Destroy Me Page 18

  Disappointed and frustrated, I decide to go back to Cecily House to talk to Adam again. He’s the key, I think. He must know something. If Charlie confided in anyone, it would have been him. I’m just about to leave the house when Littlewood pulls up outside in her panda car and trots briskly down the garden path. ‘Can I come in?’ she asks.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I was just going out but—’

  ‘This’ll only take a minute.’ She seems friendlier than before, maybe even a little contrite.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know that Luke Martin has changed his statement,’ she informs me, sitting on my sofa, sipping the sugary tea I have made her. ‘He didn’t admit before to staying the night with you because he was worried that his wife would find out. We did assure him that everything he said would be confidential, but I suppose he didn’t trust us.’

  ‘So, what brought on this change of heart?’ I ask disingenuously.

  ‘He just said he’d thought about it and didn’t want an innocent person to get in trouble for something they didn’t do.’

  ‘I see. So, I’m no longer a suspect?’

  She sips the tea again and gives me a smile that’s almost warm. ‘I never believed that you killed Charlotte, but we have to follow up all leads, you understand. It was nothing personal.’

  My relief is mixed with anger. For weeks now, I’ve been living under this cloud of suspicion, all because the police have mishandled this case so badly.

  ‘What about the person who gave you the photofit? Don’t you think there’s something dodgy about that?’

  She frowns. ‘We’re looking into that. Along with some other leads. We’ve got the DNA results back from the crime scene too.’

  ‘Did you find any matches?’

  Again, there’s that smile. Would you believe DI Littlewood has dimples when she smiles? ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ she says. ‘But I can tell you that we didn’t find a match to the sample we took from you.’ She stands up and heads for the door.

  As she’s leaving, she pauses in the doorway and frowns.

  ‘If there’s anything else you know, Catherine – anything you’re not telling us – then please let us know. Whoever killed Charlie is dangerous. The sooner we catch them the better.’

  ‘Of course, but like I said before, I don’t know anything. I haven’t seen Charlie for more than seventeen years.’

  Thirty

  The rain has stopped but the pavement is still slick and damp. The air, rinsed clean, feels cold but fresh and the sun is just nudging out from behind ragged clouds. I feel a surge of optimism as I skirt the high wall and yew hedge surrounding the Bathurst estate and turn up the river pathway towards Dylan’s school.

  It’s been a couple of weeks since Delilah died, and I am in the clear. I decided not to go and talk to Adam in the end. There’s no need now I’m no longer a suspect in Charlie’s murder. There have been no more blue envelopes in Dylan’s book bag and I’m beginning to think this all might blow over. I’m trying to look to the future and forget about the past.

  Last night Theo phoned me and told me he’s bought tickets to an open-air performance of As You Like It in the park.

  Theo hates Shakespeare, so I know that he bought them especially for me and I can’t help feeling touched. I said no, of course. But I’m considering saying yes next time. I know, I know. Trust me, I don’t want to be that woman – the one who stands by her man, no matter what. The Hillary Clinton to her Bill. But Theo and I have so much history – eight years of living in each other’s pockets. We share private jokes, we finish each other’s sentences and, most importantly, we share a love of Dylan. It seems a shame to throw all that away without at least an attempt at reconciliation. I don’t know whether it will lead anywhere but I’m looking forward to making him sweat.

  For the first time in a while, it seems as though everything might actually turn out okay. The river by the path is full, water flowing rapidly after the recent rain. A heron flaps away as I get closer and I stop to pet a white horse. It’s all very Disney princess and I’m surprised that I don’t burst into song.

  I’ve arrived deliberately late to avoid meeting Georgia or any of the other parents and there are only a couple of children left in the classroom, sitting on the carpet waiting, their bags on their backs, fingers on lips. Mrs Bailey is off sick and the elderly supply teacher that has replaced her seems confused when I ask for Dylan.

  ‘Dylan?’ she looks at her register, running a hand through her tousled grey hair. ‘Erm. I think he’s in the toilet. Ah, here he is,’ she says, as a little ginger-haired boy comes running over, his trousers bunched up around his waist.

  I grit my teeth in annoyance. ‘That’s Dylan Ward. I’m looking for Dylan Bayntun,’ I say.

  ‘Oh,’ she looks more flustered. ‘Um—’

  ‘Where’s Ms Hamlyn?’ I interrupt. Lizzie Hamlyn will know.

  ‘She’s taken the afternoon-club kids to the hall. She’ll be back in a minute.’

  I’m not overly worried. It’s not like the time Dylan went missing in the park when he was two and I instantly panicked. The school is a safe environment; everything is fenced off, so no one can get out or in. He’s probably in another classroom, or he may be out in the small, wooded area at the back of the classrooms. It’s happened before. According to Georgia, a boy fell asleep in the playhouse once.

  ‘Do you mind if I check out the back?’ I say, pushing past her, not waiting for a reply.

  The wooded space at the back is empty. A couple of pigeons are pecking at an empty packet of crisps and fly away as I approach. There are a few buckets and spades strewn around and the sandpit is uncovered. But no sign of any children. The door to the playhouse is closed. I open it and peer in. Nothing. The play area is surrounded by a high fence, and beyond that is the field with the horses. No five-year-old could get over that fence. And I can’t imagine Dylan even trying. Why would he? He’s a good boy. A rule follower. He gets a bellyache if there’s a hint that he’s in trouble. So, where is he? I think. Anxiety is scratching at the back of my mind. I quash it. He’ll be in one of the other classrooms, or in the toilets.

  I head back to the classroom. All the children have left now and to the obvious relief of the supply teacher, Ms Hamlyn has returned bringing with her an air of efficiency and the sense that everything is under control.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says, vaguely scratching her head. ‘Dylan left with Harry – Harry Martin. Have you forgotten? You told us his mum was picking him up today for a playdate.’

  Of course, Dylan is safe. He’s with Georgia. My relief mingles with slight annoyance at Ms Hamlyn’s patronising tone. For a start, she’s wrong.

  ‘No, I said she was picking him up tomorrow,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Oh,’ she looks confused. ‘I was sure you said today.’

  It’s not worth arguing about. ‘Well, never mind, at least we know where he is,’ I mutter grudgingly. Ms Hamlyn is seriously taking a nosedive in my estimation.

  ‘Here – he forgot this,’ the supply teacher says, handing me Dylan’s book bag as I’m leaving. ‘I’m sorry about the mix-up.’

  ‘No worries. Perhaps I did give the wrong day. I’ve been a bit hassled lately.’

  Outside, in the school playground, I sit on a bench and call Georgia.

  There’s no answer.

  It’s annoying, that’s all. She’s probably driving, or maybe she’s left her phone at home. I’ll try again later. I’m about to stand up and head out of the gate when it occurs to me that she might have left a note for me inside Dylan’s book bag. I peel back the Velcro and rummage inside, then empty the contents on to the bench. A book and a few pieces of paper randomly stuck together with glue fall out. Then I catch a glimpse of blue paper right at the bottom of the bag and my breath snags in my throat. A blue envelope – nothing written on it.

 
Not again. You’ve made your point. Now leave me alone, I think. I don’t feel scared any more. I feel angry. Ready for a fight. I tear open the envelope. Whatever it is, I’m prepared.

  But nothing could prepare me for this.

  I’m drowning in the air around me. The words on the paper buzz in front of my eyes like a swarm of vicious insects, the letters, block-printed in blue biro. This is worse than anything I’d ever expected or imagined:

  I HAVE YOUR SON. DON’T GO TO THE POLICE OR TELL ANYONE ELSE IF YOU WANT TO SEE HIM ALIVE AGAIN.

  Thirty-one

  This can’t be real, I think. They’re just trying to scare me, that’s all. Dylan is safe. He’s with Georgia. Ms Hamlyn said so.

  I fumble with my phone and ring Georgia again, but there’s still no answer and the bench I’m sitting on seems to be swaying, lurching from side to side like a boat. I grip the armrest, trying to hold on. This isn’t happening, I tell myself. It’s a nightmare. I’ll wake up in a minute. I shake the phone vigorously as if I can make it respond. ‘Georgia, pick up, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ A teacher heading to his car with a stack of books has paused and is looking at me oddly. I realise I must have spoken aloud.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, trying to smile. The air feels like gravel in my throat and I try to breathe, thick, desperate gasps.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  ‘Okay then . . .’ He hesitates, then shrugs and unlocks his car with a beep and loads the books he is carrying in his boot.

  I watch him blankly as he gets in the car and drives out of the gate. Dylan’s safe, I repeat inside my head. He’s with Georgia. I stuff the envelope back in the book bag and lurch to my feet. Then I walk home in a daze, my feet moving themselves as if they’re not attached to me. They feel numb, like the rest of my body. The only part of me I can still feel is my heart, which seems to have expanded and feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. Awful, horrific possibilities clamour in my mind. I picture Dylan scared, alone. Dylan hurt. Dylan . . . But my mind can’t go there. That thought is too appalling.

  Calm down. Calm down, I tell myself. If they wanted to hurt him, they wouldn’t have sent a note. This is just another way to punish me.

  They couldn’t have chosen a better way.

  At home, I pace the living room, trying to reassure myself. Ms Hamlyn said that Dylan was picked up by Georgia, didn’t she? I think. So – he’s with Georgia. He’s safe.

  I’m fumbling with the phone as I try her number again. I’m not really expecting her to reply, but this time she picks up immediately.

  ‘Hi, Cat,’ she says breezily, and her tone is such a contrast to the spiralling vortex of my thoughts that it feels like plunging into cold water.

  ‘Where’s Dylan?’ I blurt. ‘Is he with you? Is he okay?’

  She sounds mildly alarmed. ‘What? No, Dylan isn’t here. Why?’

  A black hole is opening. I’m standing on the edge, trying not to get sucked in.

  ‘But I don’t understand. You picked him up from school today, right?’

  There’s a short pause. ‘No, we agreed on a playdate tomorrow. I’ve got it written on my calendar. Hang on a second,’ I can hear her breath and the sound of her flip-flops on her parquet floor. ‘Ah, yes, here it is. Tomorrow. Friday. Pick up Dylan. Did I write down the wrong day?’

  Am I going mad? ‘But Ms Hamlyn said Dylan went home with Harry.’

  ‘Did she?’ Georgia sounds confused. ‘I didn’t pick Harry up today,’ she says. ‘Luke did. He had a day off work. He was going to take him to the park. But I can’t think why he would’ve taken Dylan too. I’ll . . .’

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Luke. Of course. It makes a weird kind of sense.

  Georgia is still talking, an anodyne background burble.

  ‘Which park?’ I interrupt.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Which park did they go to?’ I repeat. I’m nearly shouting now.

  ‘The park in Watermoor, I think – you know, the one with the crazy golf? But Cat—’

  I hang up, and ignoring the call from Georgia, who is trying to ring me back, I pick up my keys and run down the path to my car. My heart is pounding as I press my foot on the accelerator and speed down the road.

  Luke has Dylan. Luke.

  Did he write that note? And if so, why? Is it his way of threatening me – to make sure I don’t tell Georgia about what happened between us? Or . . . and my stomach clenches at a much worse thought. Much, much worse. Could Luke be Daisy’s brother? He’s about the right age. I try to remember the photo on the mantelpiece in Doug Foster’s dingy living room. The three siblings. The skinny, dark-haired boy with the football. What would he look like as an adult? It’s not inconceivable that he would resemble Luke. Maybe the night we met wasn’t an accident. Maybe I was set up. He would have gone on letting the police believe I didn’t have an alibi if I hadn’t caught him out and threatened to tell his wife.

  I don’t have time to analyse these possibilities because I’ve reached the park and I skid to a halt outside. Without bothering to park the car properly, I fly out and hurtle through the park gates.

  ‘Have you seen a man with two little boys?’ I ask the elderly man in the kiosk where they rent out golf clubs and sell ice creams.

  ‘Well now,’ he says, ponderously, standing up with glacial slowness and scratching his head. ‘I’m not sure—’

  ‘Never mind,’ I snap impatiently, and I rush on past the empty crazy-golf course towards the wooded play area. There’s no one there, apart from a woman with a pram, keeping a watchful eye on a little girl on the swings and a couple of older children balancing on the wooden stumps that have been made into a sort of assault course.

  Of course, Luke’s not here. He’s not that stupid. He would have known I’d speak to Georgia. He wouldn’t have told her where he was really going. Even so, I scan the wide grass lawns just to make sure. I can see most of the park from this vantage point. There are a few teenagers sitting in a huddled circle at the far end. Otherwise, it’s empty. The only other place he could be is the tennis court. It’s surrounded by a high hedge and hidden from view. I know it’s a long shot, but I run across the field and rattle the metal gate, peering in. No luck. It’s locked and there’s no one there.

  Tears of rage, fear and frustration roll down my cheeks as I head back to the car. It’s hopeless. Dylan could be anywhere. He’s in danger and I’m his mother. It’s my job to protect him. I need to do something. But what? What’s the best course of action? I am tormented by the thought that every second counts, and every moment I dither or make the wrong move I am failing Dylan.

  I take my phone out of my bag, unlock the screen with my fingerprint and bring up the phone number pad. The threat in the note couldn’t be much clearer: don’t go to the police if you want to see him alive again. But how would Luke find out if I called the police? He would have no way of knowing. And even if he did, what are the chances that he really means what he says – that he’d really hurt Dylan?

  Sod it, you bastard, I think. I’m going to call your bluff. I start dialling 999, but as soon as I hear the ringtone, I drop the phone as if it’s on fire. I stand and stare at it for a few seconds. Then I stoop to pick it up, pressing the red end-call icon, my heart slamming against my chest. What am I thinking? If Luke’s crazy enough to take Dylan in the first place, not to mention crazy enough to kill Charlie, then he’s crazy enough for anything.

  I can’t risk talking to the police.

  Outside the park gates, a couple of cars are stuck behind mine, hooting irritably. A florid-faced middle-aged man swears at me. I stare at him blankly. The hooting seems muffled and far away, unimportant, like the buzzing of flies, and the man’s anger leaves me completely unmoved. I am in a different world to them – a world of horr
or where snarled-up traffic means nothing. I start up the engine automatically and slot into a parking space up ahead. Then I sit there, in the driving seat, trying to breathe and thinking furiously. It’s all my fault. How could I have brought Luke Martin into our lives? I should have recognised the danger as soon as I met him, but I was blinded by lust and flattery. The more I think about it, the more likely it seems that Luke is Daisy’s brother and that he killed Charlie.

  But then I am brought up short because that makes no sense. Luke was with me the night Charlie died, so he couldn’t have killed her. He is my alibi. Therefore, I am his. He can’t be Charlie’s killer.

  So why has he taken Dylan? My brain is in a whirl. Nothing makes sense. I want to scream but I can’t. This is too serious for hysterics. I need to speak to someone to reassure myself that I’m not going crazy. Maybe I should call Theo. I pick up my phone and notice there are five missed calls, all from Georgia. I call her back.

  ‘Cat,’ she says, sounding a little breathless. ‘Are you okay? Have you found Dylan?’