The Vanishing Point

17

Vivian had gone back to her own office to call DCI Broadbent. She’d wanted privacy, a chance to pick up a latte at Starbucks and access to her computer in case Sergeant Nicolaides’ boss wanted the request in writing. He turned out to be remarkably cooperative but yes, he wanted an email to confirm her request. She sipped her coffee and hammered out what she wanted from the English cops. She was glad Broadbent hadn’t made a big deal out of it. If she’d had to run it through her boss, God alone knew how long it would have taken today. But then, it wasn’t like she was asking for much. Just a few hours of a detective’s time. It was amazing how a child’s life on the line could cut straight through red tape.

She leaned back in her chair and considered what she had learned. Either Stephanie Harker was as decent as Nicolaides believed or else she’d comprehensively fooled him over some time. Not knowing him, it was hard to tell. For the time being, she was inclined to believe Stephanie. Her reactions thus far seemed credible to Vivian. She’d have behaved in much the same way, she reckoned. But teasing out what lay beneath those reactions was not quite so straightforward.

The ping of her email inbox derailed her thoughts. Broadbent had confirmed his agreement to her request for help. She forwarded it to her boss in the Chicago office, just to cover all the bases. While she was waiting for Abbott and Nicolaides to fill in some of the blanks, she’d see what else Stephanie Harker was willing to tell her.

When she returned to the interview room, Stephanie eyed her coffee greedily. ‘Any chance I could get one of those?’ she said. ‘I’ve been up for a long time and I’m pretty much running on empty.’ It was hard to argue against; she looked frayed and frazzled. They always did when they went into adrenalin deficit.

Vivian dug into her pocket for a twenty and gave it to Lopez. ‘Get one for yourself, Lia. You want a latte, Stephanie?’

‘Could I have a mocha? I need sugar as well as caffeine. And maybe a muffin or something?’

Vivian nodded to Lopez. ‘Get me a receipt, please.’ She took a sip of her own coffee. ‘Tell me about Pete Matthews,’ she said. ‘And before you say it, I know it’s a long story. But until we have some positive leads to chase, we may as well use the time.’

What with one thing and another, it was a couple of days before I made it back home. I’d barely had time to put the kettle on when Pete turned up with a face like a poisoned pup. ‘About bloody time you got back,’ he grouched as soon as I opened the door.

‘And it’s lovely to see you too.’ I was trying to tease him out of it, not to be sarcastic. But when he was in that kind of mood there was no point in anything other than total capitulation. ‘I did text you yesterday. Didn’t you get it?’

‘I should have a key for this house,’ he said, stomping down the hall into the kitchen. ‘I was frantic with worry when I didn’t hear from you for two bloody days. I tried to ring you, I tried to text you. But nothing.’

‘I told you. My phone was dead, and there was no Nokia charger at Scarlett’s. I didn’t manage to get another one till yesterday.’ I followed him through and carried on making a pot of coffee.

‘I came round the house to check on you. To make sure nothing had happened.’

I burst out laughing. ‘What was going to happen? I’m not an invalid, Pete. I’m a healthy woman who can take care of herself.’

‘Anything could have happened. You could have slipped in the bath and hit your head. You could have fallen downstairs. You could have been attacked by a burglar.’

I shook my head, my back to him as I pressed down the plunger in the cafetière. ‘It’s being so cheerful that keeps you going.’

Suddenly he gripped my upper arms and whirled me round. Then he clamped his hands tight round my biceps and shook me. ‘You silly bloody woman. I was worried about you.’ The anger in his face was frightening. I knew it was rooted in fear and concern, but that didn’t make it any less scary.

‘Let go, Pete, you’re hurting me,’ I yelped.

My words seemed to break the spell of his rage. Abruptly he let go and turned away. When he spoke, his voice sounded choked. ‘You have no idea how upset you made me,’ he said. ‘And over what? That bloody slapper Scarlett Higgins.’

‘She’s not a slapper,’ I said, rubbing my arms. I’d have bruises later, I knew it. ‘I happened to be with her when she went into labour. And then there were things that needed sorting out.’

He turned back and poured himself a cup of coffee. ‘And why’s that your responsibility? You’re her bloody ghost writer, not her mother.’

‘Because she hasn’t got anybody else. Joshu’s as much use as a cardboard hammer, most of her mates are only interested in clothes, clubbing and copping off, and she doesn’t have anything to do with her family.’

‘She’s got an agent, hasn’t she? I still don’t see why it’s down to you.’ He opened the fridge and peered suspiciously at the milk.

‘Because we’re friends, Pete.’

He snorted and sniffed the milk. ‘This is off. That’s what happens when you’re busy chasing after the Scarlett Harlot. You don’t look after yourself or the people who really care about you.’

‘Don’t call her that. It’s horrible. And she’s not. I’m sorry about the milk but there’s a carton of cream in there that hasn’t been opened. That should be fine.’ I reached past him and handed him the cream. ‘Have a bit of luxury for once.’ I was determined not to give in to his bad mood.

‘It’s not the same,’ he grumbled, tipping cream into his coffee with a mistrustful look on his face.

‘So, how’s things with you? How were the Northumbrian pipers?’

‘They were good,’ he said, brightening a little. ‘Very professional. They turned up on time, they got what we wanted straight off and they delivered. It was only the one track we needed them for, but they were a dream to work with.’ His mouth turned down again. ‘I wish I could say the same about the bloody band. Sam changes his mind more often than he changes his socks.’

Getting him off the subject of Scarlett changed the atmosphere between us, and we prepared dinner together, arguing with the radio and laughing at each other’s smartarsed remarks. Later, when we were sitting at the table, finishing off the wine, Pete suggested going out to a gig the following evening. Some indie band he’d mixed a couple of tracks for were playing down the road in Hoxton and he’d been invited.

‘As long as it’s not too early,’ I said. ‘I promised I’d pop in tomorrow at evening visiting to see Scarlett and Jimmy.’

Pete groaned. ‘Oh Christ, Stephanie. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? You running around after Scarlett and her bloody sprog? You need to back off.’

‘Pete, she had a really rough time giving birth. It’s going to take her a while to recover, so yes, I’ll be helping out for a few weeks. That’s all. Once she’s back on her feet, things will go back to normal.’

He tipped the last of his wine down his throat. ‘You’re being taken for a mug, Stephanie. And I don’t like it one little bit.’

‘It’s not like that, Pete. I keep telling you. We’re friends. Mates. We get along.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘You do things for your mates all the time. And that’s a good thing.’

‘Yeah, and they do me favours in return. It’s not a one-way street like you and Scarlett.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘No? Well, what’s she done for you lately?’

‘Friendship’s not a balance sheet, Pete. It’s not about keeping score. Scarlett’s my mate. You ask what she’s done for me lately? She’s brightened my day more times than anybody else I know. And she’s asked me to be Jimmy’s godmother.’

He spluttered with laughter. ‘You think that’s her doing something for you? You don’t even like kids. Stephanie, that’s just another way of getting her claws into you.’

I felt sad for him that he couldn’t understand the compliment. ‘No, Pete. It’s a gift. Inviting someone into your child’s life is a gift.’

‘Yeah, and you’ll be giving gifts for life in return,’ he said cynically. ‘I’ll meet you at the gig, then. If you get back in time.’

‘You could come with me?’ I cleared the plates and glasses from the table.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said, his derision obvious.

And that was how it went on. Pete expected me to be available when his irregular hours gave him free time. He’d always grumbled when my work took me away, but when I wasn’t actually doing interviews, I managed to be fairly flexible to suit him. But it wasn’t always easy to accommodate the timetable of a new mother and a young baby, and Pete grew increasingly irritable if I was too busy with Scarlett and Jimmy to devote myself wholly to him. To be honest, it began to feel quite stifling. It was as if he was jealous of the time I spent with Scarlett and Jimmy.

As with all bullies, his constant niggling was at its most effective when it echoed my own misgivings. Because it was true that Scarlett needed a lot of support after Jimmy’s birth. When she came out of hospital, she wasn’t in great shape. A C-section is major abdominal surgery and that means taking things easy. She didn’t like the restrictions on her movements and activities, but she had no choice. It’s hard enough to get over major surgery; it’s an even bigger ask when your life’s been transformed by the arrival of a baby. Nothing runs the way it used to. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d had a supportive husband or family members around to pile in and give her a hand. But Joshu gave a whole new meaning to part-time parenthood. He would breeze in with flowers and soft toys, cuddle his son for ten minutes, then phone for a takeaway. He’d stick around long enough to share his food with Scarlett, then he’d be off again, working or clubbing. His life hadn’t changed at all. Drugs, drinking, DJing were still at the heart of his agenda. Women too, I suspected.

I dropped in almost every other day, running the gauntlet of media hacks who seemed to be practically living outside the gates. I began to understand how oppressed Scarlett felt by their constant presence. She certainly wasn’t in any mood to feed their hunger.

That brought its own problems. After she’d been home for four or five days, I called George. ‘You’re going to have to sort out some live-in help for Scarlett,’ I said. ‘She’s not coping. The house is a tip, the washing’s piling up and somebody needs to do a major shop.’

‘Can’t you give her a hand, Stephanie?’

Posh men. They pretend to be feminists, but really, they don’t have a bloody clue. To my horror, I found myself echoing Pete. ‘I’m her ghost, Georgie, not her mother. Sort it, would you?’

And so Marina turned up. A buxom brunette in her late twenties, Marina was from Romania but she spoke better English than most of the bimbos Scarlett hung out with when she was in her public persona. She had a sardonic sense of humour but in spite of a figure like a fifties Hollywood starlet and a face to match, she was a grafter. I liked her; more importantly, so did Scarlett. And best of all, she was entirely immune to Joshu’s charms. She made it plain that she thought he was a tosser, without ever saying or doing anything that crossed the line.

She was very clear where she drew the lines, was Marina. She was there to work, not to be Scarlett’s confidante. Whenever we tried to draw her into our circle, she’d always withdraw politely. She kept the house clean and tidy, she did the shopping and cooked the meals, she took care of Jimmy for two hours in the afternoon and that was that. In the evenings, she retreated to her room where she had a TV and a cheap laptop, or else she got on her bike and cycled to the nearest village where there was a pub and, apparently, a couple of other Romanian workers.

After that little drama, Scarlett and I fell into a more regular pattern. We would do a bit of work on magazine profiles when Marina had Jimmy in the afternoons. We generally spent our evenings with a bottle of wine and a DVD of The West Wing or Footballers’ Wives. Then we’d talk about books we were reading and the parlous state of the country under New Labour. I had to explain why Margaret Thatcher had been A Bad Thing and how her regime had created a new underclass and smashed the old alliances within the working class. The deaths of Betty Friedan and Linda Smith gave me the chance to hold forth with a brief history of feminism, which intrigued Scarlett. I kept forgetting how much she didn’t know. Sharing without patronising became one of my constant goals. But now she had discovered the wider world of politics and society, she was like a sponge, soaking up information and figuring out what it meant in her world.

Just as I was getting grief from Pete about the time I spent with her, she was getting a hard time from Joshu. Whenever our paths crossed, he was always trying to enlist me in his cause. His complaints cycled round the same basic poles. He wasn’t getting enough sex and Scarlett never wanted to go out on the town with him any more.

I couldn’t do anything about the sex, but I did try to encourage her to go out with him, if only to keep the peace. I offered to babysit, to stay over if need be. But she wasn’t keen. ‘I can’t be arsed,’ she’d say. ‘There’s no fun in it. I don’t want to get off my face and stagger around a dance floor with a bunch of airheads and dickheads. I don’t want to be where the music’s too loud to think, never mind talk. Plus I’m up half the night with Jimmy more often than not. Why would I want to be up half the night from choice? I tell you, Steph, these days my idea of a good time would be eight straight hours of sleep.’

Scarlett’s attitude didn’t help Joshu’s relationship with his son either. He ascribed the change in Scarlett’s behaviour to motherhood, not understanding that motherhood was her excuse to cover the fact that she was finally behaving as the woman she was, not the woman he believed her to be. I can see how it must have been confusing for him; emotional intelligence wasn’t his strong suit. Not that he was any better when it came to the other varieties.

And even if he’d had the nous to suspect the truth, it wouldn’t have been that easy to figure it out. Because the public Scarlett was still very much in evidence. And I have to take my share of responsibility for that. I was the only writer she could trust, so I was the one who got all the assignments from the slag mags and the red-tops.

Despite George having made it clear that the only authorised interviews would be written by me, and the only photographs would be supplied by a snapper employed by his agency, the media camp at the gates never seemed to diminish. There was a hardcore of half a dozen who were there every day. Scarlett couldn’t take the baby out for a walk; the long lenses could pick her up two fields away.

Out of sheer frustration – and, probably, a nagging picture desk – one of the notorious paps, a favourite of the red-tops, actually climbed over the wall and got inside the compound. Scarlett raised her head at the end of a length of the pool to see him banging off a clutch of shots through the window. She had the good sense not to attack him, calling the local police instead, followed in short order by a local contractor who spent the next week coating the top of the perimeter wall with glass shards.

Maggie was in seventh heaven. Nothing sells on the news-stands like a cute baby and a celebrity mum, especially with a bit of aggravation on the side. Me and Scarlett, we ran the gamut from A is for antenatal to Z is for Z’baby designer clothes. The popular version of Scarlett was constantly reinforced by endless photo spreads bolstered up by my image-making. I look back at it now, and I’m not proud of myself.

However much I might wish otherwise, there’s no denying that I played a role in how things went so very badly wrong.