Rowan clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Looks for further references in the archive to Alan Rideal or Phillip Tunstall. Exhales, slowly, as he finds what he’s looking for in a banner headline from November, 2004. The search for missing fell-walker Alan Rideal has been called off. Tributes are pouring in for the Cumbrian philanthropist who poured money into local good causes.
“….experienced fell-walker…died doing what he loved …Mountain Rescue conducted an exhaustive search…Wast Water, Screes …” Rowan mutters to himself as he scans the article, clicking his tongue, again and again, until he annoys himself. He feels jittery now. Feels things starting to come alive. Scans the remainder of the page and finds no reference to a next of kin. The only named associate in the article is Phillip Tunstall, who went back to get help when Mr Rideal began to experience chest pains during their ascent of Great Gable. Tunstall’s address is given as Bleng Hall, Nether Wasdale.
Rowan allows himself a grin. He stands and paces a little, tripping on the cobbles only twice. He feels fizzy with it. Jittery. He can almost feel the first line of chapter one, slithering around in his thoughts like a live snake in a bag of dead worms.
He calls DI Sumaira Barnett. The young man who answers her phone at the Cumbria Constabulary Cold Case Review Unit tries for fifteen agonising minutes to redirect him to the press office. Rowan keeps hanging up and calling back, hoping Sumaira will pick up on a different extension. He doesn’t raise his voice or make any kind of threat – just keeps ringing back and asking to speak to DI Barnett. Eventually, he hears some muzzy expletives somewhere in the office and a harassed-sounding South London voice demands to know what he wants.
“Sumaira,” he says, smiling. “It just occurred to me I still owe you a machine cappuccino and a Kit-Kat. Can I drop them round this afternoon or are you going to charge me interest? If so, I can stretch to a bottle of red and a decent steak.”
She responds with a low growl. “I knew I recognised the name. Bollocks. Now isn’t a good time. Last year, when I was ringing you and you weren’t replying – that would have been a good time. What is it you’re after?”
“Some company,” he says, a smile in his voice. “I’m adrift in Lakeland. Withering in my bloom…,”
“You’ve got a sister here,” she says. When she speaks again it’s clear she’s remembered something else. “Did I hear that you’d had a bit of an incident with an online troll?”
“I’ll tell you at dinner,” says Rowan, looking at his hands.
“I’m up to my eyes,” she protests. “What is it you’re after anyway? I mean, I’m flattered you’ve looked me up but I know you must want something more than company.”
Rowan makes himself comfortable. Presses ‘record’. “What do you know about three missing teenagers, and the Silver Birch academy?”
She pauses before answering. Rowan listens to her breathe.
“I can be free by 9pm,” she says, at last. “And I warn you, I’m an expensive date.”
13
10.14pm
Hotel Vin de Mere, Lake Windermere
“I think it’s some sort of tapenade,” says Sumaira, cautiously. She pokes the dish with a finger. “Smells a bit like posh olives? Is it pesto? I’m not brave enough.”
The substance in question is being employed as a sort of gastronomic cement: a khaki-coloured glue that adheres the vibrant hunks of yellow tomato and silvery radish to the piece of slate in front of her. The waiter had told her it was called ‘pistounade’ and formed part of the fifth course, of the nine-serving taster menu. She’d laughed: a fulsome, pleasing cackle that had caused at least two other diners to tut out loud.
“You reckon those fit in the dishwasher?” asks Rowan, nodding at her platter. He’s trying to be funny but it feels horribly false. He’s uncomfortable; slick with sweat inside his faded black shirt. He’s managed to eat some of the ludicrous little servings without asking for help but he can tell that Sumaira is itching to cut his meat for him and feed him like a child. He’s unable to feel like anything other than a total arsehole every time he looks at the unwieldy leather gloves which hide the bags and bandages on his hands.
“How did you get here?” asks Sumaira, dabbing at a small drip of spilled mimosa on the tablecloth and trying to turn her finger into a sponge. “I didn’t see a skateboard in the car park.”
“My sister,” says Rowan, with a sigh. “She gave me a lift and says if I ring her before 11 she’ll come and pick me up. Any time after that I have to call a cab, which I can ill afford, so I’ll probably have to ring my mate Pickle for a lift.”
“Pickle?” asks Sumaira, eyes widening. “You’re mates?”
“He’s everybody’s mate. He’s Clifford the Big Red Dog. He’s one of the good ones.”
Sumaira pulls a face. “His record would suggest otherwise.”
“So would mine,” says Rowan, surprising himself. He hadn’t intended to bring up his past, or his lack of funds. He can’t seem to get a hold of himself at the moment. Keeps saying and doing things that offer no obvious advantage.
“We’ve all got a past,” shrugs Sumaira, sucking in her cheek so that a dimple suddenly appears. “I wouldn’t be a copper if I hadn’t had dealings with the law when I was young.”
“I presume you know a little about my misspent youth,” says Rowan, holding her gaze.
“Enough,” says Sumaira. “I checked you out after we met. I never thanked you properly, by the way. You could have made us look very bad that day.”
Rowan waves her gratitude away. He can’t even remember what the story was or how he had chosen to report on it but a cop’s gratitude is always a thing worth banking.
“I read your book,” she says, and begins to play with a fine gold necklace that hangs in the well of her throat. “You’re a good writer. You didn’t glorify him, you just understood him. I thought it was brave.”
Rowan manages a twitch of a smile. It belies his true feeling. He feels sick: his tongue too big for his mouth, his throat dry and sore. His thoughts keep drifting away from him. He tries to centre himself, the way shrink had told him to. He imagines himself in the place he feels safe. Imagines the space beneath the seats of the old school bus, tucked up warm and cosy in that musty little space, snuggled up with Serendipity, music turned down low as a pulse; her cold fingertips on his temples, his eyelids, telling him it will be okay, that it was just a nightmare, that the bad people have gone away
“….a while to settle in and obviously it’s a very different kind of ethos but we’ve had some good results and I’m definitely feeling better for the fresh air …,”
Rowan realises he has missed some conversation. He drapes his arms over the wooden back of the small, cosy booth. He points at the pretentious montage on the table between them. Sumaira’s slate is balanced on four small jars of different coloured sand, which in turn sit upon a squat, rustic table top. The table has been polished to a high gleam and reflects the distant ceiling; all wrought iron and exposed brick: old bird cages hanging from hooks and fruit crates full of curiosities nailed to the walls.
“It’s nice to see you again,” says Rowan, and means it. “I know ‘nice’ is one of those utility words, but it fits here. This is nice.”
Sumaira looks at him over the top of her huge, square spectacles. She’s somewhere in her thirties: tall, with highlighted brown hair cut too short at the front. She wears a fluffy V-necked jumper and a long black skirt with plum-coloured court shoes. She was wearing a designer Duffel coat when she arrived; rain sparkling on the cerise fur trim around the hood. Her cheeks had been flushed, her nose pink from the glacial air. She’d seemed unusually nervous for an experienced copper, as if this was a date she had been looking forward to for some time. She’d kissed his cheek and commiserated about his hands, informing him that the bastards would no doubt get what was coming to them on the inside. Rowan doesn’t doubt it. Arrangements have already been made.