had a way of watching you without looking at you. Plus her plain physical neatness made Valerie feel like a slob. Carla smelled of freshly laundered clothes and slightly citric shampoo.
‘Brutal is having your daughter raped and butchered,’ Valerie said. Which also felt like the wrong thing to say.
But Carla just nodded and said, quietly: ‘Right.’
While Carla went to get a sandwich Valerie sat at her desk and looked through the shoebox. Half a dozen barrettes and scrunchies, a travelling toothbrush, a lunch monitor pin, ticket stubs from concerts – Radiohead, the White Stripes, Nick Cave – a set of ridiculous wind-up chattering teeth, a clean white handkerchief, a half tube of L’Oréal foundation, some My Little Pony fridge magnets and fourteen photos, all but one of them featuring friends or family Valerie was sure they’d already interviewed.
The exception was a Polaroid of Katrina that looked to have been taken when she was around ten or eleven years old. She was wearing cut-off jeans (you could just make out the crescent birthmark on her left leg) and a bright yellow T-shirt that said Hoppercreek Camp and she was standing in front of what Valerie could only think of as a deformed tree – in that it appeared to have two trunks, one upright, the other growing at a thirty-degree angle to join it about five feet from the ground. Katrina had put one hand on her hip, in the mock-sexy way young girls did, and she was smiling, squinting into the sun. The same outlook of cautious optimism, tempered only slightly by juvenile awkwardness.
She put all the items back in the box and made a note to get someone to double-check there was no one in any of the other photos they ought to have spoken to but hadn’t. It wasn’t likely. Adele had given them a boxful of a mother’s desperation.
Valerie’s cell phone rang. It was Will.
‘No joy,’ he said. ‘There’s a guy in Santa Cruz had a big freezer unit installed in his Freelander four years ago. Turns out he’s a sixty-four-year-old taxidermist with severe macular degeneration and a Seeing Eye dog. Had to give up driving
and
stuffing critters two years back.’
‘Sorry,’ Valerie said. ‘Worth a shot.’
‘How’re the traffic cam numbers?’
‘Restricting it to the four days before Leah and Lisbeth were found we’ve still got more than a hundred and fifty Class B RVs on the possible relevant interstates unchecked. They’re doing it, but it’s slow.’
‘And Miss Quantico?’
‘I think we’re being evaluated. Or I am. So don’t come in drunk.’
‘But I just opened a bottle of Cuervo.’
‘Don’t even.’
The thought of a shot of tequila had made Valerie’s salivary glands contract. And it was barely gone noon.
‘All right,’ Will said. ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’
Valerie dropped her phone. When she bent to retrieve it, pain shot from the base of her spine all the way into her shoulder blades. Enough to make her freeze for a few seconds, eyes shut.
When she opened them and sat back up, slowly, Blasko was standing in front of her desk, with his hands in his pockets.
‘Hey, Skirt,’ he said. ‘Long time no see. You look terrible.’
FIFTEEN
Xander King – who had not always been Xander King, and was reminded of that fact when things like this happened – couldn’t believe it. What kind of country place didn’t have a milk jug? He’d been through every cupboard in the kitchen. Just a plain fucking milk jug! Or even a gravy jug. Preferably brown. What they called earthenware. It didn’t matter what they called it. There wasn’t one. If there was one he could put this mistake – which was Paulie’s fault – right. This mistake could be… not corrected, exactly, but… brought into line. How far
out
of line this was was a terrible irritation, to him, like roaches scurrying under his skin. Mama Jean flickered and bloomed on his peripheral vision, smiling at the mess he’d made. It was Paulie’s
fault
, goddammit.
‘Brutal is having your daughter raped and butchered,’ Valerie said. Which also felt like the wrong thing to say.
But Carla just nodded and said, quietly: ‘Right.’
While Carla went to get a sandwich Valerie sat at her desk and looked through the shoebox. Half a dozen barrettes and scrunchies, a travelling toothbrush, a lunch monitor pin, ticket stubs from concerts – Radiohead, the White Stripes, Nick Cave – a set of ridiculous wind-up chattering teeth, a clean white handkerchief, a half tube of L’Oréal foundation, some My Little Pony fridge magnets and fourteen photos, all but one of them featuring friends or family Valerie was sure they’d already interviewed.
The exception was a Polaroid of Katrina that looked to have been taken when she was around ten or eleven years old. She was wearing cut-off jeans (you could just make out the crescent birthmark on her left leg) and a bright yellow T-shirt that said Hoppercreek Camp and she was standing in front of what Valerie could only think of as a deformed tree – in that it appeared to have two trunks, one upright, the other growing at a thirty-degree angle to join it about five feet from the ground. Katrina had put one hand on her hip, in the mock-sexy way young girls did, and she was smiling, squinting into the sun. The same outlook of cautious optimism, tempered only slightly by juvenile awkwardness.
She put all the items back in the box and made a note to get someone to double-check there was no one in any of the other photos they ought to have spoken to but hadn’t. It wasn’t likely. Adele had given them a boxful of a mother’s desperation.
Valerie’s cell phone rang. It was Will.
‘No joy,’ he said. ‘There’s a guy in Santa Cruz had a big freezer unit installed in his Freelander four years ago. Turns out he’s a sixty-four-year-old taxidermist with severe macular degeneration and a Seeing Eye dog. Had to give up driving
and
stuffing critters two years back.’
‘Sorry,’ Valerie said. ‘Worth a shot.’
‘How’re the traffic cam numbers?’
‘Restricting it to the four days before Leah and Lisbeth were found we’ve still got more than a hundred and fifty Class B RVs on the possible relevant interstates unchecked. They’re doing it, but it’s slow.’
‘And Miss Quantico?’
‘I think we’re being evaluated. Or I am. So don’t come in drunk.’
‘But I just opened a bottle of Cuervo.’
‘Don’t even.’
The thought of a shot of tequila had made Valerie’s salivary glands contract. And it was barely gone noon.
‘All right,’ Will said. ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’
Valerie dropped her phone. When she bent to retrieve it, pain shot from the base of her spine all the way into her shoulder blades. Enough to make her freeze for a few seconds, eyes shut.
When she opened them and sat back up, slowly, Blasko was standing in front of her desk, with his hands in his pockets.
‘Hey, Skirt,’ he said. ‘Long time no see. You look terrible.’
FIFTEEN
Xander King – who had not always been Xander King, and was reminded of that fact when things like this happened – couldn’t believe it. What kind of country place didn’t have a milk jug? He’d been through every cupboard in the kitchen. Just a plain fucking milk jug! Or even a gravy jug. Preferably brown. What they called earthenware. It didn’t matter what they called it. There wasn’t one. If there was one he could put this mistake – which was Paulie’s fault – right. This mistake could be… not corrected, exactly, but… brought into line. How far
out
of line this was was a terrible irritation, to him, like roaches scurrying under his skin. Mama Jean flickered and bloomed on his peripheral vision, smiling at the mess he’d made. It was Paulie’s
fault
, goddammit.
Similar Books
