Gone

40

Janice insisted that Nick let them go shopping. She couldn’t sit around any more without some home comforts. She got the joint credit card out, and Nick drove them to Cribbs Causeway. She bought sheets, duvets and a Cath Kidston teapot in John Lewis and a carrier bag of cleaning equipment from a pound store at the end of the mall. Then they trailed around Marks & Spencer, buying anything that took their fancy: nightgowns for Janice’s mother, slippers with pompoms for Emily, a lipstick and a cardigan for Janice. Nick found a ‘Juicy’ T-shirt she liked and Janice insisted on buying it for her. They went into the food hall and loaded their baskets with exotic tea bags, Eccles cakes, a punnet of cherries, half a salmon she’d cook tonight with dill sauce. It was good, seeing the bright lights, the shoppers with their colourful clothes. Made her feel Christmas might be quite good this year.

When they got back to the little flat a man in a charcoal suit was waiting for them in a blue Peugeot. As Nick pulled up he got out, holding up his warrant card. ‘Mrs Costello?’

‘That’s me.’

‘I’m DC Prody, MCIU.’

‘I thought I recognized you. How are you?’

‘All right.’

Her smile faded. ‘What? Why are you here?’

‘I’ve come to see if you’ve settled in.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that all?’

‘Can I come in?’ he said. ‘It’s cold out here.’

She gave him a long, thoughtful look. Then she handed him a carrier bag and made for the front door.

The central heating was on and the flat was warm. While Emily helped Nick and Janice’s mother unload the shopping, Janice put on the kettle. ‘I’m going to make some tea,’ she told Prody. ‘I’ve been desperate for a decent cup and now I’m going to have one. Emily’s got some reading to do – she can do that with my mum while you sit down with me and tell me what’s happening. Because I’m not stupid. I know something’s changed.’

When she’d made the tea they went into the front room. It bordered on pleasant, with a modern brushed stainless-steel gas fire, a sea-grass carpet and clean furniture. A table near the window bore a bowl of silk flowers. Corny, but it made the place feel as though someone had actually spent some time on it. It was a little musty and cold but with the fire on it soon warmed up.

‘Well?’ Janice unloaded the cakes and the Cath Kidston teapot from the tray and arranged them on the table. ‘Are you going to tell me, or are we going to have a little dance first?’

Prody sat down, his face serious. ‘We know who it is.’

Janice paused. Her mouth was suddenly dry. ‘That’s good,’ she said carefully. ‘That’s very good. Does it mean you’ve got him?’

‘I said we know who it is. That’s a very significant step.’

‘That’s not what I want to hear – it’s not what I was hoping to hear.’ She finished unloading the tray, filled their cups with tea, handed him a plate and put a cake on her own. She sat down and looked at it, then put the plate back on the table. ‘So? Who is he? What does he look like?’

Prody reached into his pocket and brought out a folded sheet of paper. At the top left-hand corner there was a photograph of a man – the sort taken in photo-booths. ‘Ever seen him before?’

She expected the face to bring with it some emotional punch, but no: he just looked like an ordinary bloke. A chubby guy in his twenties, his hair cut very short and a constellation of spots at either corner of his mouth. She saw the neckline of a khaki T-shirt. She was about to hand the paper back to Prody when she noticed some details on the form. ‘Avon and Somerset’, it said. ‘What’s this? Some kind of arrest . . .’ she trailed off. She’d just seen the words ‘POLICE STAFF’ at the bottom.

‘I may as well tell you, because you’ll find out eventually, that he works for us. He’s a handyman.’

She put a hand to her throat. ‘He’s a . . . He works for you?’

‘Yes. One of our part-time staff.’

‘Is that how he put the device on our car?’

Prody nodded.

‘Christ. I can’t . . . Did you know him?’

‘Not really – I saw him around the place. He painted my office.’

‘You spoke to him, then?’

‘A few times.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. There’s no excuse – I was a prat. My mind was elsewhere.’

‘And what was he like?’

‘Unremarkable. Didn’t stand out in a crowd.’

‘What do you think he’s done to Martha?’

Prody folded the paper. Once, twice, three times, making the creases very neat with his thumbnail. He put it back into his pocket.

‘Mr Prody? I said, what do you think he’s done to Martha?’

‘Can we change the subject?’

‘Not really.’ The fear, the absolute rage, was building in her. ‘Your unit’s made a God-awful balls-up and I nearly lost my little girl through it.’ It wasn’t his fault, she knew, but she wanted to fly at him. She had to force herself to bite her lip and lower her face. She picked up the plate and pushed the cake around with her finger, waiting for the anger to fizzle away.

Prody bent his head a little, trying to see her expression under the fall of her hair. ‘This has been awful for you, hasn’t it?’

She raised her eyes and met his, which were somewhere between brown and green with gold flecks. Seeing the compassion in them, suddenly, out of nowhere, she wanted to cry. Shakily, she put the plate down. ‘Uh . . .’ She pushed up the sleeves of her top and rubbed her arms. ‘Well, yes. Without sounding too dramatic, these have been some of the worst days of my life.’

‘We’ll get you through it.’

She nodded and picked up her plate again. She fingered the cake, moved it sideways, broke it in half but didn’t eat. There was a knot in her throat and she didn’t think she could swallow. ‘So how come you got the fuzzy end of the lollipop?’ She gave a weak smile. ‘Why did you have to come out and get my wrath between the eyes?’

‘It was lots of things. Maybe the tipping point was that my DI thinks I’m an arse.’

‘Are you?’

‘Not in the way he thinks.’

She smiled. ‘Can I ask you something? Something really inappropriate.’

He gave a small laugh. ‘Well, I’m a man. Men don’t always agree with women about what’s inappropriate.’

Her smile grew wider. Out of nowhere she felt like laughing. Yes, Mr Prody, she thought. In spite of how bloody horrible this has been, one thing I can see for sure is that you’re a man, a nice one. Strong and sort of good-looking too. Meanwhile Cory, my husband, feels like more of a stranger to me than you do at this precise moment.

‘What?’ Prody said. ‘Have I put my foot in it?’

‘Not at all. I was going to ask you . . . if I went to Mr Caffery and said I was really scared – scared of my own shadow – would he let you stay here for a few hours with me and Emily and Nick and Mum? I know it’ll be boring for you – but it would make things feel so much easier. You don’t even have to talk to us – just watch the TV, make phone calls, read the newspaper, whatever. It’d just be nice to have someone around.’

‘Why do you think I’m here.’

‘Oh. Is that a yes?’

‘What does it sound like?’

‘Sounds like a yes.’