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‘The gate was unbolted when we got there, Mrs Appleyard.’
‘It’s a high bolt, isn’t it?’ Sally closed her eyes, trying to visualize the yard which she’d seen on a sunny afternoon in the autumn. Dead leaves, brown, yellow and orange, danced over the concrete and gathered in a drift between the two dustbins and the sandpit. ‘Was the bolt stiff?’
‘As it happens, yes. Would you say that Lucy is a physically strong child for her age?’
‘Look at me, Mum.’ Lucy was standing on the edge of her bed in her pyjamas, holding Jimmy up to the ceiling. ‘I’m King Kong.’
‘Not particularly. She’s a little smaller than average for her age.’
Sergeant Carlow was sitting at the table and writing in his notebook. The cuffs of the trousers had risen halfway up his calves, exposing bands of pale and almost hairless skin above the drooping black socks.
A soft hiss filled the silence: Maxham had a habit of sucking in breath every moment or so as if trying to clear obstructions lodged between his teeth; and as he did so he pulled back his lips in the mockery of a smile. ‘We’ve talked to the neighbours all along the street. We’ve talked to the people whose gardens back on to the alley. No one saw her. It was a filthy evening, yesterday. No one was out unless they had to be.’
Sally shouted, ‘Are you saying that someone opened that gate from the outside?’
Maxham shrugged his wiry little body. The plump face looked all wrong on such a scraggy neck. ‘I’m afraid we’re not in a position to draw any conclusions yet, Mrs Appleyard. We’re just investigating the possibilities, you understand. Gathering evidence. I’m sure you know what these things are like from your husband.’
The condescension in his voice made Sally yearn to slap him. He sat there smiling at her. He was going bald at the crown and the grey hair needed cutting. He wore an elderly tweed suit, baggy at the knees and shiny at the elbows, which gave him the incongruous appearance of a none-too-successful farmer on market day. She did not like what she saw, but that did not mean he was bad at his job. Once more he hissed. Now that she had noticed the habit, it irritated and distracted her. She thought of protective geese and hostile serpents.
‘What about dogs?’ she asked, her voice astonishingly calm.
‘We tried that. No joy. Doesn’t prove anything one way or the other. All that rain didn’t help.’
‘And how can I help you?’
Maxham’s head nodded, perhaps as a sign of approval. He took off his glasses and began to polish them with a handkerchief from the top pocket of his jacket. ‘There’s a number of things, Mrs Appleyard. Most of them obvious. We’ll need a good up-to-date photograph of Lucy. We’ll need to talk to you about what she’s like – not just her appearance, what she’s like inside. We’d like to find out exactly what she’s wearing. Everything.’ He inserted a delicate little pause in the conversation. ‘Also, any toys she may have had with her, that sort of thing. Ms Vaughan said she wanted them to go to Woolworth’s and buy a conjuring set. Can you confirm that?’
‘Yes. Lucy and I had an argument about it on the way to Carla’s yesterday morning. My daughter can be very persistent. If she wants something, she’s inclined to go on and on about it until she gets it. And if she doesn’t get it, which is what often happens, she sometimes throws a tantrum.’
‘So you’d agree that her going off all by herself in a huff like that wouldn’t be untypical?’
‘Of course it would be untypical. She’s never done anything like that before.’ Yes, she had, Sally thought: Lucy had tried to run off in shops several times: but surely this was different in kind as well as in degree? ‘But she’s very self-willed. Her trying to run off like that shocks me but it doesn’t altogether surprise me.’
‘Ah.’ Maxham breathed on his glasses one last time, gave them another polish and settled them on the bridge of his nose. ‘I have to say your husband sees Lucy a little differently. He insisted that she wouldn’t run off of her own accord, that she’s far too sensible.’
‘Lucy likes being with her father.’ Sally chose her words carefully, unwilling to point out that she saw about five times more of Lucy than Michael did, and that Michael spoiled her terribly. ‘Perhaps she tends to be better behaved with him than she is with me. But I don’t think that there’s any doubt about the determination she can show. You can ask Carla. Or Margaret Cutter.’ She rushed on, answering the question before Maxham had time to ask it. ‘She’s our vicar’s wife. She runs a crèche at St George’s.’
‘Would you have any objection if we had a look round?’
‘A look where?’
‘All over the flat, if you don’t mind. Lucy’s room, especially, of course. It can help us get a feeling of the missing child, you understand. And if you’d come with us, perhaps you’ll notice if there’s anything missing.’
What did they expect to find, Sally wondered? Lucy’s body under her bed? ‘All right. But my husband’s asleep at present.’
‘Yes, your husband.’ Maxham drew out the words until he was speaking almost in a drawl. He sucked in air. ‘We wouldn’t want to disturb him.’
‘He needs to sleep.’
‘He was up all night.’ Maxham’s voice was neutral, uninflected. ‘I had to ask his friend Mr Rickford to come and collect him this morning. So he got home safely?’
‘Yes.’ Before she could stop herself, Sally added a plea on Michael’s behalf: ‘He was very upset, yesterday. Still is. He’s not himself.’
‘That’s understandable.’ The voice was still neutral, and the want of sympathy was in itself an accusation. ‘I gather he’s had a lot on his plate lately.’
‘Obviously.’ A doubt niggled in Sally’s mind: had Michael had something else to worry about, something that had happened before Lucy’s disappearance? But there was no time for that now. ‘What do you think might have happened?’ She was suddenly furious with Maxham. ‘Come on – you must have some ideas. What are the main possibilities?’
‘Three main scenarios,’ he said briskly. ‘One, she wandered off by herself, and hopefully found shelter. Two, a man or maybe some kids were passing by and thought they’d take her with them. It happens, Mrs Appleyard, I won’t conceal it from you; but it happens less often than you’d believe, so try not to think too much about it.’ His tone was still neutral, and she wondered whether kindness or insensitivity lay behind it. ‘Three: a woman took her. That counts as a separate option because usually the motives are different. You know, mothers who’ve lost their babies and need a replacement. Girls who want a young child to play with, a sort of doll. If that’s what’s happened, we’ll probably get her back safe and sound.’
‘Safe and sound?’ Sally whispered, so angry and so scared that her teeth wanted to chatter together.
‘These things are relative, Mrs Appleyard. You must understand that.’
‘Why do these women do it?’ Sally was reluctant to consider the other options; she knew they would haunt her later.
‘Sometimes it’s someone who thinks her relationship’s breaking up. It’s a way to keep a man with her. Usually that’s a baby, though. Or then you get a young girl with a history of parental neglect. Broken home – Dad’s in jail, Mum’s got a new man. You could say they need someone to love. Don’t we all, eh? And then you get the mentally ill. Usually no previous history of delinquency. Generally a one-off case, committed while the woman’s in an acute psychotic state.’ Maxham glanced at her, assessing the effect his words were having. ‘We’ll just have to see what –’
Without warning, Michael shambled into the room and leant on the back of the sofa. He stared at them as if at a roomful of strangers. Sergeant Carlow stood up, snapping shut his notebook. Yvonne looked at Maxham, asking mutely for guidance. Maxham simply sat there, his hands clasped loosely on his lap.
Sally had left the door open when she came into the room. Had Michael been standing in the hallway and listening for long? He was in his pyjamas, and he looked terrible: the jacket unbuttoned, his hair tousled, his face unshaven, his body dazed by the sleeping pill.
‘Find her, Maxham,’ Michael whispered. ‘Just find her. Stop talking and find her.’
Sally did not like Maxham, but she had to admit that he handled the situation shrewdly. He asked Sally to show himself and Carlow round the flat. He left Yvonne sitting at the table with Michael. Michael might have picked a quarrel if he had been left alone with either of the men. But he would not quarrel with a woman. He treated women he did not know well as if they were delicate beings, easily damaged by rough handling.
Sally heard Michael and Yvonne talking as she showed the two police officers round the flat. She could not hear what they were saying, but their voices rose and fell, stopped and started, in a reassuringly normal pattern.
When they returned to the living room, however, Michael looked up at Maxham and Sally knew from Michael’s face that nothing had changed.
‘The odds are a man took her,’ he said. ‘You know that. Women tend to take babies.’
Maxham drew back his lips and hissed. ‘We’ll have to see.’ He turned to Sally. ‘Thank you for your help, Mrs Appleyard. We’ll be in touch. And don’t worry – we’re doing everything we can.’
‘Bastard,’ Michael muttered audibly in the living room as Sally was showing the police officers out.
Michael shaved and showered. By now it was mid-afternoon. Sally made a pot of tea which only Yvonne wanted. The policewoman was doing her best, Sally thought, but it was like having a nanny on the premises. She sat by the phone, apparently engrossed in the last few clues of the Daily Telegraph crossword.
Michael pushed aside his mug. ‘I’m sorry, Sal. I can’t stay here. I feel like the walls are pressing in. I’m going to get some fresh air.’
She wanted to seize his hand. Don’t leave me alone. Instead she said, ‘Will you be long?’
He didn’t answer the question. He found his jacket and dropped his wallet in one pocket and his keys in the other. It was a waxed jacket, which reminded her of Oliver.
‘Should you phone Oliver at some point?’ she asked.
‘When I get back.’ He bent down and kissed the top of her head. ‘I love you,’ he murmured, too low for Yvonne to hear. He straightened up. ‘I won’t be long.’
His hand touched Sally’s shoulder for an instant. He nodded to Yvonne and left the room. The two women sat in silence. The front door opened and closed. They heard his footsteps moving steadily down the stairs. Sally hoped that he wouldn’t get into a fight with the journalists. In a moment or two she relaxed because no one was shouting in the street.
That was the last she saw of Michael on Saturday. She spent most of the next five hours near the phone. When the phone rang, Yvonne would answer it, shaking her head at Sally when it became clear that Michael wasn’t the caller.
Sally thought of Michael getting himself arrested; of him wandering in tears through the streets of London in search of Lucy; of accident, madness and suicide. Even in her misery she knew that Lucy’s absence was far more worrying than Michael’s; the greater fear did not cast out the lesser, but it made it easier to bear. This did not stop her feeling angry with him.
‘The bloody man!’ she burst out after yet another phone call from someone she did not want to talk to.
‘That’s right, dear,’ Yvonne said helpfully. ‘Get it out of your system.’
‘Does Maxham know that Michael’s gone?’
Yvonne nodded. ‘I had to tell him. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
On the mantelpiece, Sally found the note from Oliver propped against the broken silver clock, the wedding present from David Byfield. Michael and Sally: Please phone me if I can do anything. Oliver. Underneath his name he had had the sense to put his phone number. A polite man, too. When Yvonne was making tea in the kitchen, Sally picked up the phone. Oliver answered at the second ring.
‘It’s me. Sally.’
‘Any news?’
‘No. Not really.’ She told him about Michael. ‘I – I wondered if he might be with you.’
‘I wish he was. Actually, Maxham’s already phoned. Shall I come over?’
‘No.’ She heard a clatter from the kitchen. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Phone me, Sally. Any time. All right?’
‘All right.’ She broke the connection as Yvonne came in with mugs of tea. ‘Just checking with Oliver Rickford. Michael’s not there, either.’
Sally sat down with the tea. What hurt, then and later, was the way Michael had locked her out. For better or for worse: didn’t it mean anything to him? If it didn’t mean anything, why did he bother getting married? He could have found someone else to screw. Maybe that’s where he was now: with a prostitute, paying for what his wife was too tired to give him.
Yvonne went to the lavatory. The phone began to ring. Sally flung herself at it, spilling uncomfortably hot tea over her leg.
‘Shit. Hello.’
‘Is that the Reverend Appleyard speaking?’ A man’s voice; unfamiliar. ‘Sally? This is Frank Howell. Remember me? I did that piece on St George’s for the Standard.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve nothing to say.’
‘I understand, Sally.’ The voice was unctuous. ‘I don’t want to ask you anything. Truly.’
She remembered the man’s face now: the balding cherub with red-rimmed eyes; Derek’s friend. ‘I’m going to put the phone down, Mr Howell.’
He began to gabble: ‘Sooner or later you and Michael are going to have to deal with the press. Maybe I can help. You need someone who knows the ropes, someone on your side, someone who –’
‘Goodbye.’ She broke the connection.
‘Who was that?’ Yvonne asked, a moment later.
‘A journalist named Frank Howell.’
‘He’s already rung twice before. Leave the phone to me.’
‘I thought it might be Michael.’ Or Lucy. Sally started to cry again.
Yvonne gave her a handful of paper handkerchiefs. ‘Try not to worry, love. I’m sure there’s some perfectly simple explanation. He’ll be back. You’ll see.’
Through her tears Sally snarled, ‘I’m not sure I want him back.’ I want Lucy.
Afterwards, Sally learned that Michael turned right into the main road, walking towards the tube station. He went into the saloon bar of the King of Prussia and ordered a pint of beer and a double whisky. He sat by himself at a table in the corner of the room. According to the barman he gave no trouble. He drank two more double whiskies and repelled an attempt to draw him into conversation.
He took the underground to King’s Cross Station, where he bought a standard single to Cambridge. He had time to kill before catching the train so he killed it in a bar. From Cambridge railway station he walked slowly into the centre of the town and out the other side, stopping at two pubs on the way. He staggered up the Huntingdon Road. Just before eight-thirty he reached a small but ugly block of modern flats near Fitzwilliam College. He rang one of the bells and lay down on the wet grass to rest. Soon he was asleep.
A little later, the telephone rang in the Appleyards’ living room in Hercules Road. Yvonne answered. She listened for a moment, pressed the mute button and looked across the room at Sally.
‘It’s someone called Father Byfield. Do you want to speak to him? He says your husband’s with him.’
Sally was furious and relieved when she heard Uncle David’s voice. Jealousy was there, too, and also a sense of failure. She should have realized that in times of trouble Michael would turn not to her but to his godfather.
6 (#ulink_00383541-55fb-5a06-8a33-74a094e06021)
‘Therefore for Spirits, I am so far from denying their existence, that I could easily believe, that not onely whole Countries, but particular persons, have their Tutelary and Guardian Angels.’
Religio Medici, I, 33
‘Mummy. Mummy, where are you?’
Over the intercom, Lucy’s voice sounded mechanical, like a juvenile robot’s. Without the intercom and with the doors closed, they would not have heard her because the basement was now so well soundproofed.
‘Mummy.’ The voice sharpened and rose to a wail. ‘Where are you?’
Angel dropped her napkin on the table and stood up, stretching her long white arm towards the keys on the worktop. At the door she glanced back at Eddie.
‘You sort things out in here. I’ll deal with her.’
Lucy was crying now. Eddie imagined her standing by the door or curled up in bed. She was wearing the pyjamas he had bought especially for her at Selfridges; they had red stars against a deep yellow background and in normal circumstances would suit her colouring Last night, however, Lucy had not been looking her best: by the low-wattage light of the bedside lamp, her face had been white, almost green, mouth a black, ragged hole, the puffy eyes squeezed into slits.
‘Daddy. Mummy.’
The intercom emitted a series of crackles: Angel was unlocking and opening the door to the basement.
‘Mummy. I want –’
‘You’ll see Mummy very soon.’ Angel’s voice was tinny and precise. There was a click as she closed the door behind her. ‘Now, what are you doing out of bed without your slippers?’
‘Where’s Mummy? Where am I? Where’s Daddy?’
‘Mummy and Daddy had to go away for a night or two. Don’t you remember? Eddie and I are looking after you.’ There was a pause, but Lucy did not respond. ‘I’m Angel.’
