Brook and Terri rolled along in silence, punctuated by his directions through the Brisbane Estate. They pulled on to Yvette Thomson’s road and Brook spotted Len Poole cycling arthritically along the pavement in front of them. He held a large envelope tightly against one handlebar.
‘A pensioner in a tracksuit,’ said Terri. ‘Could anything be more wrong?’
To Brook’s surprise, Poole turned on to Yvette Thomson’s driveway, dismounted and rapped aggressively on the glass door.
‘Pull over, Terri.’
Terri looked at him and followed his eyes back to the squat figure of Poole. Without asking for explanation she pulled to the kerb and turned off the engine.
Brook kept his eyes trained on the house as Poole looked around at neighbouring houses while he waited, flicking the envelope against his thigh. When the door didn’t open he rapped on the glass more vigorously, then walked to the large bay window and peered inside.
‘What’s wrong, Dad? Why have we stopped?’
Brook reached into the back seat without breaking his surveillance. ‘I’ve got to drop off this laptop.’
‘This piece of junk,’ said Terri, examining it through the plastic. ‘I wouldn’t bother. Just stick it in the dustbin.’ She reached for the other plastic bag on the back seat. ‘Are these Adele’s?’
Brook nodded without taking his eyes from Poole, still banging impatiently at the door. Terri isolated a book through the plastic and held it up for Brook. ‘Sylvia Path, Dad. See?’
‘I know. You were right.’ Brook watched as Yvette Thomson finally opened the door. Unfortunately she moved back almost at once so he couldn’t see her reaction as Poole stepped purposefully over the threshold. But the way she had ushered Poole into her home told its own story. The two of them knew each other.
Brook wondered whether to sit tight or gamble. A second later, he took the computer from Terri. ‘Won’t be a minute.’
‘Can’t I come with you?’ asked Terri.
‘What?’
‘This is where one of the students lived, isn’t it?’
‘Russell Thomson.’
‘Then get me in there, Dad. You want to find these kids, don’t you? I can have a look at his room. Let you know what I think.’
Brook considered the ethics of involving civilians, let alone family, in police business. Talking things through with her was one thing, it helped him think. Giving her free rein in a missing person’s room was quite another. He gestured her out with a flick of the head, still not sure he was doing the right thing. ‘Don’t touch anything. Don’t speak.’
Brook hesitated at the door. He could hear Poole shouting. He thought he heard, ‘All these years. .’ but he couldn’t be sure.
Terri shuffled uneasily next to him and kicked over an empty plant pot near the step. It rolled noisily along the concrete of the drive. The shouting from within stopped while Terri stared apologetically at her father. Brook resisted the temptation to roll his eyes and knocked firmly on the door instead.
‘Hello.’ Yvette smiled hesitantly, failing to invite him in. ‘Oh my God, what happened to your head?’
Brook smiled back to confirm his well-being. ‘I had a bit of a fall. Nothing serious.’
‘You want to be more careful at your age,’ she teased. Her smile disappeared as quickly as it arrived. ‘Are there developments?’
He decided against getting drawn into the Deity broadcasts. If she didn’t already know about them from the news, she soon would. ‘Nothing concrete.’
‘I saw that film,’ she said. ‘Poor Kyle. You think Rusty shot it, don’t you?’
She hadn’t yet seen the Becky Blake film and Brook wasn’t about to enlighten her. ‘We can’t rule it out. It was shot before the party so. .’ He held out Russell’s laptop which she took from him without enthusiasm, before looking across at Terri. ‘This is Detective Constable Terry. I wonder if we could come in for a moment. We need to check a detail in Russell’s room.’
Yvette wavered but before she could refuse to invite them in, Len Poole appeared behind her in his bright blue tracksuit.
‘Inspector. I thought that was your voice. Goodness, you’ve been in the wars. Any news?’ He looked across at Terri and gave her a lingering up and down. Brook hoped it was the unconscious habit of the ex-pathologist.
‘There’s a press conference shortly and my guess is it will make the TV news.’
Len nodded. ‘Better get back and watch it then.’ He scratched his head in consternation. ‘It’s a difficult time. I just came round to meet Yvette. Let her know we’re there for her if she needs support,’ he added, answering a question that hadn’t been asked. ‘We need to pull together when something like this happens.’
Brook just smiled.
‘Well, I’d best be off. Nice to meet you, Yvette,’ said Len, turning to leave.
‘You too, Len.’ Yvette smiled. ‘Thank Alice for thinking of me. I’ll be in touch.’
‘What do you need to check, Inspector?’ she said when Len had gone.
‘Just something one of my underlings needs to verify. Upstairs, Constable. Chop, chop,’ said Brook to his daughter. ‘First on the left.’
‘Right away, sir,’ replied Terri, making a show of pulling on the latex gloves Brook had given her, before heading up the stairs.
Yvette followed her progress. ‘She’s very young,’ she said when Terri was out of sight. ‘I suppose that’s a sign of my age.’
‘Start worrying when you’re as old as I am,’ answered Brook. He looked beyond her to the interior. ‘Any danger of a cup of coffee while I’m waiting?’
Yvette handed Brook a cup and darted her eyes anxiously round the room. She gestured him to a seat.
‘Inspector Brook, you’ve been so kind.’ She laughed nervously. ‘I can’t keep calling you that.’ She cocked her head at Brook.
‘Damen,’ he answered reluctantly.
‘Damen. Interesting name.’
‘It’s German for Ladies,’ he said. ‘Don’t ask.’
She smiled fulsomely at him. ‘I didn’t know men like you existed any more. You know, all the men I’ve ever met, even the boys like Wilson — they look at me in a certain way, but not you. You look at me and see a person, not a MILF.’
Brook smiled and took a sip of coffee.
‘You know what I’m trying to say.’
The conversation was heading where Brook hoped it wouldn’t. ‘Yvette — Eve,’ he corrected himself when she prepared to protest. ‘I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through.’
‘Can’t you? I think you can. I can see it in your eyes.’
Brook took another sip of coffee. Perhaps he was expected to give clarification, something he’d rather avoid. He kept silent, but when Yvette said nothing and wouldn’t drop her gaze, he realised she wouldn’t be denied.
‘You’re not married, are you?’ she said.
‘Not any more.’
‘How do you cope with the loneliness?’ Brook stared back without expression. ‘I’m a very lonely woman, Damen. I have been all my life. I never knew my father, and my mother died when I was young. I was put in care until I was old enough to live my own life.’
‘I’m sorry, I had no idea,’ Brook lied.
She smiled sadly. ‘I can’t be alone, Damen. I won’t be. Since Rusty-’
A door closed on the floor above and Terri descended to the hall. ‘All done, sir.’ She pulled off her gloves with a satisfying snap.
Yvette and Brook followed Terri to the front door.
‘Thanks for the coffee,’ said Brook.
‘My pleasure, Damen.’
As Brook followed Terri outside, Yvette allowed her hand to brush softly against his.
‘See you soon,’ she said.
‘I reckon those two know each other, Dad — before today, I mean,’ said Terri, when they were on the A52.
Brook smiled across at her. ‘Chester.’
‘Chester?’
‘Yvette Thomson’s only lived in Derby for six months — she’s from North Wales and once lived in Chester. Len went to Chester with Mrs Kennedy for the weekend, the night of the party. It could be a coincidence. Len said he didn’t know her.’
‘He’s lying,’ said Terri. ‘But why pretend they don’t know each other when they do?’
‘Why does anybody lie?’ said Brook, avoiding her eye. ‘Something to hide from the past.’
Terri nodded. ‘Maybe it’s something to do with that envelope.’
Brook squirrelled an admiring glance her way. ‘You’re good at this, aren’t you?’
She grinned with pleasure. ‘Must be genetic. What do you think was in it?’
‘I don’t know but I don’t think he had it when he left so he must have taken great pains to hide it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I couldn’t find it when Yvette was making coffee.’
Terri narrowed her eyes at her father. ‘Isn’t it illegal to search a house without a warrant?’
‘Absolutely. It’s on a par with impersonating a police officer.’
Terri laughed. ‘Yvette didn’t seem to catch on, Damen.’
‘Let’s hope she doesn’t remember you,’ said Brook, ignoring his daughter’s insinuating tone.
But Terri wasn’t to be deflected. ‘Are you and her. .?’ She tilted her head suggestively.
‘Certainly not,’ replied Brook. ‘She’s part of an investigation. Her son is missing and she’s very vulnerable. That would be opportunism of the worst kind.’
‘But if she wasn’t involved in a case?’ Brook concentrated on the road. ‘Taking the fifth on that one, Damen? Well, she’s certainly pretty.’ Brook wasn’t to be tempted into an answer. ‘And far too attractive for that dirty old Len. Did you see the way he looked me over?’
‘I did. But he may just be Slab Happy.’
‘Pardon?’
‘He used to be a pathologist. It’s a habit in people who work with the dead. They assess people’s height and weight. Just in case. They don’t know they’re doing it.’
Terri pulled a face. ‘Gruesome.’
‘What about Russell? Did you get a feel for him?’
‘Sort of. There’s a poster missing. Do you know what it was?’
‘No. Miss Thomson couldn’t remember.’
‘Pity. And without books he’s a tough read but, no books,’ she raised an eyebrow, ‘that’s significant in itself.’
‘How?’
‘He’s more of a plotter than a thinker.’
‘Plotter?’
‘Director would be a better word. Probably where he gets his love of films.’
‘Go on.’
‘Look, this may be completely offbeam. He may just be a film buff and his tastes may be completely random. .’
‘But?’
‘But if you were to assume his character from the posters in his room, there are one or two pointers. The Blair Witch Project, for instance. Did you know the makers built its reputation by using the internet? They created a website that treated the disappearance of three students investigating reports of a supernatural entity, as a real event.’ Brook looked at her. ‘I know. Spooky, eh?’
‘And people got hooked on the mystery like they are with Deity?’
‘Exactly.’
‘What happened to the students in the end?’
‘It was a bit vague but I think they died.’
Brook nodded. ‘Similar to Picnic at Hanging Rock. Anything else?’
‘Have you seen Badlands?’
‘Actually I have. I saw it with your mother a long time ago. I can’t remember much about it.’
‘It’s about a mindless teenage killer played by Martin Sheen. He’s on the run and heading for the Canadian border and safety.’
‘Go on,’ said Brook, trying to remember.
‘He’s getting away — just a few miles from the border — but suddenly he stops and shoots out his tyres.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’d rather die on the electric chair and be famous than live in obscurity for the rest of his life. Think that’s what Russell and the others were planning?’
‘Well, they’re more famous than they were a week ago.’
The press conference was now featured on the national news channels, as were parts of the two internet films from the Deity broadcasts. They didn’t carry the appeal for information about the suspect in The Embalmer case although it went out after the main news on the local East Midlands bulletins.
‘They’ve found their audience,’ said Terri, looking up from the Sylvia Plath book. ‘Are you feeling okay, Dad?’
He snapped out of his reverie and switched off the TV. ‘Bit of a headache.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
Brook padded into the kitchen for some tablets and returned to sink into a chair with the photocopies from Adele’s diary. He swallowed two aspirins with a gulp of Aberlour to wash them down. ‘I can’t help thinking I’ve seen The Embalmer’s face before last night — except it’s wrong.’
‘Wrong? What’s wrong?’
‘The face.’
‘Looked pretty regulation to me,’ said Terri. Then: ‘Listen to this, Dad.’ She read ‘Suicide Off Egg Rock’ from the Plath anthology. When she finished the line I am, I am, I am, she said, ‘Need I say more?’
Brook nodded thoughtfully. ‘Adele wrote the same line in the front of her diary.’
‘You still won’t let me read it?’
Brook grimaced. ‘There’s a big difference between giving your impressions on her collection of books or Russell’s taste in films and actually looking through their thoughts.’
‘I don’t see it.’
‘But I do. I’ve been doing this a long time and, believe me, putting yourself in someone’s head is not healthy. Doubly so if that person’s a victim. Or a killer. I’ll let you know if I need advice on something. That reminds me. What does,’ he checked a detail in Adele’s diary, ‘WGAF mean to you?’
‘Who gives a fuck?’ she answered.
‘I do.’
‘No, I mean. .’ Terri pushed back her chair at first sight of her father’s grin. ‘Very funny. I’m tired. If I’m driving you in early tomorrow, I’d better get some sleep.’
Brook got out of the chair. ‘Good idea. Night, darling.’ He turned at the door. ‘And Terri, you’ve already helped me a lot.’
She smiled at him. ‘Night, Dad.’
Brook closed the living-room door and sat at the kitchen table to read more of Adele’s diary. When he picked it up, he noticed the word Diary had been split by a hyphen added in the middle of the word. Di-ary. Why? Brook held it away from him. Di — could she be a female friend? Was Adele personalising her memoirs to make the diary an imaginary comrade?
He opened it at the first passage again. The entry was for I January 2011 but Adele had crossed out every date of every entry and replaced it with Some number, some month. WGAF?
Believe nothing. It’s not real. None of it. It pours out of the screen. And the idiots suck it up. Mums and dads, neighbours too. Look at their faces, all aglow, deformed by defeat.
‘Hallelujah. We believe.’
Here is the news. Drive to work, drive back, sit for hours plugged into the stream of stuff flowing from the tube. The surrender of life, the move from first hand to second. A headshake here, a tut there, a ‘serves them bloody well right’ somewhere else. There’s a Japanese earthquake but it’s not real. How can it be? We’re not there. There’s no tsunami. Those poor people. Look at them run. Now that’s entertainment.
A girl’s body is found. They put up the maps. It’s real. It happened here. It could happen to you. I wish it would. I’d be a star. Mum’s mouth sags in awe. ‘I’ve driven on that road. Who would’ve thought?’ No one, why start now?
Bedtime. Turn it off. The Machine Stops. Time to wake up. Time to dream. No time for reality, a better world beckons from the pillow. Even waking is a dream. A dream that today will be better, kinder, full of love and hope.
The real wake-up beckons. ‘Have a nice day, dear.’ ‘You too.’ And the hours start to die, killing the day. It’s over. File it with the others. U for Unmemorable, Unreal. Unrepeatable? If only.
Same old world. Not waking is the answer. Dream forever. Like the Lady of Shallot, I am half sick of shadows.
My hand is real. I examine it as I write. My body is real. My vagina is real. My breasts are real. I can still feel AR’s weight on top of me, inside me. My whole being throbbing. Lungs filling. Such exquisite pain. I am, I am, I am.
Brook turned the page to a fresh entry.
Dad’s face when I told Mum I was going out with someone (AR). I could almost hear the blood rushing to his head. He was in the next room but I didn’t have to shout. He listens to everything I say with bated breath. Words are so powerful. To think the word ‘boyfriend’ can deliver such a kick in the teeth. It was all I could do not to march in there and laugh in his spluttering face. And Mother? Stupid bitch. She doesn’t even know what her man is thinking, wanting. I could’ve kept AR secret and let Dad keep hoping, but I need to crush his heart now. I can’t go on. I can’t stand being around him. My own father. He comes to stand next to me just to smell me, like I’m prey. I’ve ignored his sly looks at my body too long, his enthusiastic hugs. Think I don’t know you lie on my bed when I’m not home, Dad? Give it up. I don’t want to dress like a nun around you. I don’t want to cover my tits. Cover your eyes, old man. Cover your eyes.
Brook read the last entry again. Jim Watson was telling the truth. Surely he would have removed that last section, had he been censoring his daughter’s thoughts. The missing pages must have been cut by someone else. Adele? It seemed likely.
Brook picked up the ESDA copy of the page below the absent pages. The technicians had not picked up all the text with the Electrostatic Detection Apparatus but there was enough to show that Adele had created the script for the leaflet. Live Forever. Immortal. Beautiful. She’d written the same words several times in a variety of ways, presumably as a design exercise.
Brook turned back to the diary and read other entries.
A strange boy joined our literature group. Russell Thomson. He hardly speaks and he can’t bear to look people in the eye. He has a camcorder on his wrist and doesn’t take it off. He looks like he has Special Needs and even Wilson thinks he’s smarter than him but he’s wrong. There’s something about him. I don’t know. It’s like he knows something that the rest of us can never know and he’s just working out a way to explain it to us. I saw him with his mum the other day. She’s beautiful and it’s hard to imagine the two are related. Wilson saw her too and was all over her like a ten year old with a toffee apple. He says he’s going to pop her if it’s the last thing he does. Bad boy. Dirty boy.
Then it was back to her relationship with Rifkind and the passion spilled off the page again.
Adam Fucking Rifkind. No more secrecy. No more sneaking around. No more AR code, Adam Fucking Rifkind. I should Facebook the shit out of your guilty secret, then where would you be? You think you’re a god to women. Is that why you don’t want me and say you don’t love me? You only love yourself. You want your slag of a wife and the brand new screaming receptacle of piss and shit she’s carrying. Fuck you, Adam Rifkind. (Good title for a poem.) Fuck everything about you. And another thing. Your novel is shit. You think you’re God’s gift to literature. You’re not. No more suggestions from me. Or is that the point? I’ve cured your infantile story, put a line through the puerile, and you don’t need me now.
Brook smiled. Rifkind in a nutshell. Adele was very astute. Was? He hoped she was alive, hoped she was too clever to give her life for fleeting fame and the momentary regret of loved ones.
He turned to her notebook of poems and read the piece that she’d composed on the blotter of her desk before transferring it to her notebook.
Live Forever. Question Mark
Life is not a rehearsal, They say
Life is not an audition, They say
Life is something that happens while
You’re making plans. They say
Live Forever? Make your mark
Be someone. Face on the telly.
Or embrace mediocrity, scuttle around,
Do stuff, buy stuff, fuck stuff,
Sand through the fingers, draining away.
Does this make a living? They don’t say.
He looked at the clock. Gone midnight. He took a final sip of whisky. Why was he devoting so much time to this girl and her friends? They’d run away and didn’t want to be found. They weren’t dead, he was sure of it — almost sure. Not like Phil Ward. Phil was out there, facing death. In his mind, Brook had already signed the death certificate.
Concentrate on the hope. Terri had come through, survived her crisis without him. She didn’t need him any more. Perhaps she never did. Concentrate on Adele. Adele was alive. Adele was his daughter now. He could still save her. He could be a proper father to her. He could pore over her life in the reasonable knowledge that he’d never have to stand over her alabaster corpse. He could read her deepest darkest thoughts, and take comfort from the notion that one day they might actually meet, while deep in his subconscious Brook knew that the next time he saw Phil Ward, he would be on a mortuary slab. What good was his lap and a half now?
With a feeling of dread, Brook picked up Adele’s diary and turned to the copy of the final page again. He reread the three words and tried to put a positive spin on them. She was referring to the end of her life as it had been lived to this point — looking forward to the new, to her rebirth as an internet celebrity. That had to be it. That had to be the meaning. TIME TO DIE.