Tottenham Court Road. It’s a mews but with grand houses built to look detached even though they’re terraced and with little gardens front and back, not the cramped living most Londoners are used to. Even the penthouse apartment we lived in was small, or ‘compact’ as the estate agent described it.
I park the van a short distance away from the gate in a pay-and-display spot. Parking has become one of my biggest outgoings, after premium liquor. It’s getting dark and there’s a bite to the air so I pull my company cap low over my eyes and make for the back fence of the properties that’s accessed by a narrow footpath between two busy roads.
It’s nice to be outside after a day cooped up in the van. My ponytail swings as I walk and I’m humming Celine Dion as I reach the corner. The fence is eight feet tall and the panels are solid wood and greying from the weather. At regular intervals is a sticker that reads: Beware, this area is monitored by CCTV, though I’ve never seen a camera. There’s no way to see over but it’s fun to guess what is going on behind the thin planks of wood, so close that in the late summer days, when I began coming here, I could sometimes smell what they were having for dinner.
The Bateses must employ a gardener – neither is supple enough for all that bending – so I imagine that their garden is neat and well-planned. There’s probably a row of daffodils waiting to emerge. Bryce Cohen seems like the water-feature type – one of those cheeky cherubs weeing into the pond – and the Addo-Smyths have a trampoline, I’ve heard the springs pinging. Evelyn is an old-fashioned enthusiast; she probably has flowers for every season and knows all their Latin names.
I dawdle behind Patrick’s house. There are streetlights but they’re widely spaced so the arcs of light are interspersed with shadow, and Patrick’s fence happens to be a gloomy spot. I’ve already seen his garden but there’s a chance that he could be outside at this very moment, pacing the lawn for inspiration or smoking a cigarette on the terrace. I sniff the air and run my fingers against the wood until I feel the sharp nip of a splinter. My hand goes to my mouth, and that’s when I spot it: the small hole in the centre of a knot in the wood. It’s almost the perfect height. I’d only need to stretch onto my tiptoes to peep through.
I glance up and down the pavement to check there’s no one around. My pulse quickens and before I can wonder whether it’s really a good idea, I take one last look and step up to the fence. But the hole is higher than I first thought and it’s a terrible angle. All I can see is a small section of the white-painted wall and the corner of a window. What room is that? The lights are off so the glass is dark. I haven’t seen the floor plan of Patrick’s house but most of the others have their dining room at the back. It might be his study. Imagine, if the light was on, I’d have a clear view inside.
A man clears his throat from behind me. It feels like my heart stops for a moment and as I move away quickly, it restarts at double-speed.
‘Hey,’ he calls out, ‘just a second . . .’
I don’t want to run – running would look like I’ve done something wrong – but I walk faster.
‘Hey!’ he yells, sounding angry now.
I reach the end of the footpath and turn onto the busy street, feeling immediately safer with more people around. I whip off my cap so that I look like someone else, but I’m not sure if he’s behind me. I consider ducking inside the off-licence but then I’d be cornered. My heart is still thudding and I’m casting about for somewhere to hide when I spot a gap in the traffic and dart across. Someone slams their horn but I reach the other side and crouch behind the back wheel of a parked Range Rover, resting my hands on my knees and sucking in as much air as I can. I peer across the road and make out the shape of a man in a long overcoat standing on the pavement with a dog at his heels. I recognise the brown fluff-ball – it’s Harry Cohen’s Cockapoo.
Harry looks around but soon the dog begins straining on the lead, wanting his walk. My legs ache from holding a crouching position. I don’t have the muscle tone I once did; I spend too much time sitting in the van. Harry shrugs his shoulders theatrically – he’s a man who likes his temper to be known – and lets the dog pull him up the street. I wait until they’re out of view before I stand and stretch out my knees.
My thoughts are coming too fast. What have I done? How much did he see? What if he says something to Patrick? I’m hyperventilating and I have to concentrate to keep my breathing under control. It’s the second close call in a week, and for what? I could lose my access to Paradise Found with a single email. All it would take is one customer complaint and I’d be allocated a new route, or worse, Zippi could decide I’m too much of a liability and fire me. I wish I could say it hasn’t happened before but delivery companies operate such strict rules and there’s never any discretion applied. What was I thinking?
I take the long way round to return to the van, avoiding the footpath in case Harry comes that way. It’s a relief to get back inside and a gulp from my flask settles me before I set off for home. But I can’t relax. One swig won’t cut it. The steering wheel grows slippery in my grip. I jab the button and switch off the music. Could Harry have spotted me? He only saw my back but he might have recognised me given that I’ve handed him a hundred packages, at least.
Back at my flat, I go straight to my desk, opening a bottle of red that I keep in a box underneath, filling an empty whisky glass to the brim and glugging it back. I take out my Paradise Found notebook labelled ‘number four’ and begin reading from the first page. It’s strange to think that my first delivery to the Cohens was six whole months ago. A case of wine. ‘Rosé’, Bryce had said. ‘Simply divine in the sunshine.’ And he’d laughed at his little rhyme. I’d liked him right away. I flick forward until I land on the day I met Harry – older and stockier, a silver fox with his grey, combed hair and neat moustache. A month later and the weather must have turned. Harry signed for a new weighty duvet without a word.
Next, there are pages filled with what I discovered online. Not much on Bryce beyond his social media accounts that display his magpie tendencies for anything sparkly. Harry, on the other hand, has a reputation as a prominent antiques dealer to maintain. He appears at events, writes articles, and provides titillating information for magazine profiles. There was even a spread of photos from his last home, before he married Bryce.
I’ve always felt wary of Harry. There’s a steel core beneath that three-piece suit – you can tell from the way he holds himself – and he’s pernickety about his deliveries. He often barks at me to keep things upright and insists I use the parcel trolley even for lighter pieces. I’m sure he won’t go down without a fight. I pour another glass of red and keep turning the pages of my notebook. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I find it. I always do. It doesn’t need to be something big and obvious. The smaller things are often cleaner.
