Twisted Page 11

  ‘Washing machine is not all that good and she hates to iron anything and we just take the sheets to the laundry once a month.’

  Lena remained in the doorway of her daughter’s bedroom, biting back a sarcastic echo of ‘once a month’ as they clearly hadn’t been changed in a long time. The smell that permeated Amy’s room was of stale sweat and an over-sweet cheap perfume. She was finding it difficult to move away from the room, it was so hard for her to see Amy staying in it, using it, sleeping in it, as if she was looking at another teenager’s bedroom; it didn’t bare any resemblance to Amy’s beautiful clean stylish room at home.

  ‘I am just going to look into her wardrobe,’ she said, but Marcus had disappeared into the sitting room. She stepped over the items on the floor, and eased her way to the open wardrobe doors. She was careful, gently easing hangers apart and looking at the hanging garments, none of which she recognized, and it was the same for the boots and shoes. These were not high-quality designer labels, but cheap garish Top Shop, Zara and Primark items, many with stained armpits. She stepped back from the pungent smell of the clothes and turned towards the door, stopping to look at the posters before she walked out.

  Marcus was sitting with another glass of brandy, and as she came to collect her coat he gave her a sad boyish smile. She had always loved it when he smiled at her in that way – he had such a handsome face and such expressive eyes.

  ‘Please tell me you don’t believe for a moment I would abuse Amy?’

  She picked up her coat. Folding it over her arm, she bent down to collect her handbag.

  ‘For God’s sake, Lena, I couldn’t stand it if you thought that. I love her, and to have you thinking for a second I would abuse my little girl sickens me.’

  Lena took a deep breath. ‘I think tomorrow you need to come over to the house and read the journal for yourself. I’m going home now. I need to be there in case she calls.’

  ‘What do you think has happened to her?’ he asked plaintively, his voice quivering.

  ‘I don’t know; I am scared to really think about it. I want to remain positive because I want her to come home.’

  Lena hesitated, and watching him near to tears she felt she should make amends for the accusation she had made, but as always her control barrier was firmly in place.

  ‘Amy is not very nice about me in her journal, she describes me in such horrid detail. She says I am cold and unforgiving, sarcastically referring to me as “Little Madam Perfect” and a lot more that I don’t want to repeat right now. Whatever she really feels about me, I want to try and understand or make her understand that I have always had only her best interests at heart. I want to take time out to be with her, forget the business for a while to make up for . . .’ She couldn’t finish as in her mind she could see clearly the neat tight handwriting on one of the pages from Amy’s journal: ‘Bitch is always busy.’

  Leaving Marcus already onto his third brandy, Lena said goodnight and left. By the time he heard the main entry door below slam behind her he had shambled into his bedroom. He got back into bed, drained the rest of the brandy and lay back thinking of what Lena had accused him of. He felt deeply ashamed and confused as to why she would have even hinted at there being anything sexual in his relationship with Amy. Had she been jealous of his girlfriends? She had never shown it, in fact to the contrary. He knew his wife was in many ways very naïve, but he couldn’t understand why she had implied that the love he had for Amy was anything other than paternal.

  Lena’s drive back to Richmond at such a late hour meant the journey was free of traffic. Letting herself in and placing the key chain on the door, she headed into the kitchen and after making a cup of camomile tea she went up to her bedroom. The house was silent, not that it had ever throbbed with sounds – neither she or Amy used the stereo system on a regular basis; only their televisions were used frequently and she could not recall the last time they had sat together in the TV room to watch DVDs. They had sometimes taken a tray and eaten together but after Amy went to boarding school these evenings stopped.

  Passing her office, Lena knew she wouldn’t be able to go to sleep for a while if at all, and so she went in and switched on her computer, which she rarely if ever used for anything but work and research. She opened her emails; there were so many she had to prioritize what was important to enable the business to run without her presence before replying. She gave detailed instructions about deliveries and collections that she felt needed to be dealt with, and then spent a considerable amount of time checking new orders and assignments to go to the various outlets before she began listing everyone that worked for her and their contact numbers to give to the police.

  It was three a.m. before Lena went to her bedroom, leaving the printer to continue printing. Last in the print queue were the present financial sales for Kiddy Winks. This created a lot of work as she employed a sales assistant to specifically deal with the contacts and requests coming in for the themed party packages. Lena had compiled a very good list of children’s entertainers, venues, and birthday cake bakeries for not only individual orders but also to make cupcakes and party bags.

  Changed into her nightdress and ready to remove her makeup, she sipped the by now cold camomile tea. She had placed everything she had worn back onto hangers, and her underwear into the white laundry bag. She noticed that all the items she had swiped off the dressing table had been replaced – what she had broken would be listed no doubt by the ever-diligent Agnes. She creamed off her makeup, brushed her hair and, still feeling wide awake, she decided to take a sleeping tablet because she knew she would be unable to sleep without one. Getting into the crisp pure cotton sheets, first neatly folding the silk bedspread, she lay back, leaving just a small bedside lamp lit. Left on the bed was Amy’s dark green leather journal. Reaching out with her hand to touch it, she felt such a weight of sadness envelop her she wept. Gradually the sleeping tablet took effect as she debated whether or not she should allow the police to read the journal – maybe she would see what Marcus felt about it, and whether or not he would admit to her if what Amy had written about him was the truth.

  Chapter 9

  Marcus had a thick head; his mouth felt rancid and the phone ringing had woken him from his drink-fuelled sleep. He was so eager to reach it he slipped sideways off the bed. Hoping it would be Amy, he struggled to sound coherent as DI Reid asked if he would come to the station as he was organizing a press meeting and had arranged for journalists to be present at a ten-fifteen briefing. He also told him that Mrs Fulford had been informed and said she would be there. Marcus agreed and replaced the phone, only for it to ring straight away. He snatched it up, with no idea what time it was, and now his head throbbed. Lena didn’t sound like herself; her voice was very subdued as she asked if Detective Reid had made contact about the press conference.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think we should go together if that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll come over to your house first. What time is it now?’

  ‘Just after eight, and you need to be here no later than nine thirty.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll get dressed and be with you in about an hour.’

  ‘They haven’t heard anything,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I guessed as much, so I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Please wear a pair of socks and look presentable. If we have to meet the press we should at least show up looking decent.’

  She hung up and he dragged himself into the kitchen, put a pot of coffee on and opened a bottle of aspirin. He didn’t give a shit about looking presentable and it was absolutely typical of Lena to tell him what to wear. She had often treated him like a kid, and it irritated him, but he would shave and make an effort.

  Lena was dressed and having her coffee when her housekeeper arrived.

  ‘Any news?’ Agnes asked, removing her coat.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘I was telling Natalie about it last night; she was so upset – have they any id
ea what’s happened?’ Agnes went on.

  ‘No, and I would appreciate it, Agnes, if you did not discuss this situation with anyone outside the family.’

  Agnes pursed her lips and nodded as her boss went upstairs, then she noticed the mess of cooking utensils left in the sink. It wasn’t very often that Mrs Fulford cooked for herself, but it really annoyed Agnes that whenever she did she never bothered to put the dirty pans, pots, plates or utensils in the dishwasher.

  Lena sat in her study and wondered how upset Natalie would be if she read what Amy had written about her. Agnes was also viciously depicted as a stone-faced harridan with an obsessive compulsive disorder. Amy had said that Agnes’s obsession about placing groceries into plastic bags and plastic boxes in the fridge, all labelled in her thick black marker pen, was ridiculous; Amy reckoned that if she stood still long enough Agnes would put a plastic bag over her head, and put her in the deep freeze, adding that Agnes would probably describe the contents as ‘Rich bitch frozen daughter’.

  There was a lengthy description of how Mary Shelley, the author of Frankenstein, had craved her father’s approval as he was always so cold and vicious towards her, and how she had felt that if she remained still and silent there was nothing he could complain about. Mary Shelley had even practised making her breathing so shallow it could not annoy him. Amy had practised being totally silent around Agnes, never replying to her queries, ignoring her presence, so that eventually she was thrilled that Agnes no longer even looked at her. She had written so many pages describing the housekeeper that it was difficult to make sense of her reasoning. She appeared to have a hatred of her and felt that she was evil and twisted and that her mother was foolish enough not to even notice that the pale round-faced woman was infiltrating the house. Amy was just as vitriolic about Agnes’s precious daughter and how much she detested having to hear about her. Natalie she described as a cloying dependant, who was so controlled by her mother she was dysfunctional and needy, and to hear Agnes constantly referring to her as gorgeous made her want to vomit.

  Lena called Harry Dunn to say she would not require him that morning but for him to come to the house after lunch. As with Agnes, the descriptions of her driver were vicious. Knowing that he had a police record for burglary, Amy had implied that her mother was foolish to even allow him to have access to the house. She described him as ‘rat-like’, his small hands and dainty feet as repellent, and also noted he smelt of some odious cologne that permeated the Lexus; again she wrote how stupid her mother was to trust him. She had described his clothes in detail, and knew that he purchased them from a second-hand charity shop in Knightsbridge, noting that his tailored suits and two-toned brogues had probably previously been worn by some dapper homosexual who had more than likely died of AIDS. Lena had still not really digested her daughter’s character studies of her household staff, or thought why she had compiled such vitriolic assessments; she had been too distressed at reading about herself and Marcus.

  Now she looked out of the window and saw Marcus parking on the driveway, so she opened the front door and stood waiting for him.

  ‘We should drive to the station together.’

  ‘Fine, whatever you want, but I need to look at the journal.’

  ‘We don’t have time; it’s good to see you have at least made an effort.’

  Marcus was wearing a Tom Ford navy pinstripe suit with an open-collared shirt and had put on socks, but she reprimanded him about being tie-less.

  ‘For chrissakes, does it matter?’

  ‘I think so, because we’re going to meet the press, but it’s too late now. I’ll get my coat and we can go straight away.’

  Marcus was left standing by his Mini, the door wide open, the keys still in the ignition. Agnes appeared at the front door.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Fulford,’ she said and he gave her a brief nod.

  ‘I hope you get some good news.’

  ‘So do I, Agnes; it’s all very distressing, but we’re trying to remain positive.’

  Lena walked past Agnes without a word, and joined Marcus; she glanced at his filthy car.

  ‘Don’t you ever have a valet service? It’s disgusting. We’ll go in the Lexus and you can drive.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, slamming the Mini door shut as she passed him her car keys. Agnes remained where she was, watching as the Lexus reversed and drove out. Lena had virtually ignored her but that was nothing new, and without being asked she went into the kitchen and called Harry, suggesting he should come over and wash Mr Fulford’s car. He was not too pleased as he had been told he had the morning off, but he nevertheless agreed. Agnes returned to the Mini and opened it, taking the keys Marcus had left in the ignition and deciding she would ask Harry to clean the inside as well – he could drive it round to the garage so he could use the jet spray and vacuum the interior.

  Marcus drove in silence as Lena sat beside him for the ten-minute drive. Lena was nervous, and was glad to have him beside her, slipping her hand through his arm as they walked the final few yards from the car, and he looked down and gave her a small glum smile. Together they entered the station where DC Barbara Burrows was waiting. She led them to the witness interview room, where they took their places on straight-backed chairs behind a Formica-topped table. After a few moments DI Reid walked in, carrying a thick folder, and drew up a chair to sit facing them.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to come in, I really appreciate it. Obviously you would have contacted me if you had received any news of your daughter’s whereabouts, so it is imperative we set the wheels in motion to gain as much assistance from the press and public as possible. I need you to agree to what I can divulge to the journalists or let me know if anything feels inappropriate and you would prefer it not to be mentioned. That said, it is imperative we give them as much information as is possible to have a successful appeal that brings forward information to help find Amy.’

  Marcus looked to Lena and then back to Reid. ‘I don’t think there is anything either my wife or I would not agree to being made public. We are obviously desperate to find Amy so we’ll give you whatever you need from us.’

  Lena leaned forward. ‘What about our address – do you give our personal details, or just the area?’

  ‘We intend to be protective of your privacy, but that said, it could be discovered, and requesting assistance from the public can also encourage unwanted attention. However, if that happens I will endeavour to have uniform officers stand guard at your premises.’

  Marcus glanced at Lena and she nodded her head in appreciation. Reid checked his wristwatch and opened the file, taking out a few pages, and clicked open a felt tip pen. He explained that he had brought in a team of officers to begin house-to-house enquiries, and that he would need access to both their homes. He wanted Amy’s bedrooms carefully searched and any items removed would of course be recorded for their information. He seemed pressed for time, skim-reading pages and making a few cryptic notes as he quickly covered the exact time Amy was last seen, and gave a brief outline of the statements so far gathered from the Newman family and the staff at Amy’s school.

  ‘Has Amy’s iPhone been found or traced yet?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘Not as yet. It’s still work in progress and we are monitoring it with the phone company. The battery may be flat, but if it is recharged and switched on we will be informed right away and will be able to locate its whereabouts,’ he said, collecting the pages and replacing them in the folder.

  Reid found them both to be calm, and eager to be as helpful as possible, which he thought admirable in light of the emotional turmoil they must both be going through. He gave an encouraging smile.

  ‘Press appeals help us to gain the public’s assistance and more often than not allow us to locate missing persons. I am also hoping to get a slot on a new television crime programme, which would broaden the appeal and in turn increase public interest.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector Reid,’ Lena replied.

  He checked with Len
a the description of the clothes worn by Amy, as described by the Newmans’ nanny: the maroon jumper with frilled cuffs, blue ballet pumps and black leggings. Lena did recall buying a cashmere top from Brora that fitted the description, and added she remembered it distinctly because she had purchased one for herself, which she agreed to give to Reid as it would assist the investigation.

  Marcus and Lena remained silent as Reid replaced his chair, checked his watch again and then said DC Burrows would join them in about ten minutes and take them to the conference room. Left alone, they sat in silence until Marcus reached out and placed his hand over hers.

  ‘You okay?’

  She nodded, and gripped his hand tightly.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No, but at least I feel as if things are being done, and maybe this press appeal will bring her home.’

  Lena chewed at her lips and could feel the tears welling up. She found it difficult to talk, her tongue felt swollen and she could hardly swallow. He still gripped her hand tightly, and like her he suddenly found the emotional upheaval difficult to deal with, and was trying to keep his composure when DC Burrows tapped and entered.

  ‘Hello again, just wondered if you needed to use the bathroom before I take you into the conference room.’

  Lena stood up and nodded. ‘Thank you, I do need to go.’

  Lena followed DC Burrows out, and Marcus, left alone, clenched and unclenched his hands. He had been concerned, very worried, even angry, but now he was beginning to feel a terrible sense of dread. Close to tears, he sniffed, and then closed his eyes as he prayed that what he had begun to fear could not be true: he would never see Amy again.

  Lena was washing her hands in a small cracked washbasin in the ladies’ toilets. She drew down a roller towel and carefully dried them, then stood and ran her fingers through her hair. She had forgotten to bring her handbag with her, and she wanted to freshen up her lipstick and powder her face, as it looked patchy from tearstains. She needed a drink as her throat felt so dry, and when Burrows returned to ask if she was ready she asked if she could possibly have a glass of water. Burrows said there would be some on the table and they were now ready for them to join the conference.