Amanda Bowe’s update on the search for Constance made the late online edition of Capital Eye. The next morning, Cronin’s house and orchard, and the surrounding area, including Turnstone Marsh, would be cordoned off and systematically searched for evidence that Constance could have been there on the night of her disappearance.
Chapter Eleven
Day Six
It was the small hours in Arizona when Selina Lee rang. Her voice was instantly recognisable, the slightly husky tone unchanged, but she spoke more slowly than Karl remembered, as if she pondered the meaning of words before uttering them.
‘I had a phone call from an Irish journalist,’ she said. ‘She told me Constance is missing. Can this possibly be true, Karl?’
‘Yes, it’s true,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear the news from a reporter. I assume it was Amanda Bowe who rang you?’
‘Yes, that’s her name,’ Selina replied. ‘But how terrible for you all. She said Constance has been missing for almost a week?’
‘This is the sixth day. We’re still hoping she’s run away. Otherwise…’ He swallowed, his mouth sour and dry. ‘Did that reporter upset you?’
‘She caught me off guard.’ Selina’s voice quavered. ‘It’s difficult when I don’t have time to prepare.’ Her life, like his, had moved on, yet, listening to her, he knew she was still marked by the night that had changed everything. Still gripped by a fear that could come without warning and swamp her.
‘What did she want from you?’ He knew the answer already. Amanda Bowe would have dug deep before she made that phone call.
‘She asked about that time.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘The truth. How did she find out about us?’
‘I’ve no idea, Selina. I’m so sorry she contacted you.’
‘It’s not your fault, Karl.’
‘I wish I could believe that—’
She interrupted him, as she always did in the past when he attempted an apology. ‘We mustn’t have this conversation again. Otherwise, we’ll only talk in circles and get nowhere. Are you in trouble?’
‘You answered her questions truthfully so, no, I’m not in trouble.’ He was not going to add to her fears. ‘How’s Finchley Creek?’ He deliberately changed the subject. ‘Jago must be delighted it’s still so popular.’
‘It puts bread on our table.’ She dismissed his question lightly. ‘What about you? Still editing Hitz?’
‘Yes. Still slaving away.’
‘And your wife?’
‘Nicole. She’s fine. We have a daughter.’
‘Sasha. I know. Barney keeps me up to date.’
They sounded like polite strangers, their turbulent past veiled by small talk and lies. No sense reigniting memories they had both reduced to dust. They said goodbye and he promised to contact her as soon as Constance was found.
Karl had never planned on moving to Arizona. He had badly wanted to work on Cannonade magazine, with its mix of music, film and political coverage, but in New York he was just another wannabe, flipping burgers in McDonald’s and paying an exorbitant rent for a tiny studio apartment. The features he submitted to the editor were never acknowledged and seemed to disappear into a black hole. Karl was ready to surrender his dream and return home when Barney O’Reilly phoned to offer him a job in Arizona with his construction crew.
Barney was Karl’s father’s second cousin, a ruddy-faced Irishman who had left Ireland forty years previously. He lived in a small town outside Phoenix called Winding Falls. Karl could live with him until he found his own accommodation.
The thought of steady work with Barney’s crew was too tempting to refuse. Karl would investigate the music scene in the Southwest, write reviews for Cannonade and try, by dint of perseverance, to attract the editor’s attention. He would return to New York with money in his pocket and a steely resolve to succeed.
Shortly after moving to Winding Falls, he met Selina Lee in a bar. She was at a hen night, or a bachelorette party, as the bride-to-be called it. ‘Bachelorette’ sounded far too sedate for what was taking place on the bar tables. Eight women dancing and being cheered on by Barney’s crew, who were slaking their thirst after a day’s work in the desert heat.
‘That one’s trouble,’ Barney said, nodding towards Selina. ‘Big trouble,’ he added. ‘Be warned. I’ve known her since she was in diapers.’
‘Bring it on,’ said Karl and, Selina, knowing they were talking about her, flounced her dress higher. Bare legs, long, tanned and smooth, and a flash of red lace; she had jumped lithely from the table to sit beside Barney.
‘Hey, Irish!’ she said, flinging her arm across his burly shoulders. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend?’
‘He’s a clean-living Dublin lad,’ said Barney. ‘Sheath your claws, lass.’
‘I’m all for clean living,’ she replied and stretched across him to shake Karl’s hand.
She was an actress, a ring girl, a kick-boxer, a waitress, a dancer, a torment – and Karl fell in love with her without a thought for the consequences.
He never knew what she was going to do next. She would burst into song in the middle of a crowded shopping mall, kick-box in the ring like a ballet dancer, waltz him down a busy street, strut around the boxing ring in a red bikini, holding a number sign above her head.
They moved in together before the summer was over and rented a wooden cabin on the outskirts of Winding Falls. The cabin was isolated but the rent was cheap, the rooms cool and spacious. Longspur Peak, a parched hill studded with cacti and stumpy-limbed saguaro, rose behind them. Forest of spruce and juniper fell away in front.
She flew in tandem with him when he skydived for the first time. He learned to wakeboard on the lake near their cabin and purchased a Harley so that he could ride beside her through the Sonoran Desert. Barney muttered about ‘trouble’ every time she turned up at the construction site in a halter top and shorts, her black hair spilling over her shoulders when she took off her motorcycle helmet, the crew going wild, whistling and gyrating as she strode past.
Karl met her parents. Her father worked in oil. Her mother taught first grade. They treated Karl with a gentle indifference, as if they knew his time in their lives was limited.
How had Amanda Bowe found out about her? Karl paced the kitchen. Speaking to Selina had swept him back into a maelstrom of forgotten – no, not forgotten, just dormant – memories. The wide open road, so straight and long. The monochromatic earth that could suddenly yield to colour; reds and yellows and purples spreading like a rash across the sand. Red bluffs and boulders, the shuffle of nocturnal beasts, a swing of black hair. And blood, always blood, dangerously red and spreading through the gorges of his nightmares.
Chapter Twelve
Controversial Editor’s Name Linked to Sexual Assault in Arizona
Amanda Bowe