Their Lost Daughters (DI Jackman & DS Evans #2)(9)
Marie opened the fridge and selected a light M&S ready meal for her supper, and to go with it, a glass of chilled rosé wine. She was just about to pop her food into the microwave when the phone rang.
‘Marie?’
She smiled to herself. Why did her mother always sound so surprised when she answered? ‘As I live alone and to my knowledge, the cat hasn’t yet mastered answering the phone, yes, Mum, it’s me.’
A tinkle of laughter drifted down the phone. ‘Just checking, sweetheart.’
Marie loved the soft Welsh lilt to her mother’s voice. It had soothed her as a child, and in times of trouble it still did. ‘How are you, Mum?’
‘More to the point, how are you? You’ve been on my mind all day, Marie. Have you got a big investigation going on?’
They didn’t call her mum, Rhiannon Roberts, the “Welsh Witch” for nothing. ‘Funny you should say that. We are just embarking on what could be a very worrying one indeed.’
‘Well, you know where I am if you want to offload.’
Marie sipped her wine. ‘Who else would I do that to? So stand by, you could be in demand over the next few weeks.’
‘It sounds big.’
‘Massive — no, even bigger than that, and high profile too, so keep an eye on the papers. You might just see your daughter’s name in print.’
‘I promise not to believe a word they say.’ Her mum laughed again, and Marie felt a stab of longing. She wished that her mother was not so far away, in the wilds of Wales.
‘When are you coming up next? The spare room is always made up ready.’
‘I’ll come if you really need me, you know I will.’
Marie understood. Her mother had other people who needed her too. Rhia ran a kind of retreat-cum-hostel, cum food bank, cum drop-in centre for anyone and everyone who needed help. She also helped out at the local school and delivered prescriptions to disabled villagers for the doctor’s surgery. In short, she was an angel disguised in knitted cardigans, long flowing skirts and Doc Martens. Her mum was a one-off, and Marie adored her. When Marie’s husband, Bill, had been killed in a motorcycle crash, Rhia had kept her going. Her mother had pulled her through, and now Marie believed she was a stronger woman for it.
They spoke for a few minutes longer, then Marie promised to ring her mother the following night.
‘Be careful, Marie. I sense that you will be under a lot of strain over the coming weeks. Eat well and try to sleep as much as you can. Tired workers don’t function well, and that could be dangerous.’
‘You sound like Jackman, that’s one of his favourites.’
‘Then he is a sensible man. Listen to him. And, Marie? If you do need me, I’ll be there. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. Love you. Sleep tight.’
‘Don’t let the bedbugs bite.’
Marie replaced the phone in its holder. Her mother had a sixth sense where her daughter was concerned. The young Marie could not tell a lie or try to cover anything up, because her mother always knew. And if things were worrying her, no matter where she was, nine times out of ten her mother would ring.
She put her meal into the microwave, thinking that it was a bit like having a guardian angel watching over her. And in her line of business, that was no bad thing to have.
*
It took Jackman longer to get back to Mill Corner than it took Marie to get home. His village of Cartoft was a drive of fifteen minutes or so from Saltern-le-Fen station. He locked his car and walked across to the mill-house, balancing several folders and a box file in his arms. The smell of something delicious cooking met him at the door. He dropped his paperwork on the kitchen table and found the note left by Mrs Maynard.
Mr Jackman, I’ve left you a hotpot simmering on the stove, and Mr M. said the lavender wagon will be here tomorrow, but he’ll see to it. Hetty.
Jackman smiled and wondered what he would do without the old couple who “looked after” him.
Before he did anything, he wrote a cheque for the drainage company who would be emptying the septic tank — Len’s “lavender wagon.” Cartoft was not on mains drainage so every two or three years they had the dubious pleasure of the emptying ceremony. Jackman grinned to himself. Yet another reason to be grateful for the Maynards.
He helped himself to a large bowl of the beef stew, turned on the radio and sat down at the old pine table. He glanced at the pile of reports and decided that his homework could wait until he had eaten.
For the next fifteen minutes Jackman listened to Classic FM and enjoyed his supper, until the magnetic attraction of the Kenya Black files became too much for him. He rinsed his bowl and placed it in the dishwasher, then returned to the table and opened the reports.
They made depressing reading. It was clear that Kenya’s mother, Grace Black, had worked tirelessly to keep her daughter’s unexplained disappearance in the public eye for as long as possible. Every time interest faded she found a way to rekindle the flame, but almost a decade on, no new information had come to light. Jackman knew they had a daunting task ahead of them, but it was a battle that he was determined to win. Grace Black deserved to have someone fighting beside her and his team, along with an enhanced budget and new advances in technology, might be able to give the distraught mother hope — or closure. Jackman shivered. He could only guess at the anguish Grace Black suffered, not knowing if her child were dead or alive. Wondering whether, if she was dead, had she suffered? And if she was alive, what sort of life was she living? The dark imaginings that must haunt her waking hours and sleepless nights were hard to even begin to contemplate.