“You’re all heart,” says Rowan, and thinks he sees a little smile on his sister-in-law’s tightly pursed mouth.
There’s a screech as Snowdrop drags a chair towards him across the checkerboard paving, crunching up the end of a large rag-rug. “So,” she says, expectantly. “Tell me what’s next. Tell me what we’ve got. When do we start writing? Will we have a joint byline, or will I be like an ‘additional reporting’ credit, what do you reckon?”
Rowan listens. Listens to the chatter as it begins to find the beat of the raindrops upon the glass; the pinging of hot metal in the fire; the rhythm of Jo’s fingers moving across her screen. Deep down, far back in his skull, trapped in there like a fly, he hears the faintest whisper of something dark. Looks into his niece’s trusting eyes and asks himself the question he has refused to look upon. Why haven’t you called the police? The answer bubbles up like hot, sulphurous air; a speech bubble from his gut. He hasn’t called the police, because right now, this is all his. He doesn’t know yet whether there’s even a story to write, but he does know he has enough little snippets of intrigue to start whetting publishers’ appetites. If something bad has happened to Violet Rayner, it makes for a better story. If the sins of the past have returned to haunt a woman kidnapped as a teen, it all gives the story weight. And if he’s the one who raises the alarm, and hands the police a dossier full of cover-ups and crimes unsolved, it’s going to look damn good on a book-jacket. And if it turns out that Violet spent a weekend in Blackpool getting pissed back in 1991 and that she really is having a ball on a round-the-world adventure, he can at least do his damnedest to charm her into talking to him about how it has felt to live with such a big part of her past missing. He could probably get a few hundred quid for that off one of the women’s magazines, which could keep him in liquor money and phone service until the right story does land in his lap. He just needs to keep them all away for a while. If he can show them he’s working, the publishers might grant a contract extension, giving him time to find a replacement story, twice as good. He just needs time. Time, and a few hundred thousand pounds.
“Speaking to Eve Cater is going to be key,” says Rowan, as Snowdrop sets about scribbling down a plan of attack in her multi-coloured jotter. She puts wiggly underlines beneath the date and uses a love-heart for the dot over of the lower case ‘i’ in Investigation.
“The old police officer, yes?” asks Snowdrop. “Do you think she’ll be keen to talk?
Rowan shrugs. “She and Violet are close, or so it seems. If Eve’s collecting her post for her, they must have a pretty good relationship, which means she might know plenty that will help, and might well be only too happy to tell us the truth about 1991.”
“What do we think that is?” asks Snowdrop, scribbling furiously.
“I’ll let you know when it comes to me,” smiles Rowan. “Either way, she’s very high on the list. And we need to know more about Derrick Millward, about the school, who worked there, what they remember.”
Snowdrop stops writing. “Uncle Rowan, erm, surely if Eve thought there was something to worry about she would surely have contacted the police. Doesn’t that suggest Violet is exactly where she says she is and that there’s nothing going on untoward? I know that would be a blow but maybe we’re getting carried away.”
“Nothing’s set in stone,” says Rowan, optimistically. “I mean, yes, of course she could well be absolutely fine …,”
“Pity,” mutters Jo, from the far end of the table. “Maybe one of the other ones will be in a more marketable state of peril.”
Rowan regards her, wondering if he should defend himself. He catches Snowdrop’s eye and she gives a little shake of the head. It doesn’t matter. They’re both writers, in this together.
“Catherine,” says Snowdrop, brightly. “Catherine Marlish. What’s the plan, Batman?”
“No social media profiles, no obvious way in,” muses Rowan. “So it comes down to the creative writing class. I’m going to have to play it by ear.”
“I’ve heard that phrase – what does it mean?”
“Make it up as I go along,” says Rowan, draining his glass. “In the best scenario, Catherine will be delighted to have the chance to tell her story. She clearly got a desire to be heard – why else would she want to write? I need to show her that I can be trusted.”
Jo laughs, a hard, dry sound. “But you can’t!” she snaps. “You demonstrably can’t be trusted to use her story in a way that will help her. Listen to you!”
“That’s not fair!” begins Snowdrop. “This is Uncle Rowan’s job. He’s a writer who can’t use his hands and he’s still managed to grab the tail of a story. Look how much he knows already! Catherine can trust him – trust us! – to tell the truth.”
“Snowdrop, he doesn’t care about Catherine,” says Jo, looking pained. “He doesn’t care about what may or may not have happened to Violet. He cares about his bloody deadline and the alarming lack of funds in his bank account.”
Rowan turns towards the fire, an attempt at a smirk carved into his features. It feels as though the words in his head have found a mouthpiece in his sister-in-law.
“You shouldn’t talk to him like that,” huffs Snowdrop, slumping in her chair. “He’s not well.”
Jo shakes her head, coldly. “Where was he, eh? When things were going well? How often did you see him? What about those trips to TV studios or placements on newspapers or free entry to museums that owed him a favour? None of it happened. Too busy. Too busy living high and living well. No thought for you until he literally had nobody to wipe his backside and suddenly he’s the uncle of the year? Bollocks.” She gathers up her stuff, her face contorted. “I’m going to work in the study. Snowdrop, don’t be long. And Rowan, if you drink the last of the bottle you’ll find some methylated spirit in the garage. There’s cranberry juice in the fridge if you need a mixer.”
Snowdrop tries to put herself into Rowan’s line of sight. He listens to the sound of Jo’s footsteps echoing away into the corridor then manages to drag his attention away from the fire. “Sorry,” he says, squeezing one eye shut. “She’s right about all that stuff. I’ve been rubbish.”
Snowdrop shakes her head. “Depends how you look at it. You do a lot of the things you say you will and I know you only don’t do the other stuff because you’re busy. And anyway, you’re here. We’re being journalists. Writers. You’re making up for lost time!”
Rowan manages a smile. Nods a curt little thankyou. Turns away before she sees the moisture in his eyes.
“I think we need to know precisely what led Violet into going away for all this time,” says Snowdrop, trying to squeeze a felt-tip pen between her nose and top lip. “And it was Mum who gave her the details on who to contact for the Shamanic stuff.”
Rowan considers it. Thinks of drumbeats and the fire-pit and the maze of cave-painting on the bare brick wall. She’s trying to remember, that much is clear. She’s been trying to journey – to seek lost parts of herself. She spoke of ayahuasca.
“Do you think you could ask your mum?” he asks Snowdrop. “I mean, I could probably spend an evening going through her Facebook friends and cross-referencing with shamanic groups but it would be easier of she just said who it was she put her in touch with. You could sort of just bring it up in conversation, see what she thinks.”
He looks into a huge grin. “Didn’t even need to come up with a cover story,” says Snowdrop, wide-eyed. She said to me before you turned up sopping wet – she’d messages her friend and said that her brother and her darling girl were keen to know more about shamanism. That’s okay isn’t it? We don’t need to mention Violet by name – just see what sort of path she was on. Anyway, she’s a lady called Sharon. That’s funny, don’t you think? Sharon the Shaman? I did, anyway. Her surname’s Durning. There’s nothing funny about that. She lives in a place called Redcar and she’s a Shamanic practitioner, Reiki practitioner, a crystal healer and something to do with Egypt as well. I Googled her. She was an estate agent before she got the calling to become a, well, whatever it is she uses as a title for all that stuff. Anyway, she’s happy to talk to us about what it is she does and how it works.”