'the long call:' chapters 13 and 14

‘You’ll always be welcome back when you see the light, but until then, you’re a stranger to us.’ Then the door had been shut on them and they’d driven home, his mother weeping all the way.

The next day he’d left for Bristol, seen his tutor and told him he was leaving university. The day after he’d got a job entering data for an insurance company, because he needed to earn a

living. The following week he’d applied to join the police. He’d realized that he still needed rules and the idea of justice, that chaos made him panic. He’d tried to communicate with his

parents, but half-heartedly, through birthday cards, a present at Christmas. There’d been no response. In the beginning, his father had phoned occasionally, begging him to reconsider his

denial of faith. ‘Can’t you just go along with it for the sake of your mother? She’s in pieces.’ But Matthew was stubborn. ‘She taught me not to bear false witness.’ He’d dropped them a note

when he moved to Barnstaple, but they hadn’t got in touch. The separation had gone on for so long that neither side had known how to bridge the gap. When he’d heard about his father’s

condition from a neighbour, Matthew had called his mother immediately. She’d been almost speechless with rage. ‘I don’t know how you’ve got the nerve to speak to me. You do know it’s your

fault, the heart attack? We saw it in the _North Devon Journal_. Marriage to a _man._’ The last phrase explosive, as if she was spitting into the telephone. Spitting at him. He’d wanted to

visit his father in hospital, but had never been brave enough to go, anxious that there might be some truth in her accusation, or that he might bump into her in the hospital ward. She’d

never minded making a scene. But he’d longed to see his father, to chat about football and music as they had on those summer days when Matthew had gone with him visiting the coastal farms,

to hold his hand. The net curtain at the window moved. She’d seen him. He got out of the car and rang the doorbell. She wouldn’t want him to know that she’d been looking out for him, so it

was best to pretend he hadn’t seen the twitching curtain. He hadn’t seen her for twenty years, except a couple of times by chance recently, at a distance, in the street. She hadn’t changed

so much. She was small, fit for her age. The obsession with healthy eating might not have saved his father, but it had worked for her. She still walked most days into town to get her own

shopping. She’d never learned to drive. She stood aside to let him in quickly, so ashamed of who he was, it seemed, that she didn’t want the neighbours to know he was there. ‘I was expecting

you earlier.’ ‘I’ve only just been given your message. I was out working.’ He tried to keep the fight out of his voice and to remember the good times: her reading to him when he was very

small, putting on silly voices to make him laugh, her cheering him on at sports day, telling him how well he’d done even when he came next to last. Telling him, and everyone else who would

listen, that he’d grow up to be a great preacher. ‘Susan Shapland’s here,’ she said. ‘She’s out of her mind with worry.’ It sounded like an apology of sorts. They were standing in the hall.

There was the same wood-chip wallpaper. His father had put on a fresh coat of paint every two years. It still looked clean and bright so perhaps he’d done it just before he became ill. His

mother continued speaking in a whisper. ‘She came here because she didn’t know what else to do. She thought you’d be able to help.’ Susan Shapland was a widow, his mother’s closest friend.

She would have been by her side at the funeral, taking Matthew’s place. He didn’t know what to say. ‘Come on through,’ his mother said. ‘She’ll explain herself.’ He stepped into the front

room and back in time. This wasn’t a Proust madeleine moment. Memory here was triggered by a series of objects, not taste or smell. There was the paperweight with a dandelion seed head

trapped in the glass, the wooden solitaire set on the coffee table, the beads smooth and in their place, his parents’ wedding photograph on the mantelpiece, next to the picture of him in his

uniform, his first day at the Park School, a mug he’d made in pottery class when he was eleven. Susan was sitting in the easy chair next to the gas fire, where his father had always sat,

and Matthew felt a moment of affront. But the woman had been crying and the feeling passed quickly. ‘It’s Susan’s Christine,’ his mother said. ‘She’s missing.’ Only then did Matthew remember

that Susan had a daughter, about the same age as himself. They’d played together occasionally when Brethren meetings dragged on, the members lingering to discuss esoteric points of dogma

and practice. Should hats be worn or not worn at meetings? What was really meant by the virgin birth? As he recalled, both questions had been considered equally seriously. Christine had been

a quiet little thing, dark-haired, brown-eyed, with an awkward gait and slow speech. As he’d matured, started to grow up, she never had. She’d always looked different. When she was thirteen

she still brought a doll with her to meetings, still sucked her thumb. His mother had explained that she’d never grow up, because she had Down’s syndrome and had been born that way. A cross

that Susan and Cecil had to bear, but a blessing too, because she’d always be innocent. As Matthew remembered, Christine had never left home. He took the seat next to Susan’s. ‘Why don’t

you tell me what happened?’ ‘I didn’t want Christine to be at your father’s funeral. She gets bored and I was worried she’d start wandering around, upsetting people, getting in the way. My

sister lives in Lovacott and she said she’d have her to stay. You remember Grace? My sister? She’s not the most sociable of people and she didn’t mind staying at home. She said Dennis would

be there to represent them both.’ Matthew nodded. Of course he remembered Grace, but more because she was Dennis Salter’s wife than in her own right. She’d been kindly enough, but shy, happy

to stay in Salter’s shadow. Dennis Salter had a huge personality, and a warmth that held the Brethren together. Until Matthew’s outburst at the meeting, he’d taken the young Matthew under

his wing, encouraged him. It was not surprising perhaps that Matthew’s memory of the woman was sketchy. Occasionally she’d brought sweets along to meetings for the children, secretly

slipping them from her bag when she thought none of the adults were watching, but he remembered little else about her now. ‘Of course.’ Susan continued: ‘So, Dennis came to collect my

Christine on Monday morning and the idea was that she’d stay with them until last night. I was expecting her back before bedtime. When they didn’t bring her home, I assumed they’d decided to

keep her an extra night. To give me a break, like. I tried phoning, but Grace don’t always answer. They go to bed early. I thought if there’d been any problem they’d have let me know.’ As

the story continued and she became more upset again, Susan’s accent grew stronger. ‘I phoned first thing this morning and Grace told me Christine wasn’t there.’ ‘When did she go missing?’

Matthew thought this was the last thing they needed. A vulnerable missing person while they were working on a murder inquiry. He was making links too, wondering about coincidence, because

Lucy Braddick lived in Lovacott, and she had Down’s syndrome too. ‘Well, we don’t know that. Not exactly.’ ‘Perhaps you’d explain.’ ‘Well, she goes to the Woodyard three times a week, to the

day centre. To give me a break as much as anything.’ Matthew nodded but felt his pulse racing. ‘Dennis brought her in yesterday as normal. And he came back in the afternoon to wait for her,

but she never came out with the others, so he just thoughtshe’d taken the minibus home.’ Her voice suddenly warmed. ‘Poor soul, he’s in such a state. He’s blaming himself for the fact that

she’s missing and for not calling me to check. But he got caught up with another emergency. One of the Brethren was taken poorly that afternoon, so they went straight out again when they got

back to Lovacott. They were in A&E with him when I phoned them at home last night.’ ‘You’re saying that Christine could have gone missing anytime yesterday?’ Matthew paused. ‘Have you

checked with the day centre?’ _I was there for most of the day. She could have disappeared while I was sitting in the sun, chatting to my husband._ He remembered his walk through the day

centre and thought that Christine could have been in the kitchen when he passed, peeling potatoes at the sink. ‘I haven’t done _any_thing!’ Susan said. ‘I didn’t know where to start. I just

came here to Dorothy’s, because I knew you were a detective. I thought you’d know how to find her.’ He was going to ask why she hadn’t called the police as soon as she’d realized Christine

was missing, but the woman felt bad enough. No point making accusations now. She was here and so was he. Back in the family home and making himself useful at last. ‘Have you got a photograph

of Christine?’ ‘Not here.’ She seemed so distressed that he worried she’d start crying again. ‘I never thought.’ ‘I’ll drive you home,’ Matthew said. ‘Mother can come with you, keep you

company. You want to be there, don’t you, in case Christine finds her way back.’ ‘Oh yes!’ She looked up, horrified. ‘I never thought of that.’ He saw that panic had overwhelmed her; she was

drowning in it. ‘In the meantime, I’ll phone the station and get things started. Let’s see if we can find her for you.’ Susan Shapland lived in a little cottage, the middle of a terrace of

three on a creek running in from the Taw, on low-lying land close to Braunton Marsh. It was only a couple of miles from Matthew’s house, and from the place where Walden’s body had been

found. Susan must have called a taxi to Matthew’s mother’s house as soon as she realized Christine was missing. An impulse because she knew she couldn’t cope with this crisis on her own.

When Matthew had been a boy, the creek had been neglected, overgrown, with remnants of its industrial past: staithes and the rusted remains of a small crane. In the nineteenth century, boats

bringing coal to the county had tied up here, and had taken away the clay, which had been dug close by. Now, it formed part of a nature reserve. Colin Marston probably walked along the bank

every day while he was doing his bird census. The Shaplands’ cottage was low and damp. Susan had given up her battle with the wet that seeped in from outside, and there was mould on the

window ledges and crawling across the ceiling. Matthew wondered if anyone had suggested that she and Christine should move. Some incomer would buy the place, and make it habitable, but it

was barely that now. Perhaps the husband, Cecil, had been the person holding things together. He wondered too when his mother had last come here. He imagined the delight she would take in

throwing open windows and spraying the place with bleach, scrubbing until it shone. They sat in the cluttered living room while Susan hurried away to find a photograph. ‘A man came to the

Woodyard a couple of months ago and took the pictures.’ Christine was still recognizable as the girl he’d once played with. Short, dark-haired, a little dumpy. He thought it was the woman

he’d seen helping to cook in the Woodyard. She was smiling shyly at the camera. ‘That’s very useful. How old is she now?’ ‘Forty-two,’ Susan said. ‘But not in her mind. In her mind she’s

still a little girl.’ ‘Has she said anything recently about someone hurting her or asking her to do something that made her feel uncomfortable?’ Jonathan had occasionally brought home

anxieties about the sexual abuse of service users in his care. Allegations against relatives, carers. Matthew had never been able to proceed with a prosecution. It was one person’s word

against another and often the victims didn’t _have _the words to explain what had happened to them. A court case was intimidating enough at the best of times and would be so much worse for

someone like Christine, with a limited understanding of what was going on. Something unusual was happening here and ideas and possibilities skittered through his mind, unformed and difficult

to catch. Lucy Braddick was brave and she’d been clear that nothing untoward had gone on with Walden. But his behaviour could have been seen as grooming, stalking even, and perhaps Lucy

viewed the world through an innocent’s eyes. Although the man hadn’t sounded like the sort of person who’d be excited by having sex with a vulnerable adult, Matthew had never met him. If

he’d been close to a breakdown, perhaps he’d find something almost reassuring in being with a woman who’d be compliant, easy to dominate. Walden couldn’t have abducted Christine; he was

already dead when she went missing. So, what were they talking here? A circle of abuse with other people involved? And if an adult with a learning disability had been assaulted by Walden and

the family had found out, wouldn’t that be a motive for murder? Susan still hadn’t answered. She was staring at him in horror. At last she spoke. ‘My Susan’s a good girl. She wouldn’t do

anything like that.’ ‘She wouldn’t be responsible,’ Matthew said. ‘It wouldn’t be her fault at all. You do see that? There are men who take advantage of vulnerable women. Has she seemed

herself recently? Happy?’ There was another long silence. ‘We didn’t really talk,’ Susan said. ‘Not about things like that. Feelings. Chrissie was closer to her dad. I think they talked.

With us it was practical, like. What she wanted for tea and did she have anything that needed washing. Then we watched telly together. We were used to each other. We had a routine. The only

time she got upset was when the unexpected things happened. She hated that. She’ll hate what’s happening now. Missing the routine, her days at the Woodyard, _Coronation Street _on the

television.’ She looked up. ‘You’ve got to find her.’ Matthew nodded. He said he’d get off and make sure his officers knew how important it was. He left Susan in the small, dark front room,

but his mother followed him to the door to see him out. ‘Would you like me to come back later?’ he asked. ‘I could give you a lift home.’ ‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘I might stay over and if I

need to go back to Barnstaple, I can always get a taxi.’ Making it quite clear that he hadn’t yet done enough to be forgiven for his loss of faith, for abandoning the Brethren. < Return

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