Dad knows Saskia.
I wait until Seth’s finished then pull Parnell to one side. Tell him I need to pop out for a while. Say I know it’s not ideal but I’m not feeling great. Nothing major, no dramas, but I need some fresh air and maybe a trip to the chemist. Just an hour, I say, tops.
Of course, he says, no problem. Take as long as I need. Come to think of it, he thought I was looking a bit ropey.
I thank him, say he’s the best boss ever, say I’ll just finish my notes on the call with Leo’s head teacher and then I’ll head off.
I don’t say there’s a chance I might never be back.
26
I sign out a pool car and head straight for McAuley’s, fairly sure that Dad won’t be there but still inclined to check. Parnell’s definitely rubbed off on me over the past six months.
‘Time and patience got the snail to America, kiddo.’
‘Every dead end is another box ticked.’
I picture his face in a few hours’ time. Those kind, smiley eyes clouded by betrayal and disappointment. The thought turns my heart to wet sand.
I park across the street. There’s no light upstairs, no sign he’s here at all, but I head over anyway. Argue with some jobsworth on the door who says I need a ticket to come in. My warrant card twitches in my pocket but I try out my daughter credentials first. Jobsworth doesn’t believe me though so I tell him to get Xavier. Cross my fingers that a sexy Spanish barman remembers a plain girl in a parka from nearly a fortnight ago.
He does, and I’m in.
‘He’s not here though,’ he says, frowning. ‘I thought he was with you?’
‘Me?’ The absurdity of it actually makes me laugh, despite everything.
Xavier calls to another barman, checks he hasn’t picked it up wrong.
Other Barman confirms it. ‘Nah, he’s not been here for days. He’s away with family. Skiing in Val d’Isere, I think?’
Dad took us to Val d’Isere once. Mum said it was important to learn how to ski now I was at posh school. I wasn’t exactly a natural though and I felt self-conscious the whole time. My single happy memory is of the caramel apple crêpes I used to scoff after each and every meal.
But Dad’s not in Val d’Isere now.
The New Year’s Eve roads are quiet as I shoot north into Hertfordshire, and I rocket up to Radlett in less than an hour, only nudging the speed limit twice. All the way, I get green light after green light and gracious drivers wave me out of side-roads. I should be pleased – I’m not exactly a patient driver at the best of times – but instead I have this burning, twisting feeling that the world’s conspiring to get me there as fast as possible and I’m terrified of finding out the reason why.
The house is in darkness. The cul-de-sac’s one and only party-pooper. Even Kevin Farrow, Kevin ‘Killjoy’ Farrow as Dad used to call him, appears to be having some sort of get-together and a glut of cars are parked bumper-to-bumper around the horseshoe of the street.
I can’t see Dad’s car though.
Could I have got this wrong?
I go through the gate and walk down the side of the house, the narrow space between the kitchen extension and the garage where I used to smoke crafty fags and text even craftier boys. I peer through the garage window but again, no car.
My phone vibrates: Parnell.
Hicks’ brief still having a ’mare on M3. Interview in morning. Don’t come back if you feel poorly, think we’ve got enough cover.
SMS 19.36 p.m.
I tap out a ‘fanks!’ and thumbs-up emoji. This buys me a bit of time at least.
It’s drizzling now. Freezing rain, not quite sleet. All the doors at the back are double-locked and the kitchen blinds are closed. I look for evidence in the bins that’s someone’s been here recently but there’s nothing. Nothing in any of them. Just a frantic spider in the recycling bin, dizzying itself in circles.
I know the feeling, mate.
I take the spider in my hand and flick it gently onto the path, wondering if I’ve just rescued it or made its predicament worse. Suffocation versus hypothermia? Two brutal ends of a particularly shitty stick.
The analogy isn’t lost on me as I watch it scuttle away.
I look at my phone and scroll for Dad’s number. I’d wanted the element of surprise but this is getting me nowhere so there’s nothing else for it, I’m going to have to do things the long-winded way. I’m going to have to call him, hope he answers, ask him very nicely where he is and then ask even more nicely if he’ll talk to me. I fully expect to get his voicemail – that deep, cheerful voice saying, ‘Bollocks, I’ve missed you. Leave a message’ – but to my surprise it rings.
And it’s ringing inside the house.
I vault towards the patio doors, hammering my palms against the glass. ‘Dad, it’s me. I know you’re in there.’
Nothing. Somewhere up the street a bass thumps out a generic dance hook.
‘Let me in,’ I shout into the dark. ‘I know you know Saskia. And that she knew Maryanne.’ More nothing. I keep the volume but change my tone. ‘Listen, it’s either me or my colleagues, Dad. And they’ll be baying for blood, I just want to understand.’
I’ve no idea whether I mean this or not.
I dial his phone again. And again. When it goes to voicemail the third time, I walk over to the rockery, now neglected, and pick up the largest stone I can find. Standing by the back door, I take three breaths to consider the consequences of what I’m about to do. An alarm could go off? Would Dad actually hurt me?
I’m about to lose my nerve when the door clicks open.
His silhouette’s enough to shock me. The heavy droop of his shoulders and the hang of his head. He looks smaller, somehow. Diminished. To think I’ve spent most of my life kicking against all his swagger and the gangster-lite bravado. Now I can hardly look at this sunken version.
Just a scared middle-aged man, hiding out in the dark.
‘You can’t stay long,’ he says, retreating into the house. ‘It might not be safe.’
I step into the kitchen, instinctively reaching left for the light. He grabs my arm and pulls me with him. ‘What do you mean, “not safe?’’’ I try to shake him off. ‘What’s going on, Dad? What’s with the blackout?’
‘In the study,’ he says, shoving me forward.
I walk into the so-called ‘study.’ The small enclave at the centre of the house, accessible through the dining room on one side, the ‘good’ living room on the other.
No windows to the outside world. So no announcements to the outside world that anyone’s here either.
And no ventilation. The air’s sour and smoky.
‘It’s all right during the day,’ he says, sitting down behind an oak desk that was bought purely for show. ‘I just stay away from the main windows. But at night, it’s the only room where I feel safe turning the lights on.’
I stay standing, sizing him up, waiting for an explanation. When it doesn’t come I sit down, taking the chair opposite. Committing myself physically to however long this is going to take.
‘Just tell me, Dad. Tell me what you did, or what you’ve done, and I promise things will feel a whole lot better.’
It’s the oldest trick in the book, of course. ‘Interrogation for Dummies’. My soft voice, the bedtime-story tone, I’ve done it countless times – ‘Come on now .?.?. I know you’re a good guy .?.?. you’ll feel a whole lot better when get it off your chest .?.?.’
He doesn’t fall for it though so I revert to basics. The ‘Specific-Closed’ I think they called it at Hendon.
‘Do you know where Saskia is?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know if she’s in danger?’
Silence.
‘Did you hurt Maryanne?’ My mouth won’t form the word ‘kill’.
He gives me a look so heartsick that I swear I feel the heavy sadness that’s crushing him. For a second I can actually taste his shame.
‘No,’ he says, a mere whisper.
‘Then who did?’