Poppet (16 page)

On a far shelf, in a gap between the stacks of ‘Penny’s Christmas Chutney’ and the ‘Four-Lane Forgotten Crab-apple Jelly’ is a calendar. She hand-made it one cold December weekend when she’d no orders to fill, no one to see, and nothing better to do – carefully colouring the top panel in the colours of that month, using an old calligraphy pen to hand-letter the days of the week. She crosses to it now and frowns. It’s October. October, the month to collect crab apple and sloe. To start her gin infusions. She goes to it, lifts the page and looks at November – just a few days away. The second of November is All Souls’. The day human beings truly understand the pointlessness of their bodies, and recognize where they really exist – in their spirit. The ancient and mystical day of the dead.

It is fifteen years – almost to the day, since Isaac Handel killed his parents.

Isaac Handel

AS AJ GOES
down the corridor towards Melanie’s office, Zelda’s painting in his hand, it strikes him that maybe it’s not just the chill he got from this picture that’s driving him, but more his need for an excuse to speak to her. To be in her company. As he climbs the stairs to the mezzanine he’s thinking of the way she turned her back to him in bed last night – and how it made him want to protect her. He wonders about Jonathan Keay and his strong arms and whether he protected her. The patients used to call him ‘Throw away the key, Keay’ for his surly manner. He had an arrogant, upper-class accent, as if he had grown up playing polo. AJ considers whether Keay was ever surly with Melanie. If so, she didn’t deserve it.

He knocks, out of decorum, and there is a long pause. Then a groggy ‘Yes?’

‘It’s me.’

‘AJ?’

‘Yes.’

Another pause. He hears footsteps and the key being turned. It’s only now he realizes the door was locked. When she opens it and he sees her face he understands. She’s sleep-creased – her hair mussed. She’s been catching up. Instantly he wants to kiss her. ‘Oh.’ She rubs her face. ‘I’m sorry. I was …’

‘I know.’ He comes in and closes the door behind him. ‘Hey,’ he says, holding out his arms. ‘Come here.’

She smiles and falls against his chest. He squeezes her and kisses her on the head. She is so warm and so soft. If he knew the words and had the confidence, he’d propose marriage to her here and now. Just so he could go on smelling her messed-up hair for ever.

‘I didn’t sleep last night.’

‘I know,’ he murmurs. ‘Me neither. Shall I make you some coffee?’

‘Oh God. Yes please.’

Melanie has an annexe to her office with a bathroom and a kitchen area equipped with a microwave, a hob, a sink, a fridge and a state-of-the-art coffee-maker with lots of very bright enamelled cups the size of thimbles. While she goes into the bathroom and splashes her face with water, he makes three cups – two for her and one for him. He knows how she likes her coffee now they’ve had breakfast together. Strong, black and full of sugar. He thinks it’s great she has sugar instead of sweeteners and lots of milk – it’s exactly the way Mum and Patience drink their coffee; not American, very European. Melanie might be contained and strict at work, but when it comes to pleasure and passion she gives it free rein.

She goes back to her desk and he brings the cups over. She picks up hers, sips and raises her eyebrows at him. ‘So?’

He unrolls Zelda’s painting and holds it out. Melanie stares at it for a while, then puts on her glasses and peers at it more closely. Eventually she shakes her head.

‘Sorry, no. I’m a
dummkopf
. What am I looking at?’

‘Zelda painted it.’

‘And? It’s Dracula. Or a bat – it’s hard to tell.’

‘I think it’s her running away. And here? See it?’

He puts his finger on the face of the figure on the hillside.

‘What about it?’

‘It’s you-know-what. The M word.’

Melanie peers at the painting. After a while her face falls. She rubs her eyes wearily. ‘Oh, AJ, please God, not this again. It’s all done and dusted—’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. I got a call from the review team this morning. They can’t say anything on record, but they gave me the nod things are going to be OK – there won’t be any further inquiries. Zelda will be buried with the dignity she deserves and everything will go back to normal.
Normal
.’ She emphasizes the word. ‘And you showing me this? AJ, seriously, the words “hornets’ ” and “nest” are coming to mind. Also the word “poke”. Poke in a nonsexual way.’

‘Hear me out, please …’

She gives a long groan. But she doesn’t get up from the desk. She props her head in her hands and rolls her eyes. ‘Go on – hit me with it. I’m all ears. The eyes, though? They’re a different matter – no control over them. If you think I’m drifting – blame the eyes.’

He sits down opposite her.

‘Look at this.’ He rests a finger on the figure. ‘Doesn’t it make you think of anything? Anyone?’

Melanie is silent for a moment, staring at the image. She doesn’t dismiss it – she actually is studying it – giving it some thought. ‘Yes,’ she admits, taking off her glasses. ‘OK, yes, it does remind me of someone. It looks like Isaac Handel. It’s the pullover – his favourite pullover. And the hair – and his toys, of course.’

‘Isaac.’ AJ takes a long, controlled breath. ‘Exactly. Isaac.’

‘He’s gone. He was released yesterday.’

AJ nods. He doesn’t say anything about the garden last night but he’s thinking it. He wonders if she is. ‘Melanie – looking back, do you remember him sometimes talking to Zelda?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why would she draw him like this?’

‘I don’t know, AJ. I honestly don’t know.’

‘Isaac was a patient at the same time that Pauline died – do we know if they spent time together?’

‘I can’t recall things like that. It was years ago. And aren’t we going above and beyond our remit here? Losing Zelda – the whole bureaucratic nest of vipers it’s stirred – I thought it was all calming down, tying itself up.’

‘Think about it – it’s too much of a coincidence – the power cuts, the writing. And Isaac wearing the …’ He gestures at the picture, groping for the right words. ‘Him painted with this face. Can we call one of those cops – the ones we met at the forum? They deal with stuff like this. We don’t have to make it official, just ask to meet them casually and—’

‘AJ,
please
.’ Melanie covers his hand with hers. ‘
Please
, I know I’m not perfect, but – just let me be a slob on this? Let it lie, eh? Keep the unit moving in the right direction. No scandal, no police ferreting around. The Trust hates that sort of thing.’ She bites her lip, her head on one side. ‘Please, AJ. This means a lot to me.’

He is silent. He looks at her fingers on his hand. She loves this unit so much. If he’s going to get into the proper world of relationships, these are the things he has to shut up about.

‘Something else,’ she says, while he’s still waging his internal battle. ‘I was going to ask, if it’s not too rude, whether you had plans for tonight?’

He glances up. She’s smiling at him, those clear blue eyes like summer sky. She raises her eyebrows. ‘Well?’

It’s as if she’s flicked a switch, releasing a stream of endorphins that surges through him. He shakes his head, sighs. ‘Yeah yeah yeah – OK. I’ll need to see to Stewart first though. I’m going to have to walk him – I leave him with Patience too long and he turns into a butter ball.’

‘It’s a shame you can’t bring him to my place. The lease is pretty dogmatic about animals.’ She pauses. ‘
Dog
matic.’

AJ laughs. She’s everything he thought she wasn’t – she’s funny and sweet and silly and he’s falling in love with her. After less than twenty-four hours he’s actually toppling over the cliff he never thought he would. ‘How about after I’ve walked him? Say yours at eight?’

‘Sounds like a date to me.’

He walks on air out of the office. On the next floor down the Big Lurch happens to be crossing the hallway. AJ hesitates – wondering whether to back up on to the gallery and wait for a moment when he won’t be seen, but it’s too late. The Big Lurch glances up – sees him, sees his face. Maybe AJ’s expression speaks volumes, maybe it’s advertising to the world that he wasn’t in the director’s office on plain business, because there’s a pause, during which neither of them seems to know how to react, then a sly, understanding grin creeps over the Big Lurch’s face. He goes on his way, his clenched fist held up to AJ, throwing him a gang sign.

He’s saying,
Congratulations
. He’s saying,
Respect
.

The Plan

THE DAY PASSES
slowly in the grey outdoors. The sky is low and furred. The trees in east Somerset reach down and drop bright wet leaves on to the men and women in black all-weather gear who move painstakingly and agonizingly across the steaming forest floors. It’s the Avon and Somerset support group on their second day of deployment to find the remains of Misty Kitson.

At the RV point, the place all the search teams have parked their vehicles, Jack Caffery sits in his car, radio on to some chat show or other, window open to the bracing air. He wears an RAB fleece over his suit and is slowly puffing a V-Cig. He didn’t sleep last night – even half a bottle of Scotch couldn’t stop his hamster-wheel head shuffling away. Trying to decide how to work this – how to place himself in a flawed scenario he’s created. He thought he’d waited long enough for her to get into the place where she’d see the situation. But he hasn’t. She’s shocked and combative and reluctant; it’s up to him to deal with that.

He looks out at the skyline – leafless, spindly trees against a boiled-white sky. There aren’t many days left for him to put his long-game into action. To add to the weight, first thing this morning the superintendent was waiting for him at the office, telling him grudgingly he was lucky – no new cases had come in. Reminding him that the moment a job did come up, things would change.

It dawns on Caffery now that the person speaking on the radio is Jacqui Kitson. He clicks out the cigarette cartridge and closes the window, turns the volume up.

‘The police are doing everything they can – and I, you know, I want to say I think it’s about time too.’

He taps the cartridge on the steering wheel as Jacqui continues.

‘Of course I pray my daughter’ll still be found alive. Even after all this time, I’m not giving up hope.’

He clicks off the radio. Sits for a minute, head lowered. His mother was a Catholic; she’d say he’s committed an original sin. She’d search around for the name to the sin and what had led him to it: cowardice or lust. Not greed. That’s one thing she’d never be able to point at him.

Knock knock knock. He jolts up straight. Blinks. Flea is staring through the passenger window at him, her breath fogging the pane. She’s still wearing her Tyvek search suit, hood rolled down. He hesitates then leans over and unlocks the door. She opens it, climbs in, and slams the door.

‘Right,’ she says. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Going on?’

‘We searched the road once and now the POLSA is saying we’ve got to do it again. You’ve directed that, haven’t you?’

‘I had to make sure you hadn’t missed anything.’

‘Bullshit. It’s the only place you’ve chosen to have re-covered. You did it to put pressure on me.’

He closes his eyes. Counts to ten. ‘OK.’ He puts his elbow on the steering wheel and turns to face her. ‘I’ve protected you for a long time – and in return I get rudeness.’

She takes a long, levelling breath. Her face is ruddy from the cold. Her hair is tangled. ‘I’m sorry. Tell me what you were going to say last night. I might not agree with it but at least you’ll be done with it.’

He puts the cartridge of his fake cigarette into the pocket of his fleece. Takes a few moments to get the words into his head. He’s gone through this before, rehearsed it, but he’s never done it in the face of this hostility.

‘I’m going to give you a scenario of what
could
happen. Picture this. You are searching the area we omitted to search last time. You find skeletized remains, say – oh, I don’t know … somewhere, anywhere out here and—’

‘Wait,
wait
! Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

‘Think about it – how often have you dealt with a situation like that? Someone’s gone missing – you search, but you draw the search area a fraction too tight … Usually the remains are so decomposed it’s impossible to identify them or give cause of death. And in Misty’s case? She was an addict, depressed, her marriage was falling apart, she was in the press for all the wrong reasons. Maybe she found a quiet place to fix herself up, got a bit lost, lay down to sleep and didn’t wake up. It was May but it got cold that night – I’ve checked the temperatures. That night was a blip on the average. In her state she could have got hypothermic quite quickly, disorientated. It’s so common it’s almost a cliché. We scatter the bones the way animals would – a pathologist’s nightmare. And let’s not forget one salient point. The person who directs the forensics: the SIO. And in this case the SIO being …’

She turns away. She knows that as Senior Investigating Officer he has control over where the forensics budget is concentrated. He could guide the pathologists in any direction he wanted.

‘And,’ he pushes home the point, ‘if I was there when you found the remains, any trace evidence we’d overlooked would just go down as a contaminated-evidence trail. We’re covered every which way.’

She stares out of the window. In her holster the radio makes a low crackling noise. Outside, all the teams are coming and going, stopping to speak in the car park. The earnest faces of people who don’t know they’re on a wild-goose chase.

When eventually she speaks it’s in a quiet, controlled voice. ‘I can’t dive. My ears are shot. And getting to the place you want to go is impossible. Even if you knew exactly where to go, you’d have to be a brilliant diver. An exceptionally brilliant diver.’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘What will you do if I say no?’

‘I haven’t thought that far ahead.’