Little Girl Lost (Detective Robyn Carter crime thriller series Book 1) Read online

  A frown flitted across Brigitte’s smooth forehead. ‘She still misses her father but she understands he’s gone forever. She has come to terms with it. Of course she has me and she has Richard,’ she purred his name as only a French woman could. ‘At least she knew Richard before Davies…’ She hesitated, choosing words that felt appropriate. ‘Before Davies was taken from us all. At school this year they had to draw a Father’s Day card and she made two. One for Davies and one for Richard. We all went to the cemetery and placed the card for Davies on his grave.’ Her eyes filled. ‘It was emotional but I think it helped her. She has been more settled since.’

  Robyn put a hand on top of Brigitte’s and left it for a moment. After a moment, Brigitte murmured, ‘I miss him too. He was such a good man.’

  ‘We’re going to France after my birthday for the holidays,’ said Amélie, re-entering the kitchen, her Fitbit now on her arm. ‘Would you like to join us? Grandma won’t mind. Her house is enormous. You could meet Pipette and her kittens.’

  Robyn was touched. ‘I’d love to but I have to work. And talking of work, I have to rush off. I have to interview someone.’

  Amélie looked disappointed. ‘What a pity. I wanted to show you my iPhone. It’s on charge upstairs at the moment.’

  ‘Next time, I promise,’ Robyn added, standing to leave.

  ‘Thank you for the present. I can’t wait to show Florence. She’s my best friend. She’s going to be so jealous when she sees it.’

  Both Brigitte and Amélie accompanied her to the door. ‘Send my regards to Richard, won’t you?’ Robyn said, once Amélie had hugged her goodbye.

  ‘I shall, and Robyn, look after yourself. Don’t be a stranger. You are always welcome here, you know.’

  Robyn nodded. It was true but nevertheless she did not feel she deserved to be part of this family. Davies was gone and with him he had removed her right to be involved. Amélie had parents and grandparents who loved her. Robyn could only ever be on the periphery. As she pulled off the drive, waving at them both, she knew it would be some time before she returned. There was only so much pain she could handle.

  13

  Abigail carried Izzy into her bedroom. She had settled back into a slumber and had not stirred even when removed from the car seat. Abigail laid her in her cot; pausing to take in the tiny fists bunched up next to the face she loved so much, before heading for the kitchen. Toffee, her Persian cat, appeared from nowhere and, purring rhythmically, wound figure of eights around his mistress, rubbing his damp nose against her legs to welcome her. She bent to stroke the animal. ‘At least you’re here to greet me,’ she whispered into Toffee’s fur.

  The kitchen looked much as it had done before she left except for a dirty mug and plate in the sink. Jackson hadn’t even bothered to put them in the dishwasher in his haste to get out of the house. She felt a prickle of annoyance. Toffee became more insistent and nudged her again. She ripped open a pouch of food and squeezed it into his dish. He eagerly nosed at it, taking dainty bites. Standing up, she felt a little queasy. She steadied herself against the kitchen top and spotted a yellow Post-it stuck on the kettle that read,

  Sorry Abby.

  * * *

  James is ill so they need me to work. Don’t wait up. Probably won’t get back until tomorrow morning.

  * * *

  X

  James was one of the firm’s pilots – a recent addition to the team. She recollected Jackson mentioning him only recently. She reasoned it was quite feasible James had not been well enough to fly. Had Jackson really stood in at the last minute? She didn’t have James’s phone number or she might have checked to see if he really was off work. Her stomach gurgled loudly. She was definitely feeling off colour. It was probably all the anxiety of the anonymous phone call. She racked her brain to remember what Jackson might have said about the new pilot and came to the conclusion that he had kept fairly quiet about him although he had spoken regularly about his other pilots. Jackson often flew with Stu Grant and Gavin Singer, both of whom were close friends.

  Gavin had been at BizzyAir since the outset and started as Jackson’s first officer before becoming captain on the fights. He was married to Sarah, a lawyer, who often joked that he stuck with her and her ridiculous work schedule because he knew he could never afford to divorce her.

  Stu Grant was unmarried and devoted to flying. He had dumped his job as an engineer in his thirties and put himself through flying school. He relished every opportunity to fly one of the aircraft at BizzyAir and was often in the crew room even when not on duty. A timid man who was teetotal, he rarely socialised other than to pop around to see Jackson and Abigail when invited.

  Abigail meandered about the kitchen in a daze. She had no idea what to do next. She tried to call Jackson but his phone was off and she was redirected to the answering service. He always switched off when he was flying but today she wondered if he had done so for a different reason. She was trying to decide if she should phone Stu or Gavin to find out more about James when a rush of nausea sent her racing to the sink. She retched once, twice and brought up her breakfast and the latte from earlier. Her head suddenly felt hot and she began to feel disorientated. She needed to lie down. She heaved again. Her legs began to feel weak and buckled under her. She collapsed onto the floor, while waves of pain rippled through her belly making her groan.

  Her mobile rang. She struggled to stand and take it from the kitchen top, hoping it was Jackson.

  ‘Feeling off colour, Abigail?’ The robotic voice taunted her as her stomach muscles spasmed.

  ‘How do you know? Who are you?’ she gasped.

  ‘All in good time. This is only the beginning, Abigail.’

  ‘Please. Don’t do this.’

  ‘Do what, Abigail? How can I possibly be to blame for your present condition? You’ve obviously picked up a bug. Pity Jackson isn’t there. What a shame he’s shagging his lover instead of mopping your brow!’

  Another cramp doubled Abigail over in agony and the phone tumbled to the floor, trailing insane, robotic laughter behind it.

  She desperately wanted Jackson to come home. She needed him. Damn it! Where was he? Her head swam with muddled thoughts and then a soft whisper of a child’s voice saying, ‘Bye, bye, Mummy’ penetrated her foggy brain. She let out a weak cry of protest. An inner strength combined with the fiercest instincts drove her upstairs, inch by inch, calling, ‘Izzy, I’m coming!’

  She crawled into the nursery on all fours, sobbing, and saw a figure standing in the shadows. She slurred, ‘Get away from her,’ and launched herself at the cot with what strength she had. The figure moved towards her but Abigail’s vision began to narrow as little by little it was eaten away at the edges by black dots until they joined together and she drifted out of consciousness and slumped against the cot.

  * * *

  She was not sure how long she had been out of it but wails from Izzy finally roused her. It took a Herculean effort to raise her body from the floor. Izzy was screaming hysterically, her face screwed up and crimson through effort.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Abigail murmured, trying to ignore the awful nausea that had left her weakened. Izzy was not easily placated and writhed from side to side, clenching and unclenching her fists. She continued to scream at full volume, making Abigail’s pulse quicken.

  ‘It’s okay, my baby girl. Mummy’s here.’ She leant into the cot and recoiled at the pungent aroma that rose to greet her. The smell made Abigail gag and she had to wait a moment before she could lean in again. Izzy continued to howl. Abigail finally lifted her, her face wrinkling in disgust. Izzy had made a horrible mess that had filled her nappy. Her dress and the bed sheets were covered in runny excrement. Abigail fought back the urge to be sick again. Her baby needed her. She rubbed the child’s back and made soothing noises then carried Izzy to the bathroom where she cleaned her, then changed her clothes and held her, even though she felt drained. The screams abated and then the sobs subsided as Izzy calmed down.
>
  Abigail stumbled back to the nursery and sat in the chair beside the cot, like she had done on many a night. As her child drifted off to sleep, she sat trembling, recalling the whispered voice she had heard and the person she had thought was in the nursey. There had been no one. She reasoned that both had been figments of her turmoiled imagination that left her disorientated and frightened. This bug, or whatever had taken hold of her, was to blame. She figured that the mind was capable of playing tricks, especially when the body was shutting down. And it was true to say she was overprotective when it came to Izzy. She might have dreamt up the scenario – a product of a fevered mind. Or, she was beginning to unravel. The phone call and note had shaken her. Her marriage might be in jeopardy, and someone was spying on her. Her stalker was real and had somehow known she was ill. What was this person capable of? She ought to confide in Jackson. But now, she was no longer sure she could trust him. This could be some plan dreamed up by him and a lover to send her mad. Her confused mind could find no answers, and plagued her with wild ideas until she too dozed off. The sound of a ringtone penetrated her jumbled dreams in which a ghastly clown face loomed over her, laughing like the person on her phone. It was her mobile again. She had unconsciously picked it up and now it was in her pocket. She looked at the number and gave a relieved sigh.

  ‘Hey! Hope I’m not disturbing your hot date with Jackson,’ said Claire. ‘I wanted to let you know you left Izzy’s new teddy bear behind and I have it here. Don’t want Rachel to think you didn’t like it.’

  Abigail fought back the sob of relief. ‘Claire. Jackson had to go out on a job. I can’t get hold of him. Claire, I need you. Can you come around?’

  ‘Sure. You okay? You sound awful.’

  ‘No, I’ve picked up a horrendous stomach bug and keep being sick. Izzy’s sick too.’

  ‘Izzy! Oh my gosh! You poor things. I’ll come straight over. Don’t worry. I’ll be there in a jiffy.’

  Abigail laid back – her energy spent. Claire would help her. She’d look after Izzy while Abigail rested. She felt so weak. Another rush of nausea hit her and she heaved but there was nothing left in her stomach. A hazy thought hit her as she slumped on the floor next to the playpen: she could trust Claire. Wherever Jackson was, he wasn’t with her friend.

  14

  Wisps of cirrus cloud, painted by nature’s artistic hand, stretched across a deep blue sky as Robyn travelled towards the Farmhouse, Paul Matthews’ home. An elderly lady, Geraldine Marsh, who cleaned for Paul Matthews, was looking after the house. Robyn had succeeded in tracking down a phone number for her and had arranged to speak to her at the house.

  The navigation system in her car could not locate the area she needed but Geraldine had given her explicit instructions of how to get there. Her directions consisted of navigating via various pubs and shops but they were accurate and Robyn soon passed through the quaint village of Abbots Bromley towards Uttoxeter, before turning down a lane that led onto an uneven track and finally to the Farmhouse. The house was isolated, one side shrouded by woods and the other overlooking fields and the large reservoir in the valley. Paul Matthews had indeed enjoyed solitude. There were no neighbours for some distance.

  An old-fashioned ‘sit up and beg’ bicycle with a front basket was propped up against the wall. Given there was no car to be seen, Robyn guessed it was Geraldine’s mode of transport. She must be fit to climb the hill to the house on it. Robyn lifted the heavy iron knocker and let it drop with a loud clatter against the door of the house. Within seconds, a large woman with a round, healthy face and florid complexion brought about by a map of broken veins on her cheeks, opened the door and introduced herself as Geraldine Marsh. She could have been any age from sixty to eighty, with steely grey hair arranged in an old-fashioned bun, and sharp hazel eyes that looked Robyn up and down before allowing her to enter. Robyn showed her warrant card, which the woman examined thoroughly before pointing towards a door down the hall.

  ‘Best off in the kitchen,’ Geraldine said. ‘It’s the friendliest room. I don’t much care for the huge reception rooms in this house. They’re utilitarian. Mr Matthews never used them. Waste of space, if you ask me. I prefer cosy sitting rooms or kitchens. They’re far more intimate. Who wants to sit in massive conservatories shouting across the room at each other?’

  The kitchen was a mismatch of modern amenities including a coffee machine that would not look out of place in a coffee shop. There was a large American fridge with ice-making facilities and a control panel that would confuse a computer programmer, along with an Aga stove that she doubted had been used in years, and an ancient rocking chair, handles worn shiny through use, tucked away in one corner of the room.

  The place smacked of confusion. It was no longer the house it had once been. The large island in the centre of the room must have been used as a family breakfast table but now the granite top was covered with magazines, laid neatly in several piles. No one ate here any more. Off the room was a smaller room – a snug. It boasted a fireplace but a dark screen had been placed across it, suggesting it was no longer lit on cold evenings. A black leather chair faced a unit containing a television and a DVD player. Beside it lay a small pile of DVDs. Robyn glanced at the titles. They were all nature documentaries. A bookcase filling the other wall housed more DVDs – a few comedies, action films and documentaries – and a large number of books, mostly hardbacks, arranged according to size. Paul Matthews was an avid reader of autobiographies and non-fiction. The room was clinical in its layout and lacked a feminine touch. There was nothing personal in the place – no ornaments, photographs, cushions or flowers. The plush curtains and thick carpet clashed in colour and pattern. Paul Matthews may have had money but he did not have any sense of interior design.

  Geraldine Marsh offered her a stool to sit on and drew up another, letting out a sigh as she sank onto it. She peered at Robyn in a disapproving manner. ‘Mr Matthews lived here alone. I don’t know what more I can really tell you.’

  Robyn adopted an appreciative expression. She had come across protective types before. Geraldine Marsh clearly thought highly of her employer. She looked around the room as if hoping he might reappear.

  ‘I’m grateful for your time. As I explained on the phone, I’m searching for Paul’s son, Lucas. He’s gone missing and we’re anxious to find out if he is okay. I was hoping you could give me some insight into the family that might help me locate him. I was rather hoping Lucas might have visited here in recent weeks.’

  Geraldine wrinkled her nose as if a bad smell had permeated her nostrils. ‘He came back recently. Surprised me, it did. It was a few weeks ago. I came in as usual and there he was, bold as brass, sitting in that chair.’ She pointed to the rocking chair. ‘I didn’t recognise him at first but he still had that callous look he always had, and the glass eye, of course. Mr Matthews asked me to leave them alone to talk but he didn’t look thrilled at Lucas being here. I didn’t eavesdrop but Mr Matthews seemed quite agitated and I heard raised voices a few times. After Lucas left, Mr Matthews thumped about the place. He knocked the books off the bookcase, and broke a teacup by slamming it on the surface. He wasn’t himself at all. Lucas had really annoyed him. I haven’t seen him since. You’d think he be up here now, especially after what happened to his father. A fine man, Mr Matthews.’ She extracted a handkerchief from her apron pocket and sniffed into it, eyes bleary with tears.

  Robyn softened her tone. ‘I am sorry. It must have been such a shock.’

  Geraldine dabbed at the tears, grappling with her emotions. ‘It was,’ she said simply.

  Robyn allowed the woman some time to control her feelings then asked gently, ‘You mentioned Lucas had a glass eye, do you know anything about that? Did he have an accident?’

  Geraldine snorted. ‘Let me tell you about Lucas. He was a cocky young teenager when I first met him. I wasn’t working here then but I lived in the village. It’s a nice village. I’ve been there all my life. A lot of us have. We look out for e
ach other. You don’t get that in many places nowadays. No one knows their neighbours, do they? I love being able to cycle to the shops or go to the pub and have an orange juice or a bottle of stout with my friends; we’re a close bunch although there are more outsiders now who have come in over recent years. They aren’t as friendly.’

  Robyn let the woman chat. Patience would pay off and Geraldine was beginning to relax. She wagged her finger as she spoke as if it would somehow help explain.

  ‘Me and my husband Alf lived right beside the village green near the pub, the Goat, and used to go in there most nights. One evening, we discovered Mr Matthews had bought the Farmhouse. You can’t keep something like that secret in our village. Well, he was a star, wasn’t he? I watched all his films and never missed an episode of Doctor Pippin. I was so excited.

  ‘Truth be told, it wasn’t as exciting as we imagined. We hoped he would come into Abbots Bromley, send his children to the local school there and get involved with events, maybe even come to the annual Horn Dance festival we put on, but no, he kept himself to himself. He never once came into the place. We didn’t see him or his children to start with. Interest fizzled out and he became “the actor who lived on the hill”. Poor man.’

  She pulled a white cotton handkerchief from her pocket and rubbed at her nose.

  ‘I learned why we never saw him. It was such a sad story. I can see him now, his face all serious, telling me how much he had messed up his life. He had acted on impulse and bought the Farmhouse without even visiting it. He knows… he knew,’ she corrected herself, ‘that I’d never gossip about him. He told me he couldn’t cope with the memories of his wife Linda in every room of his old house. She was a beautiful woman. Used to be a dancer before she married him. She got cancer and died. Neither of them expected it, and she went so suddenly it really shook him. For some time after she passed away, he spent his days wandering about the house, imagining he could hear her, or would drive to town and think he had spotted her. One day, he chased after a woman who looked just like Linda only to discover it wasn’t, of course. The woman was quite abusive, even when he explained. Not everyone is sympathetic or kind,’ she added, her lips curling at the thought. ‘It messed with his mind and in the end he had to get away. He saw an advert for the Farmhouse in one of the glossy magazines and put in an offer. Just like that. That’s how he ended up here.