Hesitating, I can think of a dozen reasons why I shouldn’t move any closer. I’m alone. I’m unarmed. I don’t have a tyre iron to take out his fucking windows.
Finally, I take a step back, reach into the car and pull out my mobile.
‘You see this? I’m calling the police.’
The waiting car rocks forward suddenly and stops. What’s he doing?
I start punching in 999, glancing at the glowing screen. At the same moment, the car accelerates in a roar of horsepower and spinning wheels. It’s heading straight for me.
I don’t have time to run. I throw myself across the seat and pull my legs inside as the driver’s side door is ripped from its metal hinges with a crunching finality.
The sudden backdraught blows dust around the interior of the Volvo. Then there’s silence. No sound except my breathing.
I climb out and look down the empty road. My crumpled car door is lying thirty yards away in the ditch. The Range Rover has gone. Walking across the road, I retrieve the door, loading it in the back of the Volvo. Then I put in a call to Ronnie Cray.
‘Sounds like something out of Duel,’ she says.
‘Duel?’
‘Spielberg’s first classic. This ordinary guy - Dennis Weaver - is driving through the desert and he gets terrorised by this big truck that’s like the Freddy Krueger of trucks.’
‘Are you taking this seriously?’
‘Yeah. Course. Did you get a number?’
‘No.’
‘Did you get a make?’
‘It looked like a Range Rover. Black.’
‘Did you get a description of the driver?’
‘I couldn’t see anything.’
‘Not much I can do. Where were you going?’
‘Home.’
‘Where were you coming from?’
‘I was talking to Sienna Hegarty’s therapist.’
‘You think it’s connected?’
‘Maybe. What do you think?’
‘It was probably just a joy-rider, winding you up.’
‘What about my car door?’
‘You’re insured. Make a claim.’
She’s about to hang up. ‘Hey, Professor, maybe you should stop asking so many questions.’
22
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, my feet argue for a moment, curling inwards and not wanting to press flat on the rug. I have to concentrate, forcing my toes to the floor, then my heels. Slowly the spasms ease and I can reach the bathroom.
The mirror is cruel this morning. I pull at the skin beneath my bloodshot eyes and examine my tongue. For the past two nights I have had a black Range Rover with blazing headlights chasing me in my dreams. Each time I’ve woken with my heart pounding and my fists clenched on an imaginary steering wheel.
Strawberry is weaving between my bare legs, nipping at my toes, wanting to be fed. I follow her downstairs and fill her bowl, listening to the sound of Gunsmoke beating his tail against the back door and whining with excitement. At least one creature celebrates my getting up each morning.
The phone rings. Ruiz shouts to be heard above aircraft noise.
‘Hey, Professor, you ever wondered why when you park in a totally empty airport car park someone always comes and parks next to you?’
‘It’s one of life’s great mysteries.’
‘Like pigeons.’
‘What’s so mysterious about pigeons?’
‘They’re always the same size. You never see baby pigeons or old-age pigeons.’
‘You don’t get out enough.’
‘I’m just a thinker.’
The jet has passed. A boiled sweet rattles against his teeth. ‘Hey, there’s someone I want you to meet.’
‘Where?’
‘In Edinburgh.’
‘Who is it?’
‘I’ll explain when you get here.’
A part of me wants to resist the idea. I don’t want to travel. I want to stay close to home - particularly after what happened two nights ago - but I set Ruiz on the scent and he wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.
‘I’ll book a flight and get back to you.’
Firstly, I call Bill Johnson at the local garage and ask him to pick up the Volvo and find me a new door. I tell him that I’ll leave the keys under the seat. Hanging up, I turn on my laptop and go online to book a flight to Edinburgh. Finally, I call Julianne and ask if I can borrow her car.
‘What’s wrong with yours?’
‘It doesn’t have a door.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story.’
I can imagine her eyes rolling towards the ceiling in a well-worn expression of un-surprise.
‘One more thing - I’m going away tomorrow. Just for the day. I won’t be back in time to pick up Emma.’
‘I’ll get one of the other mothers to take her home.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Fifteen minutes later, I let myself into the cottage. Breakfast dishes are rinsed in the kitchen sink. Julianne’s car keys are on the mantelpiece. I’m about to leave when I remember that I wanted a photograph of Sienna. Charlie used to have one pinned to the corkboard above her desk. I hope she won’t mind me borrowing it.
I climb the stairs and open her bedroom door, which has a ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign with a note written underneath: ‘That means you, Emma!’ Given that Emma can’t read yet, it seems rather superfluous, but I’m sure the message has been passed on orally.
Charlie’s pyjamas are pooled on her unmade bed. Her desk is near the window. Her laptop is open. I scan the corkboard and spy a strip of passport-sized photographs taken at a photo-booth. Charlie and Sienna are sitting on each other’s laps, pulling funny faces. The last picture is of Sienna leaning towards the lens as though reading the instructions, unsure if the camera is going to flash again.
Elsewhere the noticeboard is decorated with Post-it notes, pictures, newspaper clippings and reminders. One snapshot shows Charlie and Sienna on a Ferris wheel at the Wessex Show. It was published on the front page of the Somerset Standard.
Charlie’s laptop is ‘sleeping’. I press the spacebar and the hard drive begins spinning. The screen illuminates. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I should respect her privacy. At the same time, I keep thinking of Sienna and her secrets and of Charlie crying at school and of our post-game conversation on Saturday.
Clicking open the history directory, I scan through the websites Charlie has been ‘surfing’. Most of them I recognise: her Facebook page, iTunes, YouTube, Twitter . . .
She has set up a profile on MSN, a message application that allows her to communicate with friends online. There are no text conversations recorded. Charlie must have ticked a box in the settings to delete old messages.
I look at her Facebook page - the photo albums. There are shots of her last school camp, a friend’s party, our weekend in the Lake District, chasing Gunsmoke through the garden after he stole one of her trainers. Some of the photographs make me smile. Others tug at unseen strings in my chest.
Opening a new ‘album’ I discover two photographs where I don’t recognise the context. Charlie is lying on a large bed, playing with a young boy. Dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, she is lying on her front, resting on her elbows. The collar of the T-shirt dips open at her neck, revealing little yet I still find it disconcerting.
The next image shows her lying on her back with the little boy balanced on her knees. I wonder who took the shots. Someone she felt comfortable with. Someone she trusted.
Looking at them, I can imagine Charlie as a young woman, a mother, married with a family. It’s strange because, normally, I still picture her as being a little girl in her Dalmatian pyjamas and red cowboy boots, putting on ‘shows’ in the garden.
Clicking off the site, I close the lid of the laptop, sending it back to sleep.