Shifting Sands (10 page)

‘The very same. And – I don't believe this – she's asking me to go to Manchester! She must be psychic!'

‘You're kidding!'

‘Listen to this:
Next week I must go to Manchester. I know this is much to ask, but I beg you to come there. I can no longer put off what I must tell you, and I promise you it will be worth your trouble
.'

They stared at each other. ‘It beggars belief, doesn't it?' Jonathan exclaimed. ‘Each time I determine to put her right out of my mind, up she pops again.'

‘What will you do?'

‘Well, I sure as eggs wouldn't charge up there just to see her. But since, by a pure fluke, we'll be there anyway . . .'

‘Not so much of the “we”!'

‘Oh come on, we work together, remember?'

‘So you're saying you'll agree to meet her?'

Jonathan reread the message. ‘I must confess all this cloak-and-dagger stuff has whetted my curiosity.' He looked up, coming to a decision. ‘Yes, damn it, I'll call her bluff one last time. Get her to come to our hotel. If she doesn't turn up, we won't have put ourselves out, and if she does, at least we'll know whether or not it's worth following up.'

Anna checked the list on the kitchen notice board. Laundry – done. Ironing – still to do. Dry cleaner's – outstanding. Holiday notes for Beatrice – outstanding. Reply to bank letter – outstanding.

She sighed. She seemed to have been working flat out for the last couple of days, with very little to show for it. And now it was time to set off for the boys' birthday tea. Their gifts lay ready on the hall table, including the T-shirts bought in Pretoria, and nostalgia tugged at her as she remembered buying them with Lewis at her side. And in the same moment the phone rang.

She hesitated, wondering whether to leave it to the answerphone. She really should be leaving, but . . .

She lifted the phone. ‘Hello?'

‘Hello, sweetheart.'

A wave of heat washed over her. ‘Lewis!' she said.

Cameron Masters gave a cursory tap on his father's door and, his eyes on the papers in his hand, pushed it open and went in.

Lewis was seated at his desk, his chair swivelled round so that his back was to the door, and Cameron, seeing he was on the phone, prepared to wait. To his surprise, however, his father broke off his conversation and, turning, waved him peremptorily out of the room.

As he hesitated, Lewis put his hand over the mouthpiece and said curtly, ‘Wait outside, will you? And close the door behind you.'

His face flushing, Cameron turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door with exaggerated care. Dismissed like a bloody schoolboy! he thought angrily, but he was damned if he'd stand meekly waiting by the door. If it hadn't been imperative to have a word, he'd have left straight away and let his father stew. He'd an appointment in less than an hour, dammit.

By way of compromise, he poured himself a cup of water from the machine and drank it slowly, looking out of the window at the extensive grounds. It was warm for October, and several of the guests were wandering round in their towelling robes, glasses of juice in their hands.

What the hell had got into the old man? Cameron thought irritably. Come to think of it, he'd been unpredictable all week, ever since he got back from holiday. If this was the result a break had on him, it was as well they were few and far between.

The intercom rang on the receptionist's desk, and a moment later she called across, ‘Your father will see you now, Cameron.'

Oh, will he? Cameron raised a hand in acknowledgement of the message, but continued to sip slowly at his water until he'd finished it. Then he tossed the paper cup in the bin and, holding himself in rein, walked back to Lewis's office and knocked loudly.

‘Enter.'

He did so, and father and son stared at each other. Then Lewis said, ‘At least you remembered to knock this time.'

‘As I did before.'

‘But didn't wait for an answer, which defeats the purpose.'

‘I've come in before when you were on the phone, and it hasn't been a problem.'

‘Well, this time it was.'

Cameron waited for further explanation and realized it wasn't forthcoming.

‘So what is it you wanted?' Lewis prompted.

‘The figures in from Sandersons don't tally with the estimates. I've had a word with Smithers, and he thinks they're trying it on.'

‘Let me see them, then.'

Stiffly, Cameron crossed the room to his father's desk and laid down his folder. Lewis glanced up at him. ‘And you can stop behaving like a jilted virgin. You don't have to know every damn thing I do.'

In spite of himself, Cameron's mouth twitched. ‘Fair enough,' he said, and, differences dismissed, father and son bent together over the discrepant figures.

‘Mrs Nash?'

Imogen frowned, trying to place the voice. ‘Yes?'

‘Good afternoon; this is Elizabeth Wright, at Broadfields.'

Daisy's headmistress, Imogen thought, confused. ‘Yes, Miss Wright?'

‘I've no wish to alarm you, but have you heard from Daisy in the last twenty-four hours?'

Imogen's heart set up an uneven thumping. ‘No?' She heard her voice rise. ‘Why?'

‘I have to tell you she's not been seen since lunchtime, and we've been unable to establish where she is.'

Imogen glanced instinctively at the clock. Five fifteen. ‘And you've only just realized?'

‘Indeed not, but we didn't want to alarm you unnecessarily. A search has been conducted in and around the school and her friends questioned, but they were unable to throw any light on it. I wondered if perhaps she might have come home?'

Imogen's mouth was dry, and she moistened her lips. ‘I haven't seen her. But surely she must have told someone or left a note, if she was intending to . . . run away?'

‘It seems not.' The voice was clipped.

‘Was she . . . upset about anything?'

‘She'd been reprimanded for not handing in some work, but that's scarcely reason to disappear.'

The word rang fresh alarm bells. ‘Disappear? Could someone have abducted her? Have there—?'

‘Mrs Nash, please! I assure you Daisy hasn't been outside the grounds. We're very strict about that.'

‘She seems to be outside them now,' Imogen said baldly.

‘Yes, well that's what we're trying to ascertain. We've made enquiries at the railway and bus stations, but no one remembers seeing her.'

‘Oh, God!' Imogen breathed.

‘I'm sure there's nothing to worry about,' the headmistress assured her, less than convincingly.

‘Have you informed the police?'

‘We were waiting till I'd spoken to you, though I appreciate that if she
had
arrived home, you'd have informed us.'

‘Naturally.'

‘Then all I can do is . . .'

Imogen suddenly stopped listening, staring through the window at the car that had drawn up at their gate. A taxi, surely? Heart pounding, she waited, Miss Wright's voice rattling incomprehensibly in her ear as – oh, thank God! – her daughter emerged from the back, carrying her school satchel.

She broke into the woman's spiel. ‘Miss Wright, she's just arrived now. I'm so sorry about this. I'll come back to you as soon as we've spoken to her.' And without waiting for a response, Imogen dropped the phone and ran out of the house.

‘Daisy! What on
earth
do you think you're doing?'

Slightly shamefaced, the girl turned to her. ‘Oh, there you are, Mum. Could you pay the taxi? I used the last of my cash on the train.'

Imogen stared at her, and Daisy, bracing herself, defiantly held her gaze. Laconically, the taxi driver held out a hand, breaking the spell.

‘Go and get my bag. It's on the hall table.'

Dropping her satchel on the pavement, Daisy set off up the path. Not until the driver had been paid and driven off did Imogen turn again to her daughter, grabbing her by the arm.

‘What the
hell
are you doing here?'

Daisy's mouth set in a sullen line that was depressingly familiar. ‘I'm not going back,' she said.

‘Oh yes, you are, young lady. Wait till your father hears about this.'

Daisy switched to pleading mode. ‘Please don't make me, Mum! Everyone's been getting at me – I hate it there!'

‘Is this all because you didn't do your prep?'

Daisy stared at her in astonishment. ‘How—?'

‘I've had Miss Wright on the phone, that's how. There's been a full-scale search of the school and grounds, enquiries made at the station – uselessly, as it turns out – and she was about to call the police.'

Daisy looked frightened. ‘I didn't think—'

‘You never do! That's the trouble!'

‘You sound just like Daddy!' Daisy accused her, and burst into tears.

With an exasperated sigh, Imogen bent to retrieve the satchel and, still grasping her daughter's arm, led her back into the house.

‘She thinks she can do exactly as she likes!' Roger stormed. He'd had a trying day at the office and, looking forward to the weekend, had arrived home in the middle of a scene between his wife and daughter, whom he'd thought safely at school. Now, having despatched Daisy to her room, he'd rounded on Imogen.

‘You're far too lenient with her, I keep telling you that, giving her everything she asks for – money, clothes, whatever fancy takes her. God knows if the school will have her back, and then what would we do, with GCSEs within spitting distance?'

‘I managed to soothe them down,' Imogen replied, ‘but your shouting at her won't help.'

‘On the contrary, I've not shouted enough! I'm sick and tired of having my authority flouted by the two of you going behind my back.'

‘Roger, I don't! I'm only trying to keep the peace!'

‘But at what cost?' He strode to the drinks cupboard and poured himself a straight whisky, downing it in one. ‘I've had the hell of a week at work, and this is what I come home to!'

‘So . . . what are we going to do?'

‘Send her back, of course. If you're sure they'll take her.'

‘But shouldn't we try to find out what's wrong? She must have been unhappy, to—'

‘Nonsense! She's not used to discipline, that's the trouble, and when someone tries to enforce it, she promptly runs home to Mummy, who's sure to take her side.'

‘That's not fair!' Imogen flared.

‘It's you who aren't fair, Imogen, letting her think she can get away with this.'

‘But I don't! I never said that, though I do think we should give her the chance—'

‘She's had plenty of chances.' He ran his hand over his face. ‘Look, I need some peace and quiet. The three of you go ahead and have dinner. I'm off to the golf club. I'll get something to eat there.'

And before she could marshal the words to protest, the front door had banged behind him. Imogen ran into the hall, about to call him back, but Jack was standing motionless on the stairs, looking down at her. How much had he heard?

She steadied her breath. ‘Have you done your homework?'

He nodded, eyes wide.

‘Then you can have half an hour on the computer before dinner.'

‘Is Daddy coming back?' Jack asked, his voice trembling.

‘Not for dinner.' She knew that wasn't what he meant, but didn't trust herself to elaborate. She turned abruptly into the kitchen, her mind seething, and promptly lifted the phone.

‘Sophie? It's me. Is this a bad time?'

‘Well, supper's under way, but it's ticking over for the moment. Is something wrong?'

‘Daisy's arrived home out of the blue.'

There was a pause. Then Sophie said simply, ‘Ah!'

‘All hell's been let loose. The first I knew was a phone call from her headmistress saying she was missing, and I was panicking about that when a taxi drew up and out she stepped, cool as a cucumber, announcing that she's not going back.'

‘Oh, Imo, I'm so sorry.'

‘As you might imagine, Roger blew a fuse and has stormed off to the golf club, saying he'll eat there. Naturally he blames me for this.'

‘But what happened exactly? Why did she come home?'

‘Because, if you please, she was given detention for not handing in her prep. Honestly, Sophie, I could have scalped her! They were about to contact the police.'

‘So what happens next?'

‘Well, I phoned the school, of course, and after some sweet-talking on my part, they agreed she can stay here for the weekend while we try to drum some sense into her, and they'll expect her back on Monday. It was made clear, though, that she wouldn't escape punishment for this, and quite right too. My concern is how we can persuade her to go back, if she digs her heels in. We can't drag her there, kicking and screaming; and suppose she runs away again, and next time doesn't come home?'

‘Obviously your first priority is to get to the bottom of what happened. It must be more than detention, surely? Is she being bullied, do you think?'

The word catapulted Imogen back to her own schooldays – shivering in the playground until Sophie came to her rescue. ‘God, I hope not,' she said.

Over the wire, she heard a voice in the background, and Sophie replied, ‘Five minutes.' Then, to Imogen, ‘Sorry, love, I'll have to go. I suggest you and Roger sit down with her and talk things through as calmly as you can. I'm sure you'll sort something out.'