Starting Over (34 page)

Lester stopped tapping. ‘Why do you want to find her?’

He stared. How was he supposed to answer that, articulate the hugeness of his need?

Lester offered prompts, dotting his finger on the worktop. ‘Because she’s pregnant and you’re genuinely worried for her safety? Because it’s her turn to pay at the supermarket? Because you love her desperately? Because you feel she ought not to leave without permission? You need her to cook your tea? What?’

‘Love her,’ Ratty croaked eventually. ‘I thought we’d be together. And the pregnancy. And the danger is real. All the rest –’

‘– is rubbish. Yes,’ Lester nodded. ‘But think of it from the standpoint of the police. So our line is: you’re worried to death because she’s newly pregnant and has a history of miscarriage, followed by haemorrhage. You’re desperate to establish her safety. You realise they’ll ask if you gave her reason to fear you?’

‘What?’

‘Bashed her about.’

‘No, I bastard didn’t!’

‘Threatened to?’

‘No!’

‘Good. Come on, old son, let’s see what we can do before your mother turns up.’

And Ratty climbed thankfully into his father’s silver, leather-seated BMW, pathetically grateful to be taken in hand, home to shower and shave three days’ growth, climb into fresh clothes, be driven into Bettsbrough.

As well as moral support, he would benefit from the fast mind, quiet reason and inside track of a solicitor.

A solicitor who proved handy for the procedure that went just how Lester obviously knew it would. A civilian desk clerk greeted them, and was interrupted by a sergeant materialising from behind a door. ‘Are we expecting you, Lester?’

‘No, it’s just something that’s come up. Who’s the duty inspector today? Alan Rose? Would he have a minute for me, do you think?’

And they were in, shown into the inspector’s office with such speed that Ratty watched closely to see if there were any funny handshakes. But no, it seemed simply a matter of the contacts of a local criminal lawyer, built up over the years when Alan was a sergeant in uniform and then CID. And Lester having once defended a friend of Alan’s who’d been very, very stupid.

Lester, relaxed and friendly, ran through the facts of their problem unemotionally and he and Alan agreed philosophically that women will sometimes pack and go, it came under the heading of ‘choosing to leave’. Difficult for the police to interest themselves.

‘And I wouldn’t be wasting your time, Alan, but there is a genuine fear for her safety. If she hadn’t required urgent medical intervention after miscarriage in the past, if she wasn’t pregnant now ...’ Lester made a ‘tricky one’ face.

Alan Rose lifted his eyebrows and nodded gently. ‘OK, let’s see what we can do.’

With a sense of unreality Ratty watched Inspector Rose fill out a ‘misper’, missing persons form. Heard himself agreeing to drop in a recent photograph of Tess. Became aware that the inspector, behind quiet grey eyes, was exercising a fine talent in extracting information without committing himself.

No, arguments weren’t a feature of their relationship. She hadn’t left him before but he understood that she’d run away during exams, as a teenager. He couldn’t imagine why she’d claim benefit because she was self-employed and well able to support herself. He had put together all the details of friends and family who might be helpful.

Alan Rose neatened his paperwork. ‘Leave it with me. I ought to be able to find something in this lot. I’ll get back to you.’

Then they were back on the bustle of the pavement and Ratty deflated, as all the purpose and sense of progress that had carried him there soaked away. He mulled over the inspector’s list of steps that people took to cover the tracks they left in their finances or with their phones. And the electoral roll wouldn’t be renewed for months.

Painful realisation. ‘They’re right. She can disappear indefinitely, if she wants to.’

Awfully, Elisabeth turned up at the cottage that night with swimming eyes to clasp his hand and rake over it all again. ‘Just leave me to it,’ he kept suggesting, wishing desperately for her to take her disabling sympathy and leave.

‘But you were happy!’ she protested. And, ‘Babies! The oldest mistake in the book – and there’s no excuse for it these days. I wish you’d taken responsibility, Miles!’

Yep. That would’ve been good.

Every night! Every night this hell, tormenting, making him taut and restless, giving him no peace.

As if things weren’t bad enough already, with Tess still missing and nobody admitting contact with her. One of them knew, one, because the police had turned her up in nothing flat. Alan Rose had rung Lester, cagey about an address obtained through the back door from contacts made in his years tackling fraud. And confirmed by someone else.

Ratty had been urgent that his father might talk the police inspector into indiscretion; but Lester had been philosophical. ‘He’ll mean the tax office, I should think. She’s self-employed, they’ll have an address for her. Anyway, the local boys sent a bobby round and Alan’s satisfied she’s fit and well, but she doesn’t want to be found. And that is her prerogative.’ He must understand it was as much as could be divulged.

She didn’t want to be found.

Daily, a thousand reminders pricked him; empty workroom, empty bed, Tess’s mail. Daily, he passed Honeybun Cottage serene behind its gate, occasionally made himself go in and check that all was well, pick up more mail for Tess and see images of her in every corner. He stood very still for a very long time before the painting of the choked heart on the blue workroom wall, straining to get some feeling for where she was. Hopeless.

And at night, those damned dreams! Vivid, juicy dreams, leaving him completely aroused, equally frustrated. She’d once told him about similar lurid dreams after Olly, before him. She’d thought their truncated encounter after the ball had been one of them. He hadn’t understood, properly.

Memories dressed up as dreams – walking into their bedroom to find Tess standing by the chest of drawers, reading a book’s final chapter. He sucked in his breath every time he remembered. Soft white shirt not quite covering low-rise panties he promoted instantly to be his favourite. Bare legs. Newly brushed hair flowing over one shoulder, brush still dangling from her hand.

Jerked out of her book by his appearance, she’d squeaked, ‘Look at the time! I’m supposed to be with Angel!’ She shut the book, hasty, guilty.

‘I know you are.’ He hooked her to him, wanting to feel her in his arms, her hair running through his fingers.

She lifted her face for a quick kiss. ‘I’m late,’ she pointed out, pushing gently against him.

‘I know.’ He tightened his arms, kissed her again, more thoroughly, dropping his hands to cup her buttocks.

Her soft lips whispered against his. ‘Angel will be wondering.’

‘I know.’ He leant back to lift her feet clear of the floor and drifted to the bed, let the edge catch her behind her knees, lowering himself down to her. Flicking open the neat buttons of the white shirt, following his hand’s progress with his lips, hearing her breath catch, feeling her shudder. Ignoring another breathy, absent reminder that Angel would be waiting.

Pushing the soft white shirt off the bed.

Her chuckle as she traced his throat with her lips. ‘Angel’ll be
furious
!’

‘I
know.
’

Her smoky, sexy laugh laced dreams full of slender, smooth hands on his body and the tissue softness of her skin. He groaned in his throat as he broke from the dream just before the exquisite moment, sweat cooling as another bitter disappointment raced his heart. He thought of her willingness, eagerness, his longing to bury himself. Of when he had Tess and every night was an adventure.

Unable to fall asleep again, he went over and over the same ground. Where was she? How could he find out? God knew he’d tried, but everybody hid behind confidentiality. She must be meeting her tax bills and National Insurance contributions, must be in contact with her bank.

But catch any of those bodies letting fall a clue? No. Would the family tracing organisations get involved in a domestic? Not a chance.

So he’d reach the garage, out of sleep and out of sorts, to work his way through another day of Cadillacs and Pontiacs, Lotuses and MGs, hunting down spares, replacing piston rings, reboring, rebuilding front wings that had corroded around headlights, making the occasional killing from a rebuild, his mind shaking the problem around like a terrier.

Out in the wrecker to pick up a vehicle, every song on the radio reminded him of her, every road they’d driven. The old poster on
Port Road
she always noticed,
Massive Shoe Sale
. He’d hear her giggle, ‘How many people wear massive shoes?’

And, despairing, he’d glare at the empty seat beside him. ‘Where are you? Are you alone? How does it feel? Do you know how crazy this is? What a waste?’ Had she ever loved him? She couldn’t have, could she, to do this?

Though she’d certainly seemed convincing.

Was he supposed to be going after her, carrying her home, making up?

How?

So he passed the days, introverted, worried, tripping over people willing to prop him up. Angel and Pete offering meals, Jos pointing out stock car racing meetings, Elisabeth and Lester ringing or calling almost every day.

However touched, he was ungrateful. He told Elisabeth, ‘I haven’t seen you so much since I was fourteen!’

‘You haven’t needed us much, since then.’

Another letter.

He’d been angry before, was acknowledged to be impatient and acerbic with people who irritated him. When he’d careered through Pennybun Cottage, destructive as a tornado, it had seemed a level of rage that he was glad to think he’d never again experience.

But no craziness, no demolition was sufficient to discharge the violent, ballooning fury the fresh letter brought. He stood in his kitchen and simply roared at it in rage, feeling his throat crack and his temples pound at the awful, absolute, extravagant pointlessness of everything.

If Tess had suddenly reappeared he wouldn’t have trusted himself in the same room in case he took it out on her.

But no such outlet for his feelings presented itself and so he drew his wrath into himself, where it could bubble and brew, and hammered off up the road to MAR Motors.

He waited for Jos to go off and telephone his Miranda before breaking the silence that seemed a feature of the garage these days.

‘I’m not the father.’

Pete withdrew his head from a wheel arch and stared. ‘Of Madeline’s ...?’

‘’Sright. Got a report this morning.’

‘Oh my God. Oh my
God
! So you won’t be paying maintenance.’

‘That’s the least of my problems! Money! But what about Tess and the baby?’ Uncharacteristically, he began to attack the wooden bench with a screwdriver, gouging out savage scars of fresh, splintered wood.

Pete always dared to ask him what nobody else would. ‘What
about
Tess? If she turns up?’

He gazed out towards the Cross, narrow-eyed, reversing the screwdriver to let the handle bang against the bench, the chisel head digging into his palm. ‘I don’t know. I could strangle her!’ The banging quickened, became louder, his hand hurt more and he stopped and looked down at blood as if surprised. Examined the puncture, laid the screwdriver carefully in the tool chest. ‘Shit. I loved her.’

He’d loved her. It obviously hadn’t been enough.

The night was dark and the breeze, right up there on the bridge, was warm and buffeting. It teased her hair in dancing strands across her face and she kept lifting her hand to shove it back.

She raised her eyes to look downriver towards the docks where lights burned like sparks from a wood fire above the floodlights, reflected in amber scribbles along the black water.

Below, the water lolled, as if waiting, and she wondered how it would feel to climb the steel, riveted edge and hurl herself down to meet it.

No. Of course she wouldn’t.

But she imagined the poor, unfortunate police officers dealing with the husk she left behind, tramping down her parents’ gravel drive past the over-trimmed conifers to squash the brass bell push. Inviting themselves in, grave-faced.

She tried to picture the reaction from her parents. James angry, angry at being made to feel grief. Mari sinking into a boneless heap, blaming herself, endless tears. ‘We should’ve persuaded her to stay with us,’ she’d weep.

And James would point out righteously, ‘She wanted to be left alone. She’s done it before, taken herself off without telling anyone.’

They’d ring Ratty ... Would they? From the soft darkness above the sparky lights she conjured up dark curls and blue eyes. The grin. Where was he now? What was he doing? He had a son.

She’d have to get back. She was somewhere in
Yorkshire
; she’d driven for three hours up the motorway because she couldn’t bear being indoors. She had to get back to the rented terraced house in
Northampton
, a tight street behind
Wellingborough Road
, slotted in amongst the others in the maze.