Local Gone Missing(7)

It had caught Elise on the raw too and she teared up, reflexively tensing her chin to stop the wobble. She was crying way too often these days. The cancer nurse had said it was a good thing to let her emotions out but every sob felt like it weakened her, flaying off another layer of protection. How would she ever be right again?

“You can’t afford to feel too much in this job,” she’d been told as a new recruit, and she’d worked so hard to allow only what she could bear. And now she felt everything.

“Oh, please come in and sit down,” Elise said.

She felt like a complete cow. Poor old boy. She needed to do something about her knee-jerk distrust of everyone.

“Better?”

“Much, thank you.” He lowered himself into an armchair. “Look, I mustn’t hold you up.”

“You’re fine. Stay where you are and I’ll have a look for that prize.”

She went into the kitchen and swept the cupboards for an unopened bottle, lighting on a liter of vodka in a box covered in snowflakes and icicles. It’d been a Secret Santa present from a colleague who hadn’t known she hated spirits—and Christmas.

“Would this be okay?” She held it out in front of her. “A bit naff but you could take it out of the glittery wrapping.”

“Oh, no, a bit of sparkle will help ticket sales. Anyway, how are you settling in? You’ve done lovely things with the house. Ebbing’s a great place, isn’t it? Wonderful people. Salt of the earth—or the sea, I suppose!”

“Yes. And the views,” Elise said. “I’m looking forward to running the coastal path when I can.”

“Ah, yes, I hear you haven’t been well?”

Elise bridled but of course the town was talking about her. Gossip was currency in small communities. Her breast cancer was probably being pawed over at coffee mornings and school gates.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she said. “I’m back at work next month.”

“Making our streets safe, eh? Excellent. Well, I’ll leave you. Thank you again for your kindness. I hope our paths cross again soon.”





Five


MONDAY, AUGUST 12, 2019



Twelve days earlier





Charlie


Charlie hadn’t slept. He’d lain like an effigy on a tomb beside Pauline, drifting between panic and reason in the dark until the seagulls had started their dawn tap dance on the roof.

He hauled himself out of bed, stripped off and folded his pajamas, and stepped into the shower. It was what he did every morning. He’d had to until he was sixteen and could finally wash when he chose. But it was ingrained. And things had steadily improved since the slimy communal facilities of the children’s home. There’d been an individual cubicle then, and when he’d really started making money, power showers with sixteen options and that fabulous waterfall-effect one in the Hampstead Heath house. Today his ablutions were taken under a dribble of warmish water but it was still his day-setting moment. Alone. While Pauline snored gently.

The sun was already heating up the caravan, beating down on the metal a foot above his head as he soaped himself. He lost his balance when he bent to do between his toes and slumped against the wall. He could hear the plastic cubicle creaking dangerously. Like his life.

In their ten years of marriage, he’d never discussed money with Pauline—it was agreed it was his department, and as long as he never stinted on her spending, she never asked questions.

And Charlie had had it all under control; he’d quietly paid Birdie’s bills and then invested a lump sum from the sale of the Hampstead house when they’d moved down to Ebbing. He’d been sure there’d be plenty to keep his daughter in her five-star nest until he died. And then? Well, his life insurance would pay out. It was worth three quarters of a million. He hadn’t told Pauline but he was leaving everything to Birdie.

And he’d thought he could relax. His retirement was to be a warrior’s rest: a penthouse seaside retreat, the occasional luxury Caribbean cruise, and some long boozy lunches. But Pauline had had other ideas.

“A flat? Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not ready to move down the property ladder,” she’d announced.

And scanning through the Sunday supplements she’d seen a picture of Tall Trees—a once-grand boutique hotel on the south coast. And then she had taken him to bed. And that had been that. Why was he so weak?

And of course, it had been a money pit—he’d known it would be the moment he set eyes on it, and what with interest rates on his investment tanking, the debts had begun to mount and he’d had to forget retiring and look for new business opportunities. And keep Pauline at bay.

But she was on his case morning, noon, and night now. Birdie was in her sights. “You’ve got to find her somewhere cheaper,” she’d said as she removed her makeup the evening before. “She isn’t forty yet—we’ve still got decades of paying out these ridiculous fees. We could put her in a suite at the Ritz for less. No wonder you never told me. Bottom line, Charlie, is that we can’t afford any more. Surely there’s a council place she could go to?”

He couldn’t bear to imagine Birdie’s face when he told her she would have to move out of the Manor. It was her world. He’d be letting her down again. He felt tears prickle behind his eyelids and stuck his head under the water. And hauled himself back to things he could deal with. The first task of the day was to take the Howell sisters to the big supermarket to do their weekly shop. He could go and drop off the raffle prizes he’d charmed out of his neighbors while the sisters were browsing the shelves for biscuits and Epsom salts.