Page 37 of Worse Than Murder
‘Okay. I’ll go and get some forms and I’ll be right back.’
‘Erm…’ I begin. My throat is tight, my mouth dry.
‘Yes?’
I clear my throat and swallow hard. ‘I was speaking to Tania Pritchard. She told me there have been more than fourteen sightings of your father.’
She nods and looks around to see if she’s being overheard. ‘Twenty-six, at the last count.’
‘Twenty-six?’
‘The last one was in October last year. Someone emailed me a photo of a man standing on a hill overlooking High Chapel. It’s blurred and you can’t make out his face but… the build, the height…’ She shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’
I think about this for a moment. Twenty-six sightings is a lot for a dead man.
‘Did you show your mum the photo?’
‘No. It upsets her.’
‘What are your mum and Iain like?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘As a couple: what are they like, are they happy?’
Alison’s face softens. ‘I think so. I mean, I hope they are. They work well together. They’ve made the stables a thriving business. It’s given them both something to concentrate on.’ She thinks. ‘They complement each other. They like the same films. Mum likes to sew and make her own clothes. Uncle Iain has his model aircraft he paints. They enjoy eating out. They’re a normal middle-aged couple. Why are you asking about them?’
‘Just interested,’ I say.
‘Does this mean you’re helping me?’ There’s a hopeful look in her eyes.
‘I… I don’t know what I’m doing at the moment, Alison. It’s certainly got me asking some questions.’
‘Any I can help you with? Do you want me to bring over my list of sightings? I tell you what, I’ll get the forms for this registration plate, and we can talk it over.’ She leaves the interview room before I have a chance to say anything.
The door closes and I’m left alone. I look around at the crime prevention posters and warnings to people to look out for the signs of child abuse, illegal migrant workers, and people involved in a coercive relationship. I sigh. Twenty-first-century Britain is not a fun place to be, if any of these posters are a sign of the times.
I’ve been left alone in the small, stuffy room for almost fifteen minutes, and I haven’t yet sat down. I pace around the table, looking out of the window through the dust-laden Venetian blinds at life in High Chapel trying to return to normal after the storm. I go to the other side of the room and look through the scratched plexiglass at the activity in the police station.
Uniformed officers are milling around, chatting, laughing, getting on with their work. I watch as two men, sitting next to each other, divvy up snacks bought from the local Co-op. I almost smile. I could be watching my own team. Sian and Scott having a playful row about who has taken all the Maltesers from Sian’s snack drawer (usually me) and who has put something healthy and full of vitamins and protein in there (usually Scott to wind Sian up).
I feel a tightness in my chest. I step back from the window. The scene beyond becomes a blur. I’m in a police station, a place I have spent most of my life in, apart from home. I should feel normal here, yet I feel sick. The prickle of heat creeps up my back and it has nothing to do with the strengthening sun outside. I have to leave.
The registration plate is on the table. It has nothing to do with me. I’m simply a visitor to the area. Let them deal with it themselves. They don’t need me.
I pull the door open and leave the room, heading for the front door at speed.
‘Matilda.’
It sounds like Alison calling out to me, but I don’t stop and don’t look back. I have to get out of this building.
* * *
I sit behind the wheel of the Porsche and try to get my breath back, trying, but struggling, to remember the breathing exercises I was given by my therapist. Years ago, after James died, after Carl was taken, I struggled with panic attacks and often recited the names of British prime ministers to help calm me. It worked, but I don’t want to go back to those dark days.
‘Fuck it,’ I say, starting the engine and reversing out of the small space. I’m heading for the restaurant when I catch sight of Tania Pritchard outside the office ofCumbria Todayenjoying an illicit cigarette. I pull in.
When she sees me climb out of the Porsche, she drops it to the ground and stubs it out.
