Someone Else's Skin (33 page)

‘All right. So Simone’s more than a survivor. She’s a fighter.’

The hen party had vanished from sight, but the noise of their heels snagged back, flinting from flagstones.

Marnie drove in the direction of Ed’s flat. It took fifteen minutes, bringing them close to midnight by the time Ed was climbing from the car.

‘Doesn’t Leo have any idea where Hope might’ve gone?’ he asked.

‘He says not, but maybe I need to ask better questions. I’d take you along for that, but . . .’

‘I don’t have anything else to do.’ Ed kept his hand on the open door of the car. ‘As long as I’m being helpful.’

‘You are, but I need to do this bit alone. Leo’s not happy around men right now.’

‘Makes sense.’ He nodded. ‘Well, you know where I am if you need me.’

‘
When
I need you. Thanks, Ed. Get some sleep, if you can.’

20

The moon pitted its hard light on the kitchen floor, where Simone Bissell sat shivering.

In over half an hour, there had been no sound from the bathroom. She didn’t dare look in that direction, afraid of drawing Hope’s attention. With Lowell, she’d kept her head down and done as he said, the way she did with the Bissells to begin with. Her whole life had been about keeping her head down, except in ballet class, where she had to hold it high, higher, the back of her neck burning with worry that the teacher would single her out for disciplining. It became its own discipline, the fear of failing to do as they said; a voice in her head berating her before anyone else could.

Keep off the grass, stick to the path. Pick up your feet. Don’t dawdle. No lights in the house after ten o’clock. Keep yourself to yourself. Quiet. Be quiet. None of your business. Say nothing.

Not now. Keep out. Go away. Your father’s sleeping. Mother needs her rest. Stand up straight.

Don’t give me that face.

Knock before entering, wait to be asked, this is not your room. Stay away.

Not now! Get out!

Don’t touch. That is not a toy. Don’t give me that face.

Clean up this mess. Those hands are filthy. Look at your clothes! Wash dark colours separately. Use a nailbrush. Leave things the way you found them. Go to your room.

Good girl.

Hope called her a good girl.

Simone didn’t know what Hope wanted. If she knew, she could do it. But she didn’t; she didn’t know anything about the other woman.

The silence she’d mistaken for strength between them was only silence. She had dropped a pebble of trust into that well – and she would never,
never
hear it land.

Hope had made her strip. She’d made her show the scars from her mother’s knives. Simone had trembled, waiting for her touch, expecting – what?

Benediction – that was the word the women used at the church in Apac. Simone did not think that Hope wanted benediction. Not after she had seen the way Hope held the kettlebell, the way she
kissed
the kettlebell.

Hope wanted her pain. Somehow . . . it fed her.

When they had sat together in the dark, at the refuge, it wasn’t Simone’s hands that Hope was holding. It was her scars. Her past. All the things that had ever hurt her. All the ways she had ever mended.

Hope had taken it, crept under her skin and stolen it. Now she was strong, and Simone was nothing.

Hope hadn’t hurt her, not yet, but she’d hurt
him
; Simone knew that smell. She scratched at her forearms, fretfully.

Kicking, from the bathroom.

He was trying to get out again. Simone froze, holding her breath, keeping still. If she could, she would have stopped her heart beating.

Hope didn’t shout, or sigh. She got to her feet and turned in the direction of the bathroom. The clothes Simone had given her were too big, grey sleeves hiding her hands as she stooped to pick up the kettlebell, and the lump hammer.

That is not a toy. A hammer is not a toy . . .

Hope reached the door to the downstairs bathroom, pausing there to look back across her shoulder at Simone. ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ she smiled. As if she was going to wash her face, or brush her hair.

Simone wanted to pray, but she couldn’t think of the words to any prayers except those taught to her by the Bissells, and even those she couldn’t remember past the opening lines:
All you big things, bless the Lord. All you little things, bless the Lord.

But what were the little things? Ants and . . . fleas. What else?

Tadpoles and mosquito larvae. Pollen dust and tsetse flies.

Locusts and water drops.

Nasiche. She was Nasiche Auma.
Born in the locust season
.

Hope pushed at the bathroom door with the head of the lump hammer.

Went inside.

The kicking stopped.

Iron ringing. Iron on iron.

Screaming.

Simone put her hands over her ears, rocking back and forth. ‘All you little things,’ she recited, to drown out the sounds from the bathroom, ‘all you little, little things . . .’

21

Leo Proctor wasn’t sleeping, despite the late hour. ‘He’s awake,’ the on-duty doctor told Marnie. ‘Otherwise I’d be sending you away, badge or no badge.’

‘I’ll leave,’ Marnie promised, ‘as soon as he’s tired.’

Leo looked relieved to see her, once he was sure she was alone.

‘I saw Kenneth Reece,’ she told him. ‘He wasn’t very helpful.’

Leo searched her face. ‘You still haven’t found her.’

‘I’m afraid not.’ She drew up a chair next to his bed. ‘We’re worried about Simone. And Hope.’

‘Simone is the woman she made friends with, at the refuge?’ Leo heaved himself upright, wincing.

‘Yes.’ She helped him with the blanket. ‘Take it easy.’

‘I’m okay.’

‘Good, but take it easy anyway.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t want to get kicked out of here for harassing the patient.’ He returned the smile, then blinked and looked away. It was a long time, she guessed, since he’d used the smile.

‘Hope doesn’t drive, is that right?’

He nodded.

‘How about a mobile phone – does she use one?’

‘No. She’s never used one.’

‘All right . . .’ The next question was the tricky one. ‘You said she sometimes picked up men, in bars. Is there any chance she might’ve gone to one of them?’

He recoiled from the question.

‘I’m sorry,’ Marnie said, ‘but we need to rule it out.’

‘I don’t know any names. I don’t think
she
knew their names.’ He looked at his hands, turning them over slowly. ‘I can’t imagine them taking her in. They weren’t interested in her
safety
, that’s for sure.’ He raised his eyes. For the first time, Marnie saw anger – defiance – in his stare. A glimpse of the man he was going to be now this was over. Out in the open. ‘Your DS . . . I can’t remember his name.’

‘DS Noah Jake.’

‘You said he saved my life. At the refuge.’

‘He did. With the help of one of the women.’

‘Was it Simone?’ Leo demanded.

‘No, another woman.’ Marnie paused. ‘She’s missing from the refuge too.’

Leo’s eyes scanned the hospital room, as if he was searching for something to make sense of the mess they were in. ‘If Hope wanted me dead and he saved my life . . .
he’d
be the one she’d go for. For getting in her way. She’d hate that.’

A shock of pain gripped Marnie’s right side. ‘You think she’s bearing a grudge against DS Jake?’

‘Against anyone who was in her way. She has to have control, because of what she saw happening to her mum, what happened when
she
lost control.’

Leo looked at her. ‘You should warn him. Your DS. If he doesn’t already know what she’s like . . . You should warn him.’

It was chilly outside the hospital, clouds lying like camouflage across the night sky. Marnie called Noah, but the call went straight to voicemail, so she rang the station.

‘Abby? Is Noah there?’

‘Not yet, boss. I left a message. He’ll be on his way.’

‘Is DS Carling there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Put him on, will you?’ She waited, aware of the hospital buzzing with light at her back. ‘You were with Noah,’ she said, when Carling came on the phone. ‘This afternoon. That’s right, isn’t it? Any reason you didn’t come back together?’

‘I took the tube, boss. He said he’d walk. Is something up?’

‘Let’s hope not.’ She rang off, trying Noah’s number again.

‘I hope you’re home,’ she said into his voicemail. ‘I’m coming over.’

22

It was one o’clock when she reached Westbourne Grove.

‘Hello?’ Dan Noys answered the buzzer, sounding wide awake.

‘It’s Marnie Rome. Sorry it’s so late. Can I come up?’

She’d counted to three before he buzzed her into the building.

The flat was up a flight of stairs. Dan Noys was waiting at the top, in jeans and a red T-shirt, propping the door open with his bare feet. As soon as she saw his face, Marnie knew Noah wasn’t home. Her stomach clenched, coldly.

‘What’s happened?’ Dan’s voice was harsh, blank terror in his eyes. ‘Is he all right?’

She needed to be honest. ‘I can’t get hold of him. Can you?’

‘No.’

‘Can I come in?’

Dan stood back to let her into the flat. Worry had aged him by ten years, robbing his face of its boyishness. He was as good-looking as Noah, in a blond-blue-eyed mould. The sort of looks that let you coast through life, assuming you had charm as an accessory. Marnie hadn’t seen much of Dan’s charm, yet. Fear was making black ice of his eyes. She stayed standing, deliberately not looking at the room, keeping her eyes on Dan. ‘When was the last time you heard from him?’

‘This afternoon.’ Dan put his hands into his pockets, bringing up his shoulders. Then he took them out again, moved his fingers to circle his right wrist, holding it in a hard grip.

‘What time was this?’ she asked.

‘Close to five o’clock. He said he’d be working late.’

‘Have you tried calling him since then?’

‘No.’ His voice was chilly. ‘I thought he was at work.’

‘Did he say what he was working on?’

Dan shook his head. ‘Of course not.’ He dropped the wrist he’d been holding. There were ugly marks around it, white. ‘But you’re a murder investigation team. So I’m guessing it’s a murder.’ His eyes blazed with unshed tears.

She wanted to say something to reassure him. She also wanted to leave, now, so she could get on with the job of finding Noah.

‘What do you think’s happened to him?’ His voice hitched on the last syllable. ‘You must have some idea.’

‘It’s possible . . . he responded to a phone call from a missing person.’

‘Without letting you know?’

‘Possibly. He was anxious about the person in question. He may have responded without thinking.’

‘Without letting
anyone
know,’ Dan insisted. He was frantic. Doing his best not to betray it, but frantic.

‘I agree it’s unlikely. We’ll trace his phone . . .’ She stopped, spreading her hands in apology. ‘I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear platitudes, but I promise we’ll do everything we can to find him.’

His eyes emptied, his face flinching. She’d said the wrong thing. It wasn’t a platitude, but it wasn’t much better. It threatened a fruitless search, and the worst possible news at the end of it. A muscle tensed at the side of Dan’s mouth.

‘Go ahead and say it,’ she invited.

‘Say what?’ he demanded.

She kept her voice light, impersonal. She could give him that much, the chance to let off steam in her direction. ‘That you can’t believe this has happened. Where was the backup? Don’t we have procedures in place to prevent this sort of thing happening? And anything else you want to add.’

‘You seem to have it all covered.’ His eyes thawed a little.

‘I’ll keep you informed of anything that happens.’

He looked directly at her. ‘Thanks. For keeping the bullshit to a minimum.’

She nodded. After that, it was impossible to end the conversation in any of the traditional ways: a firm handshake, an unqualified promise:
we’ll find him
. She didn’t offer a promise, or her hand.

Lowell Paton had kept Simone Bissell hidden for a year. Marnie doubted Hope would take that long to exact whatever revenge she deemed appropriate for the man who’d got in the way of her husband’s murder.

Ed called as she was heading back into the station.

‘I told you to get some sleep,’ she said.

‘I’m working on it. How’d it go with Leo?’

‘He thinks Hope’s bearing a grudge against Noah, for saving his life.’

She heard Ed wince. ‘You said Ayana helped with that.’

‘Yes, but Ayana’s gone.’

A fear nipped at her: that it was Hope who’d called Ayana’s brothers. She shook the fear away. Hope couldn’t have got hold of the phone number. How could she?

Ed said, ‘So you think . . . Hope’s going after Noah.’

‘I don’t know. I’d be happier if I knew where he was right now.’

‘You don’t know where he is?’ Ed asked in alarm.

‘He’s not answering his phone. No one’s seen him since five o’clock yesterday afternoon.’

Five o’clock yesterday afternoon, Noah had been with Ron Carling, in West Brompton. That was the last anyone had seen of him.

‘Does he know about Hope?’ Ed asked.

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I should’ve warned him at the Proctors’ house, when I was testing my theory about the space under the stairs, but I’d made such a mess of it with Leo the first time round. I wanted to be sure . . .’

‘Noah’s smart enough to pick up on any vibes you were giving out. In any case, he wouldn’t be that reckless, would he? Going off without checking with you first?’

Noah had wanted shot of Ron Carling, she was sure of it. God knows what mood he’d been in. ‘Not usually, but he’s beating himself up over Ayana. If he saw a chance to put part of that right . . .’ She should have taken the time to talk to Noah about guilt. She’d seen him struggle with it, but she’d shelved the lecture for a later date. A mistake. She should’ve talked it through, told him why guilt wasn’t a bad thing, wasn’t about regret. Guilt kept you focused, alert. Alive. ‘I’d better ring off,’ she told Ed. ‘I’m going into the station. I’ll let you know if there’s news.’