‘Take care, Mrs Rowe.’
‘And you, son, best of British.’
She didn’t shut the door straight away but watched him to his car, waved and finally went inside. He was a nice boy. Respectful. She would tell her Harold all about him on the next visit.
She hugged the money to her chest then looked at the clock. If she got a move on she could still make the bookie’s before the last race.
Paulie was enjoying the look of fear on his wife’s face. It was years since he had even remotely felt that he had the upper hand. Virtually all their married life Sylvia had been the mother of his children. He had respected her for that much, if for nothing else.
Now, though, he hated her. Whatever he was, he had always taken care of her and she should have known he would have taken care of her and his kids for ever. If she had wanted to leave that badly, he would have got over it. He would have seen them all OK, kept up the school fees and everything else. But instead she had caused trouble. Serious aggravation. Did she think he was so stupid he’d swallow that?
He saw the table set for one. She was going to have a marathon lunch as usual. Sylvia got through more food in the course of a day than most women did in a week. He opened the fridge. It was stacked with grub; just looking at it made him laugh.
When she finally came into the kitchen he was still laughing. She was wearing a thick dressing gown, belted tightly at the waist. The only thing missing was a No Entry sign. But that was hardly unusual for her. Her face was scrubbed, oily skin shiny in the daylight.
Paulie looked at her and wondered how she had ever come to belong to him. He must have had shit in his eyes. She felt as far from his life now as the Man in the Moon, but he was determined to stop her getting all her so-called rights.
‘All belted up, are we, Sylv?’
‘What do you want?’
So she had regained her voice, had she? She was speaking to him as if he was a servant or a shop assistant. Someone beneath her notice.
Paulie leaned back against the granite work surface and crossed his arms nonchalantly.
‘Who you fucking talking to?’
She didn’t answer. She knew by his voice that he was going to lose it at any moment. She kept quiet, just stared at him and waited for him to talk once more.
He knew the signs; she was good at this, was Sylvia. In the end you believed it was you who was in the wrong. She could keep up the silent treatment for days on end. She even did it to the girls.
‘You’d better start talking, Sylv, because I ain’t got all day. Me and you are going to sort this out, once and for all.’
He moved towards the sink and the action made her jump. It pleased him that he had frightened her. She needed a good scare did Sylvia. She needed a good hiding as far as he was concerned and if she wound him up today she was going to get one.
He put the kettle on.
She moved slowly towards the back door and he said quietly, without looking at her, ‘You go near that panic button and I will rip your fucking tits off, you hear me?’
He turned to face her then and she nodded.
‘Now you sit down and you talk to me properly, and if you attempt to talk down to me or try any of your tricks, me and you are going to fall out big-time, do you understand me?’
She nodded once more and sat at the table.
He placed a pot of tea there and two cups. As he poured the tea out, he said, ‘Where are my daughters? ’
‘At the country house.’
He smiled sarcastically.
‘It ain’t a country house, Sylv, it’s a mock-Tudor that happens to be in the country. Who’s with them - your mother?’
She nodded.
‘Oh, great. And is Morticia doing her usual good job of turning them against me - against all men, for that matter? Like she did with you?’
She didn’t answer and he decided to leave it. He didn’t care anyway.
‘Now,’ he sipped his tea noisily, ‘you are going to get this house and the dump in the country, you are going to get a nice little earner to keep you in the manner to which you are accustomed, and you are going to accept the figure I decide. ’Cos if you don’t, Sylv, I am going to make sure you end your days holding up a section of motorway somewhere near here. I ain’t joking. You’ve pushed me to the limit this time. It’s the sneaky underhanded way you pushed me out of my own home - and this is my home - and out of the girls’ lives that really rankles. And do you know something, Sylv? I don’t even like them girls. I love them but I don’t like them. Pair of fucking madams, they are, but then you saw to that, didn’t you?’
He slopped his tea as he picked it up, his anger evident.
‘I’ve wanted shot for years, Sylv. You only had to ask, mate, and I’d have gone gladly.’
She was hurt now and didn’t know why. His words cut her to the quick.
‘What are you going to do - go to one of your whores?’
She was actually jealous! It amazed him even as it made him sad.
‘Is that what all this is about? I went to them, Sylv, because you stopped any contact between us years ago. And I need a bit of affection, love, even if you don’t. I provided for you and I provided well.’
‘You provided for yourself, for your needs. What about mine?’
He was laughing at her words.
‘Your needs? Your needs consist of a fridge full of grub, a cupboard full of sweets and crisps, and two children you can manipulate and dress up. You wanted a fuck-off house and you got one. You wanted a top-of-the-range Merc and you got one. You wanted a bespoke kitchen and you got one. That’s your needs catered for, Sylv, and I provided it all, love. And what did I get out of it? I’ll tell you what I got, shall I? Sweet fuck all as usual. Not even a bit of a leg over now and again. Not so much as a kind word off me kids - and they are my kids. Whatever you try and tell them, they are mine.’
She closed her eyes at his words and he almost felt sorry for her. The truth was a powerful weapon and he knew she couldn’t cope with it.
‘I ain’t your fucking father, to be nagged to an early grave, poor old fucker. Your mother passed her own disappointment on to you, and you will pass it on to those girls, God help them. But I digress as usual.
‘I will provide for you all, but if you ever pull a fucking stunt like this again, Sylv, I will see you with nix, fuck all. And I can do that. You should know me well enough by now.’
She had never seen him like this before, not with her anyway. He had always treated her with respect. But she’d hated him at times, hated his easy way with people and his easy acceptance of everything. People liked Paulie. At masonic dos or at parties she’d watched her friends come on to him. It was something about him.
She knew that they wondered what he saw in her, and the more overlooked she felt, the more she ate and the more she pushed him away until finally she grew to hate her own husband. She couldn’t compete with the girls he slept with. How could she? They would do all the things she had never wanted to do. Why couldn’t he just hold her sometimes? Why did every touch have to lead to sex? Sometimes she felt that as far as he was concerned she could have been anyone. All he needed was a hole to shove it in and he was happy.
Those women of his slept with men all day, it was how they made their money and he knew that, earned money off it, and yet still he could touch them intimately. Could still kiss them, want them. And now he dared to ask why she didn’t want him touching her!
He was watching the changing expressions on her face and said tartly, ‘What’s the matter, Sylv? Am I taking up good eating time? It’s about ten minutes since you stuck something in your gob, ain’t it? You must be getting withdrawal symptoms by now.’
He knew he was hurting her deeply and yet couldn’t stop himself. When she had had the police remove him from his own house any feelings he had had for her had disappeared. Now it was payback time and he was enjoying himself.
‘My life is the girls . . .’
She was being
sanctimonious once more; the old Sylv was back.
‘The girls are all right and you know it! Fuck me, you just left them with the female equivalent of fucking Frankenstein. You think you’re such a great mother, Sylv. Well, I know someone who has had none of the advantages you’ve had and her kids have turned out fine. Nice people who love her dearly. Now one of them is missing and she is going out of her mind and you couldn’t even comprehend what her life is like. How it has affected her. Your idea of a problem is if one of the girls doesn’t finish their homework. You should get out in the fucking real world, Sylv, with everyone else.’
‘Go on the game, you mean?’
He laughed out loud at the words. Coming from her they sounded outrageous.
‘It would be a fucking start, Sylv. At least then you would know what it was like to earn your own fucking money.’
He saw the tears in her eyes and still he didn’t relent. He wanted out now, even more than she did.
‘Don’t you even care that a child is missing? You haven’t asked if they’ve found her or wondered if she’s all right. You’re a mother, you should care about things like that. Fuck me, even I care!’
She shrugged then, her tone dismissive as usual.
‘She’ll turn up. Those kind of kids always do.’
‘What do you mean, those kind of kids?’
His voice was low now and she was annoyed that he cared so much for a prostitute’s child. She had heard about the mother. Who hadn’t?
Her voice rising with each word, she said nastily, ‘The kind of kids whose mother sleeps with men for remuneration. The kind of kids who drag themselves up. The kind of kids who are used to running the streets at all hours of the day and night. The kind of kids you so obviously prefer to your own daughters. And if she doesn’t come back her mother can just have another one, can’t she? That’s what those type of people do, isn’t it?’
He was still reeling from the word ‘remuneration’. Only Sylvia could talk like that as if it was normal. How everyone spoke.
‘You are fucking sick, Sylv, do you know that? The child could be dead and your own snobbery stops you from caring. Well, Joanie Brewer is a good woman, a better person than you could ever hope to be, and a better mother and all. Those children are a credit to her. And you know something else? I feel more at home round there in her council flat than I ever felt here.’
He stood up then. He had to get out before he physically hurt her.
‘You can get back to your hobby now.’
He opened the fridge and threw all the food on to the floor, enjoying the mess, enjoying seeing her brought so low.
‘Stuff your boatrace, girl, go for it. Have a cake on me. But remember what I said, Sylv: you push me and I’ll see you with fuck all.’
He left her then and as he slammed the front door felt lighter than he had in years.
Joanie was listening to DI Baxter as he explained that they needed to ask her some more questions about her daughter. She nodded, her face devoid of expression as she concentrated on what he was going to say.
‘Have you found her, Mr Baxter?’
She was terrified of the answer.
He shook his head.
‘I need to ask you about some photographs we were given. We want you to tell us who took them if you can, and also tell us why they were taken.’
She nodded once more, not sure what he was talking about.
He placed the photographs on the table, laying them down one by one. Joanie stared at the images of her baby, remembered when they had been taken, the fun they had had. Remembered her sudden fear at seeing Kira look so grown-up, so adult. It occurred to her then in a sickening moment of comprehension that this was why she was being questioned about them. They thought she was noncing her own child!
‘My daughter Jeanette took them ages ago - months it was. She had dressed Kira up and put makeup on her. As you can see, she looked a lot older than her years.’
In her confusion and surprise she was babbling and knew that Baxter thought there was something sinister about the pictures. That there was some kind of a hidden agenda here she was not talking about.
‘Mr Baxter, Jeanette took these pictures as a joke. You can’t honestly think they were taken for any other reason?’
He didn’t answer her. These were all he had to go on, and who was to say that the other daughter wasn’t involved?
Joanie was a brass, ergo she would do anything for a few quid. Who was to say she herself hadn’t rented this child out? She rented herself out often enough. He had to take this very easy, try to find a common ground. The pictures were also being looked at by a psychologist who specialised in this type of thing, though he privately wondered at a man who could look at this shit all day. It made Baxter feel sick just seeing Kira’s smiling painted face. The child was clearly having the time of her life.
‘You have to believe me, Mr Baxter, these were taken as a joke, no more. My Kira loved dressing up. Loved makeup and clothes, glittery girlie things. I was shocked when I saw her, after the photos were taken. She looked so grown-up like.’
Joanie was crying again and Baxter watched her carefully.
‘Who took them into Supa Snaps on Saturday?’
She shook her head.
‘I have no idea. Maybe Kira took them in herself?’ He shook his head as he said, ‘It wasn’t her. The film wasn’t even in an envelope. No name, address, nothing.’
She looked non-plussed. Either Joanie was a good actress or she had no idea what was going on. He couldn’t make up his mind which but he was going to find out.
Was she in such a state because her child was missing or because she’d had a hand in it? He had seen it time and time again. When you killed someone, deliberately or accidentally, guilt ate at you, and if the person you’d killed was a close relative you hid behind the tears people expected you to shed. Even felt you deserved the sympathy.
Now these pictures had put a different complexion on things. Children were unlikely to be murdered by a stranger. Statistically the chances were low, though it still happened. But they were usually killed by a relative or friend, someone they knew and trusted.
And he was sure now that Kira Brewer was dead. It was just a matter of finding her body and fingering the culprit. Which could very well turn out to be her grieving mother.
Chapter Fifteen
‘They think we had something to do with her disappearance, Jon Jon.’
Joanie’s voice was incredulous.
‘Don’t be stupid, Mum.’
She shook her head sadly.
‘You weren’t there. I had to sit through that ponce Baxter questioning me about photographs of Kira that were taken months ago. Jeanette put some makeup on her while she was dressing up one night and took a few photos. You wait until you see them, Kira looks about twenty. Anyway, Baxter and all his cronies think they were taken to titillate. Even got a psychologist on the band wagon.’
She sipped at her cup of tea.
‘I’m on the game so to filth that means I have no morals whatsoever. It means I am capable of noncing me own daughter. What the fuck do they know? I told him straight - maybe if they had come out when I first rang they’d have located her by now. Over two hours I had to wait for them fuckers to finally come round here.’
She was crying again. Jon Jon felt the pain his mother was going through as if it was his own.
‘They don’t even know how the photos got in Supa Snaps, see. They weren’t put in normal like, by all accounts. No name with them, nothing. But I said to him, if we was up to something like that we would hardly take the fucking things in there to get developed, would we? And do you know what he said, the cheeky fucker? He said, where would I have taken them then?’
‘They have to ask, Mum.’
Jon Jon slumped on the sofa, his handsome face grey with worry.
‘You’ll be next to be questioned.’
He sighed.
‘Well, we ain’t got nothing to worry abo
ut, have we? If Jeanette took them as a joke they’ll have to accept it eventually.’
Joanie finished her tea and lit up yet another cigarette.
‘How could they even think we had something to do with her going missing, Jon Jon?’
He placed an arm around her shoulders.
‘They have to look at every angle. It’s what they do.’
He didn’t mention that he was doing some investigating of his own. He would wait and see what he found out first. No need to worry her until he knew the score. He had been to Leigh’s mother’s house twice and found no one in so he was going back later this evening to catch them on the hop - always the best way to get information from people. Strike when they least expect it.