Then I came to Moormist, one of the vans up the back near the trees. The living room was neat and bare, but there was a stack of shortbread, creamer, and teabags in the fruit bowl on the breakfast bar. There was a toothbrush and razor in a cup in the bathroom, and a pyramid of nearly finished bog rolls on the cistern. And though the main bedroom was empty-beds smooth, blinds down-in the tiny room at the end of the passage, like quarters on a submarine, one of the four bunks was being slept in.
It was heaped with blankets, piled high with pillows, and on the floor at its side was a book-a diary, it looked like with its black vinyl cover-and a necklace. Except the diary wasn’t a diary at all, it turned out when I went back for a closer look. It was a printed book, old-fashioned, thin paper, tiny wee writing-not English-and it had a bookmark in it.
When I saw what the bookmark was, I turned to stone. A strip of photo-booth pictures, just the same as the ones I’d seen before. The two of them, arms around each other, eyes shining, big grins. It looked like love to me.
But what did it mean? If this was Ros’s book and necklace, if this was her hideaway, why had she not cleaned up after herself before she left? And why did she need a hideaway at all, if she had accommodation? I thought of an answer immediately. If Steve was right, it was easy: she needed somewhere to meet Becky. But why would they not use a bigger bed than that bunk then?
I cleaned and straightened, dished the nest back out between all four bunks, put the cup back in the kitchen and the razor and toothbrush (for her to sweeten her breath and shave her legs?) in the black bag I was dragging round with me.
I stuffed the three cloths-reeking now-back in the bucket, hefted it and the Hoover down onto the grass and then, with the bin bag over my arm and Ros’s book and necklace in my other hand, I stepped into the darkness.
I was crouched over between the Calor bottle and the rubbish bin, turning the water back on, when I heard someone running towards me, heavy footsteps and ragged breathing coming through the dark. I thought it was Gus, looking for me. My mind leapt to the kids, the cops, some new disaster, but the outline of the figure was wrong. I crouched lower, pulling myself into the shadows, and heard him jump up on the metal step to pound on the door.
“Jaroslawa!” he whispered. “Jaroslawa!” And then a stream of words. Polish words. It was Kazek. Maybe he knew that this was Ros’s hangout, and when he’d seen the lights on, he thought she was back again. I kept as still as a corpse, scared to move in case the bin bag crackled.
“Jestes tam?” he was saying, weeping and raging at the closed door, his voice a rasp. Maybe he was the reason she went away. Maybe he was off his head or his meds and he drove her away from her job with the flexible hours and her friend who needed her. He was sure as hell frightening me.
He had stopped talking, stopped pounding. I think he turned and slid down the door; I heard his trainers squeak on the metal grid of the step anyway. He was less than five feet away. If I put my eye to the gap between the gas bottle and the van wall, I could see him. Then I thought-if I could see him, he could see me! And I dropped my head, letting my hair fall forward to hide my face.
But still something was gleaming, shining bright and pale on the ground beside me. I reached for it and pulled it into my lap. Ros’s book. The pages were edges with silver and suddenly I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t known as soon as I clapped eyes on it at her bedside. A soft black leatherette book with silver-edged pages? It was a Bible. And not a necklace either, but a rosary.
I stood, without thinking.
“Kazek?” I said.
He started and his boots scraped loud on the steps. “Jaroslawa?” he said, standing.
“No, sorry, it’s me.” I walked towards him. “But you’re right, you know. She didn’t go home. Look.” I held the book and the beads out towards him and he snatched them from me, kissing them and speaking hurried, wretched words.
“You,” he said at last, raising his head. “Help me?”
Fifteen
Which shows what a Sherlock I am. I’d got just about everything wrong that I could have so far. But I was right about one thing: Kazek was scared shitless, and scared people aren’t scary.
“Jaroslawa?” he said, like a cracked record. “Dead, jess. You try make happy not cry. Good woman.”
And just like that, it made sense. He hadn’t meant to say, Hey, my girlfriend’s gone, but you could take over, sweet cheeks. He meant, It was kind of you to say she wasn’t dead and stop me grieving. Thank you.
“It’s too complicated,” I told him. “I thought you meant Becky. She’s dead. I never meant that Ros was. I’m sorry.” But, of course, he didn’t understand me. Anyway, he had moved on.
“You?” he said and pointed to the bucket and the Hoover, both lying on their sides on the grass, I could smell the stink of the pine cleaner; the lid must have been loose and now it was seeping away. “Key?” he asked, miming, pointing at the door.
I opened it. If he needed to see for himself, that was all right by me. But he didn’t go round calling her name and searching for her. He went straight to the kitchen, dragging a chair, climbed up and felt along the top of the cabinet, down behind the cornicing and pulled out a packet wrapped in a Morrison’s bag with the bunny-ear handles tied together to keep it secure. He kissed this too, like the Bible, and held it against his chest for a minute; then he climbed down and put the chair away.
“Oh, right!” I said. This wasn’t Ros’s place after all! I opened the bin bag and fished about until I found the toothbrush.
“Thank you,” said Kazek and put out his hand.
“No!” I pulled it back and dropped it in the bag again. “God, that’s vile.”
“Jednorazowka?” he said, scraping a finger down his face, through the beard.
“Yeah, but it’s filthy,” I told him. “You’d get germs.”
He was still staring at the bag, like he really wanted that manky old toothbrush and Bic back.
“Where’s the rest of your stuff?” I said. I pointed to his coat and trousers, mimed folding clothes. He shrugged and held out the legs of his jeans showing them to me. “That’s it?” I said.
He held out his arm to me, slapping the thick fabric of his jacket sleeve. It was sturdy, right enough, solid in fact, but it had shrunk and buckled, and it was too tight across his back to button closed. Not really that warm then. And not waterproof either: the fake leather bit across the shoulders was cracked and flaking, as if it had been…
“Oh Jesus!” I said. “You borrowed that tumble drier in the carport down there?”
“Jess,” he said. “Tumble dry!” He swept an imaginary cloak-
tarpaulin, in fact-around himself with a crackling noise. Then he shrugged and smiled at me. “Nie chce znowu zmoknac?” he said, and even though he didn’t mime I knew what he was asking from the look on his face, sheepish and hopeful. He wanted to stay in the caravan, like Ros used to let him do. But Ros did the books and she knew when the vans were free. For all I knew, Moormist would be full of kids in wetsuits by tomorrow.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But here.” I took out my wallet and gave him a twenty.
“Thank you, jess,” he said.
“Jessie,” I said, pointing at my chest.