Behind Closed Doors (12 page)

‘No, no,’ Scarlett whimpered.

‘See what you’ve done now?’ her mum hissed, although Scarlett couldn’t see that she’d made a sound or alerted him in any way. She took her by the upper arm again and dragged Scarlett around the pool, back to the room. Her father stood aside to let them both in.

Scarlett had seen her father angry before, many times. It was such a regular thing that she should not have been surprised, but his fury now was fierce. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists, as though they were itching for contact.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

‘I just went for a walk,’ Scarlett said, her teeth chattering. ‘I got lost. This boy showed me how to get back. That’s all, that’s all, I promise.’

‘What boy?’ he asked, looking at her mother.

‘She was with a boy.’

‘You don’t understand what you’ve done,’ her dad said. ‘You filthy child.’

‘I haven’t done anything,’ Scarlett said, quietly. She was looking at him, not with defiance, but with tear-filled eyes, beseeching. She knew that avoiding eye contact was one of the triggers, one of the worst things she could do. So she kept looking at him even though the mere sight of him filled her with terror.

‘You’d better not have,’ her mum said. She was sitting on the sofa next to Scarlett, which was less a show of support and more about staying between her and the door in case she tried to run for it.

‘I haven’t. I really haven’t. He’s lovely, you’d like him, he’s —’

‘She’s lying,’ her father said.

‘I’m not, I’m not lying, I just —’

‘She’s slept with him,’ her mother said.

‘Just because that’s what you would have done,’ Scarlett said.

‘How dare you!’

It had provoked him still further, of course, as she had known it would. Maybe she actually wanted it. Maybe she wanted him to kill her, to get it over with. Or for Nico to come and rescue her. That wasn’t going to happen, was it? He had run away. Not even looked back.

‘Go next door,’ said her father to her mother.

‘No, Dad, please,’ Scarlett said.

‘Why?’ her mother asked.

‘Go and check on Juliette, Annie.’

‘She’s asleep, she’s fine.’

‘I said, go and check on Juliette. I will come and get you in a minute.’

‘Clive,’ her mother said, ‘don’t.’

‘Go!’

Her mother stood. Scarlett watched her sandalled feet, her thin tanned legs, as they moved. The patio door slid open and slid closed.

In her head, she took herself down to the beach. It would be sunny, the sun would be shining warm on her face, and she looked down to see she was wearing white shorts and a floaty chiffon top over a bikini, and she was tanned and fit and she felt happy, and free. She looked down the beach to see Nico coming towards her, waving. She waved back and she saw that he had a small child with him, a small boy with dark hair like his father’s, a big smile that showed white teeth, and he was waving too, as hard as he could. The sand under her feet was hot and she walked to the water’s edge, little waves coming in and cooling her toes. She stopped to pick up a shell, split in half, the inside of it a perfect spiral; it was pale and glistening with seawater, shining in the sunlight like a jewel.

It’s all right, Scarlett
, Nico was saying, although she couldn’t get his accent right in her head. She was confused, trying to focus on him, on his face, trying to make him speak.

It’s all right
,
it will be okay
.
 

The Vulnerable Victim Suite that had closed down and reopened was in Kingswood Road, a long avenue that began in the town centre and led all the way out past houses and shops and industrial estates to open countryside. The VVS was in a terraced house that looked like every other one in the row: a plain black door that was in need of a lick of paint, a front yard that was paved over, two wheelie bins parked by the front door. Everything illuminated and made less attractive by orange street-lights.

Lou rang the bell and the door was opened a few moments later by Caro Sumner, wearing a navy blue tracksuit top and jeans.

‘Come in,’ she said, standing aside. ‘All right?’

Lou felt suddenly overdressed in her suit and wished she’d thought to go home and change. She didn’t want to be intimidating, didn’t want to put anything between herself and Scarlett that would make her feel nervous about talking.

‘Good, thanks. How’s it going?’

‘I was just making coffee and a sandwich. Do you want something?’

‘Coffee would be good.’

‘Right. I’ll make it. You can chat to Scarlett.’

She opened the door to what would have been the living room. A young woman was curled into the battered sofa, knees tucked up in front of her, socked feet, the sleeves of a grey hoodie pulled down over her knuckles. She was sitting on a khaki-coloured coat, as if she’d shrugged her way out of it while already sitting, then twisted into it, making it into some sort of a nest. She had cropped dark hair, big eyes. Wary. If Lou had had to bring up the picture of how she’d expected Scarlett Rainsford to look at the age of twenty-five, this would probably have come close.

‘Hey,’ Lou said. ‘How are you doing?’

Scarlett cleared her throat as though she was going to reply, but didn’t.

‘My name’s Lou Smith,’ she said. ‘Can I sit with you for a while? Caro is going to make some food.’

Scarlett shrugged and her expression changed from wary to bored. Or resigned? Or something between the two. What – or who – had she been expecting, when the door opened?

Lou sat back in the armchair, feet crossed at the ankle, a relaxed, open posture, in the hope that this would compensate for her formal dress.

‘Are you a police officer?’ Scarlett asked.

‘Yes. I was working on the investigation when you first went missing. I wanted to say how sorry I am that we never managed to find you. It’s been one of the biggest regrets of my career.’

The girl was staring at her in surprise. Lou was almost not expecting her to reply at all, but eventually she said, ‘Probably wasn’t your fault.’

‘All the same.’

Caro came in with a tray, a plate of sandwiches and three steaming mugs. The sandwiches were of the Happy Shopper variety, spongy white bread with pre-sliced cheese, made in a big pile and then cut in half with some kind of big knife so the slices were sealed in one big concertinaed lump. Lou took one of the mugs and cradled her cold hands around it. ‘Thanks, Caro. You’re an angel.’

‘What did you say your name was?’ Scarlett asked.

‘Lou. My name’s Lou,’ she answered, swallowing a mouthful of scalding coffee.

‘You’re, like, something senior?’

‘I’m a detective chief inspector, but don’t let that put you off.’

Caro was sitting forward in the other armchair, hands clasped over her knees. She hadn’t taken a sandwich, Lou noticed, and neither had Scarlett.

Scarlett lowered her feet to the floor slowly, as though her joints were creaking, and reached for the plate of sandwiches. Never taking her eyes off Lou, she took half of the top one and curled her feet back underneath herself, holding the sandwich up to her mouth with both hands before taking a bite and chewing.

Caro made a sound, a little satisfied sigh, and sat back.

‘Were you in charge, ten years ago?’

Lou smiled. ‘Far from it. I was a detective constable then.’

‘Like you,’ Scarlett said, turning her big eyes accusingly towards Caro.

‘Yes,’ Caro said. ‘Like me.’

‘You got promoted,’ Scarlett added, looking at Lou again. ‘You must have done something right.’

‘Doesn’t really work like that, but thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We have to do exams, portfolios, interviews if we want promotion. I think it’s about finding the job that you’re best at.’

‘And you’re a good DCI?’

Scarlett’s use of the abbreviation made Lou stop short.

‘She’s brilliant,’ said Caro.

Scarlett nodded. She reached back to the coffee table and placed the sandwich, one semi-circular bite taken out of it, carefully on the edge of the tray.

‘I’ll talk to you,’ she said. ‘But not in front of her.’

Lou and Caro exchanged glances.

‘We need to head off to the hotel soon, Scarlett,’ Caro said. ‘Once you’ve eaten.’

‘Why can’t I stay here?’

‘This place isn’t set up for overnight stays,’ Lou said. ‘It’s just supposed to be somewhere quiet for people to talk.’

‘I can sleep on the sofa,’ Scarlett said.

‘A hotel would be nicer, wouldn’t it?’ Caro said cheerfully. ‘Nice shower in the morning, breakfast? Then we’ll come back here, if you like.’

Scarlett shrugged, as if she didn’t care much either way. ‘I don’t have money for a hotel,’ she said.

‘Well, for a couple of days Eden Police Service is going to foot the bill,’ Caro said. ‘So you don’t need to worry about that.’

Scarlett fixed Caro in a stare until the older woman got up and left the room. Above their heads, the video camera pointed its blank black eye directly, quietly, at Scarlett. It didn’t matter if Caro was here or next door; she would witness the entire exchange anyway.

‘What’s going to happen to me?’ Scarlett said, when the door closed behind Caro.

‘That depends,’ Lou said. ‘For the time being the officers are working in partnership with other agencies to determine exactly what help they can offer to you.’

‘What sort of help?’

‘You should get what they call a “period of rest and recovery”. They’ll get you housing, access to support, counselling, whatever you need. Just time for you to decide what you want to do with your life now.’

‘I don’t know what I want.’

‘I think your family should be here soon. I heard they’re flying home tomorrow morning.’

‘Yeah. They told me.’

Lou took note of the flat tone, the lack of interest. Understandable really: it had been ten years and in that time Scarlett had survived, somehow, without her mother and her father and her sister. Meeting up with them again was bound to be very strange.

‘Do I have to go with them?’

‘No. You don’t have to do anything.’ Lou looked at Scarlett, watched her eyes, then added, ‘You don’t even have to see them, if you don’t want to.’

Scarlett laughed, hoarse. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘Do you want to see them? Are you ready for that?’

‘Don’t give me any of that psycho bullshit; that’s all I’ve had from the rest of them. I want to see my mother. I want to see… what she looks like, whether she has changed.’

And she tilted her head, her gaze at Lou direct, challenging, unblinking.

‘Right, can we get on with it? Lots to get through.’

The canteen coffee hadn’t kicked in yet and Lou felt fuzzy, out of focus. So many late nights on the trot were starting to take their toll; she was looking forward to a lie-in tomorrow and, with a bit of luck, a day off. She perched on the edge of the spare desk and balanced her notebook on her knee. There weren’t too many people present: just Jane Phelps, Ron Mitchell, Les Finnegan and Sam Hollands.

‘No Ali today?’ Lou asked.

‘He’s got the dentist, ma’am,’ Jane said. ‘Coming in later.’

‘Okay. Jane, you’re going to have to fill us in. How are you getting on with the exhibits for Op Nettle?’

‘Not too bad. The court date is set for the thirteenth of January. Ali keeps getting calls from Suzanne Martin’s sister, though.’

This was new. There was a duty of care to the families of people involved with court cases, but in practice advice and support was a team effort with the solicitors, or Victim Support. It was part of seeing a job through to the end, staying in touch with the families of victims and offenders alike, but this one in particular set off an alarm bell. ‘Really? What about?’ Lou asked.

‘All sorts of things; she’s horribly persistent. Have you met her?’

‘No. What’s she like?’

‘Ali quite likes her. She gives me the creeps, though. He keeps explaining that we can’t share information with her, telling her to get in touch with the brief, but it doesn’t stop her ringing. I have a feeling she’s trying to sabotage things somehow. I know Ali’s got it all under control but I thought you should know.’

‘Thanks, Jane.’

‘Apart from that, we’re all on track for it.’

‘Good to hear. Let’s move on to Op Trapeze – Sam, did you see Jason’s profile on the McDonnells?’ Lou had left it in an envelope on her desk last night, with a big note attached saying ‘Read – urgent’.

‘I did,’ Sam said. ‘Interesting that Maitland had a falling-out with them. Wonder what else is behind it.’

‘That’s what I wondered too. I wish we could get some fresh intel on him.’

‘I keep submitting taskings; nothing’s coming back.’

Ron murmured something that might have been ‘bullet-proof’.

Sam said, ‘It’s also interesting that the Petries seem to be getting more involved with the McDonnells. They were always Maitland’s buddies first and foremost. I wonder if that’s got something to do with their disagreement.’

‘Nigel’s getting isolated,’ Ron said. ‘That can only be a good thing.’

‘Or he’s isolating himself,’ Lou said. ‘Which makes me wonder if he had anything to do with McVey’s murder. I would have expected much more intel to float to the surface about that, wouldn’t you?’

‘There’s been next to nothing.’

‘Les – what do you think?’

Les Finnegan, a year from retirement and highly skilled at keeping his head down, was keeping his head down. ‘About Maitland? Not sure, boss. I can’t see him having anything to do with McVey. He’s not that hands-on.’

‘Nevertheless, it would be good if we could bring him in for something. See if we can stir him up a bit.’

Les didn’t reply. He was meeting her eyes but not saying anything, rabbit in the headlights. It crossed Lou’s mind to mention that SB were trying to get a surveillance team on Maitland, but that wasn’t information that needed to be shared, even in this forum.

‘What do you think, Les?’ Honestly, it was like pulling teeth.

‘He won’t come in voluntarily.’

Jane interrupted this increasingly tense exchange. ‘Ma’am, if it’s any help, I need to go up to the farm at some point to return some unused property. I could see if I could get a quiet word then?’

‘I think he might be away,’ Les said.

‘Away? What, on holiday or something?’

‘I thought I saw something on intel,’ Les said vaguely.

There were times when Les was as sharp as Mr Buchanan’s gold-plated tie pin, and others when Lou wondered whether he was just treading water until he got his commutation and his pension.

‘Thanks, Jane,’ Lou said, ‘that would be great. I just want to know what he looks like when he hears McVey’s name mentioned.’

‘Will do.’

For the next few minutes Lou half-listened as Sam went through the taskings, making sure jobs were covered over the weekend. She was thinking about Nigel Maitland, half-tempted to ask if she could tag along with Jane. If she could just see him, face to face, she would know. Then the task of finding the evidence to nail the bastard could begin.
I will get you
, she thought.
I will find something on you and I will be ready to bring you down.

The next day, the last full day of the holiday, Scarlett tried to stay in bed.

When he had finished, her father had taken her back to the apartment next door and pushed her on to the bed. If she was awake, Juliette had not moved or breathed or given any indication that she was doing anything other than sleeping. Her mum had said nothing. She’d followed her father out of the room.

Once the door had been pulled closed, Scarlett let out a retching, desperate sob, followed by another. She couldn’t help it. It had been held inside her for so long that she was going to explode. She tried to keep quiet, to stifle her cries in the pillow, not wanting to wake her sister and have to explain.

Juliette was not asleep. Scarlett could tell by her sister’s breathing, once she stopped sobbing, took some deep, shuddering breaths, gulped back the tears. She’d huddled into herself on the bed, trying to think about sleeping, trying not to think about Nico.

Then she heard Juliette moving in bed, shifting awkwardly, and felt a hand on her shoulder. Scarlett froze. But that was it: just a hand on her shoulder, held there for a few moments, and then Juliette turned over in bed and a few minutes later was breathing deeply enough to be asleep.

Until that moment, Scarlett had believed that it had been Juliette who had alerted them to her night-time absences; that she had gone to get them and shown them the empty bed, and that they had waited for her to return based on Juliette’s betrayal.

But the next morning, when Scarlett finally opened her eyes and closed them again, not ready to face the day and what it might choose to bring, she realised she had been wrong. Juliette’s hand on her shoulder, wordless, had nonetheless communicated plenty.

I hear you. You are not alone
. And:
It wasn’t me.

She lay still for a long while after throwing the sheet off. It was stiflingly hot. She could hear splashes, shouts, laughter from the pool outside, which meant that the patio door was probably open. She turned over in bed slowly, her head thumping. Juliette wasn’t in the room.

She struggled to sit up and then lay back down again almost immediately. It was like having a hangover, and she knew what that felt like because she’d had one on the Sunday after the sleepover at Cerys’s house last summer; they’d made their own cocktails by helping themselves to the booze cabinet. The next day, nauseous and then sick and with a headache like nothing she’d ever experienced, she’d had to spend the day with her family pretending that she was perfectly all right. She had had to eat a roast dinner with enthusiasm, and had vomited it up half an hour later. She’d had to go for a walk with them in the country park, which had temporarily helped, and afterwards she’d gone to her room on the pretext of wanting to check through her homework, even though she had done it all on the Friday night so that she would be allowed to go to Cerys’s on the Saturday. And then she had collapsed on her bed.

It felt like that.

Oh,
Nico
.
 

Would he even wait for her, tonight, in their usual place? Or would he just melt into the night, go out among the staggering lads and the girls in their tiny dresses and heels, looking for someone new? She couldn’t risk going out again. They would be watching her every move, waiting for her to put a foot wrong. Waiting for her to bring disgrace to the family.

It was unfair, so unfair. She hadn’t done anything wrong, after all.

And then she remembered that, actually, it had gone further than a kiss. Her bold denials had sunk in so far that she had almost forgotten the thrill of that moment, his loss of self-control, how he had felt in her hand. And everything that it meant. He liked her, he trusted her, he wanted her. He had kissed her afterwards with a new sort of passion, a different level of urgency, as though he knew that she had proved herself.