Читать книгу Last Seen: A gripping psychological thriller, full of secrets and twists - Lucy Clarke, Lucy Clarke - Страница 14

I sleep fitfully, listening for the sound of the beach hut doors opening, Jacob’s feet moving across the floor – but the footsteps never arrive. I wake unrested, my heart heavy.

Nick is already out of bed, looping a beach towel around his neck and slipping outside, disappearing into a shaft of light. He’ll swim out to the yellow buoy and back, then rinse the salt from his skin at the shower block. Usually he’d catch the first ferry to the quay at eight, and be in the office before the rest of his employees. Today, though, he won’t be going into the office. He’ll return to the hut and wait for the police to arrive.

I climb out of bed and set the kettle on the hob, in need of a hit of coffee. When I pull up the blinds, dust motes dance in the spill of sunlight. Outside, I can see the wind is up, the sea choppy. The patch of blue sky hovering above us will soon be swallowed by the thickening clouds.

I fold the sofa bed away, going through the motions of plumping the cushions and positioning them the way I like them. When Nick puts the bed away, the cushions are slung on to the sofa in any order – his silent protest that there are too many. Cushions. Did I really care about the positioning of cushions?

I hook back the beach hut doors so that the breeze can wash in and out. The sandbank is slowly yawning awake; two young girls from a few huts away are already playing by the rocks in their pyjamas, hair tangled over their shoulders. I try not to envy their parents: Your children are there. Right there!

Once I’ve made myself a coffee, I set the steaming mug beside the notebook I’ve dug out. The police will be here soon and I want to use the time I have productively. I fetch a pen and begin writing a list of all the people who could have seen Jacob on the day he disappeared.

Disappeared. Is that even the right word?

I start by listing the people who were at the family barbecue. There were only six of us: Me, Nick, Jacob, Isla, and Nick’s parents, David and Stella.

Next, I think about his friends at the party at Luke’s hut. I sip at the scalding coffee, realizing I only know the names of four or five of them, so I add a note to speak to both Luke and Caz again today. There are now eleven names on my sheet of paper, and I like looking at the neat structure of it – it gives me something practical I can work through. I want to speak to each of these people and find out if they noticed anything unusual about Jacob’s behaviour that evening, whether he gave any clue as to where he was going.

I will need to spread the net wider than the sandbank, as he could have hidden out for the night, then taken the first ferry off the sandbank in the morning. I must ask the ferryman, Ross Wayman, if he remembers seeing Jacob, I think as an aside, adding his name to the list.

It’s also possible that Jacob left the sandbank in the middle of the night without using the ferry; if you know the route through the wooded path, you can walk across the headland, which takes just over an hour on foot.

If Jacob has left – who would he choose to visit, and why? His closest friends are here on the beach. There’s family, I suppose. Jacob gets on well with his aunties and uncles – but both Nick’s brothers live in America with their families; east coast for Ted and Linda, west coast for Brian, Sally and their twins. The only family member who lives nearby is my mother and, although she’s very fond of Jacob, I don’t think she’d have been his first choice of refuge. Apart from our visits on her birthday and at Christmas, we see very little of her.

I glance down guiltily, picturing my mother sitting at the large mahogany dining table, with a crystal water jug on the table and the best silver cutlery laid out ready for a breakfast for one. The house is far too big for her now. I imagine the clink of her spoon against her china bowl, the sound ringing out in all that deafening silence. I don’t know how she can bear it.

I suddenly want to call her – to tell her about Jacob.

I take out my mobile, not caring that it’s early.

When she answers, the sound of her voice causes a lump of emotion to rise in my throat. ‘Oh Mum,’ I begin …

The police said they’d arrive on the first ferry, but they don’t. It’s ten o’clock when they finally trudge across the beach, their dark uniforms looking incongruous against the backdrop of the sea.

‘Sarah Symonds?’ the male officer asks, approaching our hut.

‘Yes, that’s me.’

Next door, Diane pauses from sweeping the deck to watch, eyes narrowing with interest.

I glare at her, irritated.

‘I’m Police Constable Steven Evans.’ A thin man with delicate, almost effeminate features, and a round nub of a chin, steps on to the deck, stretching out a pale hand, which I shake. ‘And this is PC Jacqui Roam,’ he says, introducing the woman at his side. She is about ten years younger than me, with thin brown hair in a plain bob, and pencilled-in eyebrows. There are dark circles beneath her eyes and the purple traces of acne scars around her chin and mouth. Her cheeks are flushed from the walk and, when she smiles, her eyes show warmth.

‘Come in.’ I usher them inside and point to the sofa. I imagine Diane will be lingering on her deck still. I want to pull our beach hut doors shut so that there’s nothing to overhear, but it’s already too warm inside.

PC Jacqui Roam whistles through her teeth. ‘Beautiful beach hut. I didn’t realize they were so spacious inside. And there’s an upstairs, too?’ She glances up at the wooden stepladder leading to the mezzanine.

It’s what always surprises people the first time they step inside the huts. From the outside, the beach huts look little more than colourful sheds, but inside they are like miniature homes. Usually I would chat easily about the layout of the beach hut, or show them the view from the porthole window upstairs – but the only thing I want to talk about right now is Jacob.

Sensing this, PC Evans takes out his notebook and a black biro. ‘Let’s start with the details.’

‘My husband will be in shortly. He’s just finishing up a call,’ I say glancing towards the shoreline, where Nick is pacing. He’s on the phone to his office and looks tense, preoccupied. He stares at the ground as he moves, his right hand gesturing blindly at his side. Occasionally his hand travels to his hairline, which he half-heartedly rubs. He should be in this beach hut with me, his hand holding mine. I try to catch his eye to let him know the police are here, but he doesn’t glance up.

PC Evans begins by running through a long list of questions about Jacob – most of which Nick covered when he rang the station last night. He makes notes about Jacob’s eye colour, whether he’s right or left handed, the details of his social media accounts, his mobile telephone number, his access to funds. The list goes on and on.

PC Roam then takes over, asking, ‘Sarah, why don’t you tell us everything you can about the day of your son’s disappearance?’

I sit up straight and clasp my hands together. I speak in a clear, precise voice, wanting to give them all the facts as succinctly and exactly as possible. I tell them it was Jacob’s seventeenth birthday and that we opened presents and had a family barbecue with Nick’s parents and Jacob’s godmother. Then I describe Jacob’s plans to go to Luke’s party that evening for some birthday drinks. I explain that I’ve talked to Luke, who told me that Jacob left the party at around eleven with his girlfriend, Caz, although Luke believed Jacob planned on returning to the party. I then repeat what I overheard – that Caz was very drunk – and that she and Jacob walked along the beach, then stopped at the rocks at the edge of bay, which I point to through the beach hut doors. I add that there may have been a disagreement, and that Caz then went back to her beach hut, leaving Jacob there. ‘That was the last time he’s been seen.’

I pass PC Evans the list of names I have written down, along with contact details, and – where relevant – the number of their beach huts. I have done my homework. I want to make things as easy as possible for the police.

PC Roam leans forward. ‘How has Jacob seemed to you, lately? What sort of mood has he been in?’ When she talks, her pencilled brows lift and dip above her eyes.

‘He’s been a little distracted,’ I admit. ‘I think it’s his girlfriend. My husband and I think it might be love.’

‘Things were … going well between them?’ PC Roam asks.

Earlier in the week I’d been washing up breakfast dishes, while Jacob sat slumped in the deckchair, his feet resting on the balcony railing, binoculars pressed to his face. ‘What are you looking at?’

Jacob whipped the binoculars away and turned to glare at me, as if shocked by my audacious attempt at communicating with him. ‘Nothing. A cormorant.’ He pushed himself up, his height still taking me by surprise. ‘I’m gonna see Luke,’ he’d grunted, then climbed from the deck and loped away across the beach.

Exhausted by the constant sensation that I needed to walk on eggshells, I’d settled into the deckchair he’d vacated and sighed.

Jacob had left his binoculars perched on the deck railing, so I picked them up and held them to my face, pointing them in the direction he’d been looking.

I squinted along the shoreline, looking for a cormorant. Joe and Binks were talking to Lorrain and Isla, who’d just come in from a swim and, beyond them, I saw what had caught Jacob’s attention: Caz was sitting on the shoreline in her bikini, between two boys. She had her head tipped back, laughing. Then she playfully slapped one of the boys. I remember thinking then: jealousy can be a toxic emotion.

I knew that very well.

Now I answer PC Roam. ‘Jacob doesn’t talk to me about his love life. Obviously,’ I say, imitating his gruff tone. I’ve no idea why I’m trying so hard to make the officers like me. Maybe I think they’ll put more effort into finding Jacob. ‘I imagine that there were the normal jealousies and arguments and make-ups.’

PC Roam nods, then asks, ‘What about your relationship with Jacob? How were things between the two of you?’

‘Fine. Everything was fine,’ I say, and I wonder if I’ve answered too brightly.

PC Roam’s mobile rings and she glances at the screen. When she flicks it to silent, apologizing for the interruption, I catch a glimpse of her screen saver – a picture of a round-faced baby smiling with a bib on. So she’s a mother, too. I wonder who her child is with while she’s at work, and how hard she must find it to leave.

When she looks up, I catch her eye and she seems to read my thoughts. She smiles.

‘And where were you and your husband the night you last saw Jacob?’ PC Evans asks.

‘I was here in the beach hut. Went to bed early.’

‘So the last time you saw Jacob was when he left for the drinks party at Luke’s hut around –’ he looks at his pad – ‘eight o’clock.’

‘That’s correct. My husband left an hour before that. He had to drive to Bristol ready for a pitch on Monday morning and he wanted to miss the traffic.’ As I’m talking about Nick, I hear the tread of his footsteps across the deck, and the three of us turn.

‘Nick Symonds,’ he says, offering his hand to both officers in turn.

‘We were just hearing about your whereabouts on the night Jacob was last seen. Your wife tells us you were in Bristol.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ I pour Nick a glass of water while he gives the officers the details of his hotel and meeting.

I must have tuned out for a moment, because all of a sudden PC Evans is saying to me, ‘You and your son had words, did you?’

I turn, blinking into the spotlight of his question.

I’m aware of Nick’s brows drawing together as he looks at me, no doubt surprised that I have not shared this detail with the police. ‘Oh, well, we did, I suppose,’ I say to PC Evans, trying to smile. ‘Nothing important – just curfew time. You know what teenagers can be like.’

Through the corner of my eyes, I can see Nick staring at me, bewildered.

I panic. I can’t remember what I’d said the argument was about to Nick. It wasn’t curfew time. Why did I tell the police that? I should have stuck to the same story. I can feel heat creeping up my throat, clawing into my cheeks.

Then it comes back to me: ‘He also got a bit of a lecture about using his phone when I’m talking to him. Nothing serious. He left in a bit of a huff – but that’s nothing unusual! He’s seventeen!’

PC Roam saves me by smiling.

I daren’t look at Nick, but I hope he’s bought it, too.

PC Evans asks, ‘Have there been any signs that Jacob may be depressed?’

‘No, not at all,’ Nick answers. ‘Not to my mind, at least. Sarah?’

I shake my head. Jacob can be moody and challenging, but I wouldn’t say he’s depressed.

‘And has he ever suffered from any mental health problems?’

‘No,’ we both answer.

‘Have you been through Jacob’s belongings?’ PC Evans asks. ‘Noticed anything missing? A laptop, passport, wallet, clothes – anything that stands out?’

‘Jacob left the beach hut with his rucksack,’ I tell them, ‘but then he always takes it if he’s going to a friend’s hut for the evening.’

‘What do you think was in it?’

‘Not much – probably just his wallet and phone, and I think a blue hoodie. I couldn’t find it in his drawer. I’ve checked through his things here, and no other clothes look like they’ve been taken, or his wash stuff. He doesn’t have a laptop any more, just uses an iPad. That’s still here, too.’ I explain that our house is rented out during the summer holidays and all our other belongings are stored in the garage. The police suggest we visit this afternoon to be sure nothing is missing.

‘If it’s okay, we’d like to take Jacob’s iPad with us. Just procedure,’ PC Evans adds.

‘Course,’ I say.

Nick turns to me. ‘Have you told them about the weed in Jacob’s drawer, yet?

‘Not yet,’ I say tightly. What is he thinking? ‘It was just a tiny amount,’ I tell the police. ‘We’ve never seen Jacob with any before. He’s not into drugs – we’d know. I imagine he’s just experimenting. He’s at the age, isn’t he?’

‘Could we see?’ PC Evans asks.

I move to the drawer, fuming with Nick. This gives completely the wrong impression of Jacob. I take out Jacob’s tin and pass it to PC Evans. He opens it and looks inside, his expression giving nothing away.

‘What I did want to show you was this,’ I say, pulling out the envelope with the cash inside. ‘There’s five hundred pounds here. To be honest, I’ve no idea where it came from, or what Jacob is doing with it.’

I hand it to PC Evans, swapping it for the tin. He looks through the money, asking whether Jacob had a job, or savings, or whether there’s anyone who may have given him this sum of money. Nick and I share what we’d discussed, and the officer notes it down.

There are a few further formalities to go through, including the police conducting a brief search of the hut. They snap on blue plastic gloves, and move through the small space looking in the drawers and cupboards that I have already turned out.

‘If you don’t mind,’ PC Evans says a few minutes later, as he climbs down the ladder from the mezzanine, his knees creaking, ‘we’d like to take Jacob’s toothbrush with us.’ I must look surprised by the request, as he elaborates, ‘It’s just procedure. For his DNA.’

A flash of horror passes across Nick’s face as he, like me, realizes why the police require this. I fetch the toothbrush, looking away as PC Evans takes out a clear plastic bag to seal it within.

PC Roam requests a photo of Jacob. Nick takes out his phone and shows them a selection of shots. The police choose one, and Nick emails the image straight over to them. It’s a recent picture of Jacob wading in from the sea. His dark hair is pushed back from his face, and his skin glows in the way that it does after a day in the sunshine. He looks handsome in the photo, and I like it too, because he looks young. Not seventeen. Fresh-faced and innocent.

As they are closing up their notebooks, getting to their feet, PC Roam asks, ‘Can you think of anyone who may have a grudge against him? Anyone who has ever threatened him, or would have a particular interest in him?’

The questions catch me off guard, and I open my mouth, but can’t think of what I intended to say.

It is Nick who steps forward. ‘No. Absolutely not. No one would want to hurt him.’

PC Roam looks at me for a moment and I wonder what she sees.

Then she nods.

Both officers thank us for our time and tell us they’ll be in touch.

I stand in the doorway of the beach hut, watching as the police walk away.

Nick folds his arms across his chest. ‘That seemed to go okay.’

‘Yes,’ I agree. In the hour the police have been here, I’ve only had to lie to them twice.