The Disappeared (20 page)

The
wind came up in the late evening, a cold northerly that found new cracks and
crevices in the fabric of the cottage to penetrate. When it gusted, the back
door rattled on its hinges, making Jenny start and long for a drink to soak up
the childish fears that the creaking building stirred up in her. Ross was
staying over at a friend's in Bristol, and she was too embarrassed to phone
Steve to say she was scared of being alone in her own home. She spent the
evening locked in her study becoming steadily more jittery. Late in the afternoon
the police photographer had emailed more images from inside the wrecked van and
they refused to leave her: two men in their early twenties with exploded
foreheads, one twisted across the bench seat, the other lying face up in the
footwell, his broken features grossly swollen. A partially eaten burger lay on
top of the dash. They were tree surgeons, men who earned a living clambering on
rotten branches with chainsaws, but it seemed that something as tiny as a
faulty tyre valve had sent them into oblivion. Her work was a constant reminder
that every day, and without notice, life was snatched away from even the
fittest and healthiest. And where did they go, these poor souls catapulted into
the afterlife with a mouthful of flame-grilled and onions? To think it could be
as simple as switching out the lights would be comforting, but she couldn't
believe that for a moment.

Two
pills weren't enough to put her under. In what was becoming a routine, she lay
in the darkness, the duvet pulled up around her ears, flinching at every sound.
Mrs Jamal, the missing boys and the corpses in the van paraded behind her eyes
and entered her fitful dreams: she and Mrs Jamal chased through a labyrinth of
anonymous streets after a fleeing black van which limped along with a flat tyre.
Desperate, breathless and exhausted they eventually rounded a corner and found
it crumpled against a tree. Blood dripped out from under the sills onto the
pavement. While Mrs Jamal wailed and rent her clothes, Jenny steeled herself
with righteous anger and wrenched open the cab door. Inside was a young girl
who looked up with blood-soaked hands she had wiped across her face. The child
split the air with a cry and Jenny recoiled and fled with legs that turned to
stone. As she fought to drag one foot in front of the other, a cold shadow
stole over her; she heard the disembodied voice of her son: 'You don't know me.
You can never know me.' She tried to call his name, to bring him out from his
hiding place, but the landscape changed around her and became the street where
she had lived as a child. For a brief second she was elated to be safe, then
realized that the buildings were empty shells. There were no curtains at the
windows, no people or furniture inside. Utterly and completely alone and
bereft, she wept.

Jenny
woke to a sensation of wetness on her pillow and with a sense of dread that was
almost exquisite in its clarity. She sat upright and reached for the light,
trying to shake off the image of the girl with the bloodied face. It was
four-thirty a.m. She reminded herself it was only a dream, the product of a
churning, restless mind that would soon calm down, but it didn't. The girl's
face, somehow familiar, lodged like a bone in her throat. She was impressing
herself on her, haunting her, pleading to be seen.

She
pulled on her robe and made her way downstairs, switching on all the lights as
she went. She dug her journal out from the drawer of her desk and started to
write, then frantically to sketch the face of the child . . .

She
took the slip road off the M48 and drew into the car park of the Severn View
service station for her early-morning rendezvous with McAvoy. He was leaning
against his elderly black Ford smoking a cigarette. She pulled up in the space
alongside and climbed out, the cold breeze biting into her cheeks.

He
smiled through tired, red eyes that looked as if they'd seen little sleep.

'Will
you look at you, fresh and beautiful at this godforsaken hour.'

'That'd
be the three hours in make-up.'

'Modest,
too.' He tossed down his cigarette butt and rubbed it out with his toe. 'You
truly are one of nature's innocents.' He pushed back his hair with both hands
and rolled his stiff shoulders. She could feel his hangover.

'Late
night?'

'It's
the people I have to do business with. They don't tend to keep conventional
hours.' He shivered. 'The air con's busted in this heap - any chance I can come
with you?'

'Didn't
you say Madog was going to meet us here?'

'That's
what I suggested. He seemed a little reticent. But I know he was on the early
shift this morning. He should be about due his break.'

McAvoy's
smell was an aromatic mix of cigarettes, whisky and a hint of perfume. With the
heater on full it filled her little car and conjured images of cheap casinos
and topless hostesses.

'Swing
round onto the northbound carriageway and we'll end up at the canteen block
this side of the plaza,' McAvoy said and opened his window a touch. 'Do you
mind?'

'I've
got some painkillers if you need them.'

'Thank
you, but I'm superstitious about treating self- inflicted pain. I worry the
devil'd only give it back to me twice over.'

She
smiled and drove on in silence for a short while. 'You're serious?'

'Read
your gospel of Matthew - nine separate mentions of hell. They can't all have
been metaphorical.'

'You
sound like my officer. She goes to an evangelical church—'

'Bad
luck. No poetry or humility those people,' McAvoy said, interrupting her. 'Try
going to confession once a fortnight and spilling your sins out to a celibate
priest. There's something to put you in your place.'

'Is
that what you do?'

'I
try.'

Curious,
Jenny said, 'How do you find that squares with your work? I know criminals need
defending — '

'When
I was in the jail, you know who visited me, gave money to the wife? My clients.
From my upstanding colleagues, not a single damn word. We could have both been
rotting for all they cared.'

'Maybe
they didn't know what to say.'

'The
thing about villains, they live with the consequences. Forget your sociology
bullshit, no one understands right and wrong like they do. Your lawyers and
politicians and businessmen, it's all arm's length with them. They're sipping
Chablis while the wee girl's getting her legs blown off in Africa. It's not the
robbers and thieves, it's those suited bastards who are the rulers of darkness
of this world.'

She
glanced across and saw the tension in his face.

'Sorry,'
she said.

'Take
no notice. I always rant like a madman when I've a sore head.'

'Only
then?'

He
gave her a pained smile. 'Shut up and drive.'

As
they approached the English end of the bridge, McAvoy told her to pull over
next to a single-storey building at the edge of the plaza just short of the
toll booths. It was commuting time and traffic was heavy in both directions. He
told her to sit tight while he found Madog.

She
watched him approach a young woman in toll collector's uniform who came out of
the building to light a cigarette. She looked uncertain as McAvoy gave his
spiel and glanced suspiciously over at Jenny, before pointing to one of the
booths in the middle of the plaza. McAvoy thanked her and cadged a light before
hopping out between the queues of traffic, giving the finger to the driver of a
Range Rover who took exception to being held up for half a second.

She
didn't have a clear view, but she could see enough to realize that Madog was
reluctant to stop work. She saw McAvoy rap on the glass and gesticulate, then
finally step out into the toll lane and block it off with two plastic bollards.
The angry chorus of car horns he provoked brought a supervisor hurrying out of
the building. Jenny jumped out of the car and intercepted him.

'Excuse
me, sir. Jenny Cooper, Severn Vale District Coroner. My colleague and I need
to talk to one of your staff, Mr Frank Madog.'

'What?'
He pointed to her car. 'Who said you could park there? It's an access lane.'
The supervisor was in his early thirties, pasty, overweight and spoiling for a
fight.

She
thrust a hand in to her coat pocket and dug out a business card. 'I'm on an
official investigation. Mr Madog is obliged to cooperate by law. I'd be
grateful if you could arrange for him to come over.'

McAvoy's
voice carried over the din, colourfully cursing the driver of the lorry that
was nudging aggressively up to his bollards.

Ignoring
the card, the supervisor said, 'Who's that bloody lunatic?'

Jenny
said, 'I don't know. Why don't you take his registration?'

Judging
by the tattoos on the backs of his hands, Frank Madog had a thing for Elvis.
He'd swept his thin ginger hair into a semblance of a quiff and there was a hint
of finger drapes about his overlong dandruff-scattered blazer, too roomy for
his bony shoulders. That wasn't a patch of wall in the module of portable
cabins which served as a temporary canteen for the bridge staff that wasn't
decorated with a no smoking sign. Deprived of a cigarette, Madog's nicotine-
stained fingers fiddled with the frames of his greasy glasses.

'You're
not kidding it was a long time ago,' Madog said, 'more 'n eight years.'

'You
remember my associate, Billy Dean, coming to talk to you in '03? Big bull of a
guy. Bald, red face. Ugly looking.'

'I
think so.' He sounded far from certain.

'Come
on, Mr Madog, how often does collecting the tolls get you interviewed by a
private investigator?'

Madog
rubbed his forehead, showing yellow teeth as he grimaced. 'Like I said, I think
I remember the man.'

Jenny
threw McAvoy a look, urging him to go easy. This was an official visit by the
coroner, after all.

He
struck a reasonable tone: it was clearly a strain. 'I spoke with Mr Dean at the
time, he gave me your details. He said you saw a black Toyota MPV coming
through on the night of 28 June 2002. Two stocky-looking white men in the
front, two Asian boys in the back. You told him it was an unusual sight -
that's why you remembered.'

Madog
looked at Jenny with a vague expression, as if this information only rang the
faintest of bells. 'He's got a better memory than I have.'

'Actually
he's dead,' McAvoy said, 'otherwise we'd have brought him along. His face
would've jogged your memory all right.'

Jenny
said, 'I would like you to do your best, Mr Madog. I will be calling you as a
witness to my inquest.'

Madog's
Adam's apple rose and fell in his cr
ê
pe
throat. 'Look, I might have told your friend I saw a car, but I've had a lot of
nights out since then if you know what I mean.' He tapped his temple. 'The old
memory slips a cog now and again.'

Jenny
sighed. 'Are you saying you don't remember the four men in the black Toyota?
It's very important you tell the truth, Mr Madog.'

Madog
looked from Jenny to McAvoy, and back again, his mouth beginning to work but
failing to produce a sound.

Admiring
Madog's tattoos, McAvoy said, 'It's his gospel stuff I like best. "Peace
in the Valley" - you know that one?'

Madog
gave a cautious nod.

McAvoy
said, 'Do you remember how it goes? I've forgotten.'

Madog
and Jenny traded a look.

'Come
on, Frank,' McAvoy said, 'You know that one. Let me see now . . . "Well
the morning's so bright and the lamb is the light, and the night is as black,
as black as the sea.'" He began to sing, the words coming back to him in
an unbroken stream. ' "And the beasts of the wild will be led by a child,
and I'll be changed, changed from this creature that I am, oh yes indeed . .
."' He smiled. 'A beautiful message of hope. We're all going to change,
Frank, and if he managed to avoid the hot place, even my friend Mr Dean'll have
cheeks sweet enough to kiss by now.'

Jenny
felt her face redden with embarrassment, but McAvoy was in full flow and not
in any mood to stop.

'You
see, the King was a deeply religious man, Frank, which is why I believe he did
get to heaven despite all the drugs and girls and what have you. And I'm sure
you'll agree that any true fan would hate to sully his precious memory by
telling a lie, especially about such a grave and important matter.' He leaned
forward across the table and placed his hand on top of Madog's. 'Can you
imagine meeting him on the other side and trying to tell him why you didn't
tell the whole truth? There's a mother down the road crying for her lost boy,
Frank.'

Madog
slowly eased his hand out from under McAvoy's.

'So
what have you got to tell us?' McAvoy said.

'Who
were they?' Madog said. 'What's this all about?'

Jenny
said, 'As far as we know, they were just two young university students. They
went missing, the police couldn't trace them and it's my job to find out if
they're alive or dead. And if they are dead, how they died.'