59

Ruiz unfolds a page and smooths it on the coffee table.

“This was faxed through this afternoon,” he says. “It came from the Maritime Rescue and Coordination Center in Piraeus.”

The facsimile is of a photograph—a woman with short dark hair and a round face, who looks to be in her mid-to late thirties. Her details are typed in small print in the bottom corner.

“I called to make sure there hadn’t been a mistake,” he says. “This is the photograph they were working off when they were looking for Tyler’s wife.”

I stare at the image as if expecting it to suddenly become more familiar. Although roughly the right age, the woman depicted looks nothing like the one in the passport photograph Bryan Chambers gave me. She has shorter hair, a higher forehead and different shaped eyes. It can’t be the same person.

“What about Chloe?”

Ruiz opens his notebook and pulls out a Polaroid snapshot. “They used this one. It was taken by a guest at the hotel they were staying in.”

This time I recognize the girl. Her blond hair is like a beacon. She is sitting on a swing. The building in the background has whitewashed walls and wild roses on a trellis.

I go back to the faxed photograph, which is still displayed on the coffee table.

Ruiz has poured himself a scotch. He sits opposite me.

“Who provided the Greeks with this photograph?” I ask.

“It came through the Foreign Office and the British Embassy.”

“And where did the Foreign Office get it?”

“Her family.”

The authorities were searching for Helen and Chloe; they needed to identify bodies in the morgue and survivors in the hospitals. The wrong photograph could have been sent by mistake but surely someone would have picked it up before now. The only other explanation reeks of cover-up.

Three people gave evidence that placed Helen and Chloe on board the ferry: the navy diver, the Canadian student and the hotel manager. Why would they lie? Money is the obvious answer. Bryan Chambers has enough to make it happen.

It had to be organized quickly. The ferry accident was an opportunity for Helen and Chloe to disappear. Luggage had to be tossed into the sea. Mother and daughter were reported missing. Bryan Chambers flew to Greece four days after the sinking, which means that Helen must have done most of the groundwork using her father’s money to cement the deception.

Surely someone on the island must have seen them. Where would they hide?

I take Helen’s photograph from my wallet—the one Bryan Chambers gave me at his lawyer’s office. The picture was taken for a new passport—one in her maiden name—according to Chambers.

From the moment she fled from Germany in May, Helen avoided using credit cards or making phone calls home or sending e-mails or letters. She did everything she could to hide her whereabouts from her husband, yet surely one of the first things she should have done was to ditch her married name. Instead she waited until mid-July to apply for a new passport.

I stare at the faxed photograph sent from Greece.

“What if nobody on Patmos knew what Helen and Chloe Tyler really looked like?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” asks Ruiz.

“What if mother and daughter were already traveling under different names?”

Ruiz shakes his head. “I’m still not with you.”

“Helen and Chloe arrived on the island in early June. They booked into a hotel, kept a low profile, paid for everything in cash. They didn’t use their real names. They called themselves something different because they knew Gideon was looking for them. Then, through a terrible twist of fate, a ferry sinks on a stormy afternoon. Helen sees a way of disappearing. She throws their luggage into the sea and reports the disappearance of Helen and Chloe Tyler. She bribes a backpacker and a navy diver to lie to the police.”

Ruiz picks up the thread. “And this backpacker suddenly has the money to keep traveling when his parents expect him home.”

“And a disgraced navy diver facing a misconduct tribunal might be in need of money.”

“What about the German woman,” he asks, “what does she have to gain?”

I flick through the statements and pull hers to the top of the pile. Yelena Schafer, born 1971. I look at the date of birth and feel the flush of recognition.

“How long did Helen spend in Germany?”

“Six years.”

“Long enough to speak the language fluently.”

“You think…?”

“Yelena is a variation of Helen.”

Ruiz leans over his knees, his hands hanging between them, looking like an ancient, bewildered statue. His eyes close for a second, trying to see the details as I do.

“So you’re saying the hotel manager—the German woman—is Helen Chambers?”

“The hotel manager was the most credible witness the police had. What reason did she have to lie about an English mother and daughter who were staying at the hotel? It was a perfect cover. Helen could speak German. She could pretend to be Yelena Schafer and announce the death of her former self.”

Ruiz opens his eyes. “The caretaker sounded nervous when I talked to him. He said Yelena Schafer had gone on holiday. He didn’t mention a daughter.”

“What’s the number of the hotel?”

Ruiz finds the page on his notebook. I dial the hotel and wait. A sleepy voice answers.

“Hello, this is Athens International Airport. We have recovered a bag that failed to make a flight several days ago. The luggage tag indicates it was checked in by Miss Yelena Schafer, but there is some confusion. Was she traveling with anyone?”

“Yes, her daughter.”

“A six-year-old.”

“Seven.”

“Where were they flying to?”

The caretaker is more awake now. “Why have you called so late at night?” he asks angrily.

“The bag was put on the wrong flight. We need a forwarding address.”

“Miss Schafer must have reported the bag missing,” he says. “She should have given a forwarding address.”

“We don’t seem to have one.”

He smells a rat. “Who are you? Where are you from?”

“I’m looking for Yelena Schafer and her daughter. It’s crucial that I find them.” He shouts something unintelligible and hangs up. I hit redial. The phone is engaged. He’s taken it off the hook or he’s calling someone. Perhaps warning them.

I phone Trinity Road. Safari Roy is in charge of the incident room. DI Cray has gone for dinner. I give him Yelena Schafer’s name and the most likely date she flew from Athens with her daughter.

Passenger lists won’t be available until the morning, he tells me. How many flights are there from Athens every day? Hundreds. I have no idea where mother and daughter have gone.

I hang up and stare at the photographs, wishing they could talk to me. Would Helen risk coming home while Gideon Tyler is still looking for her?

Ruiz drapes his hand over the top of the steering wheel as if letting the Merc do the navigating. He looks relaxed and pensive, but I know his mind is working overtime. Sometimes I think he pretends that he’s not a deep thinker or he’s slow on the uptake as a way of fooling people into underestimating him.

Darcy is in the backseat, plugged into music. Perhaps I was wrong to worry so much about her.

“You hungry?” Ruiz asks.

“No.”

“When did you last eat?”

“Breakfast.”

“You should eat something.”

“I’m OK.”

“You keep saying that, and maybe one day you will be OK, but that’s not today. You shouldn’t expect to be OK. You’re not going to be OK until you get Charlie home… and Julianne home and you can play happy families again.”

“It might be too late for that.”

He gives me a sidelong glance and looks back at the road.

After a long silence, he says, “We’ll get her back.”

I haven’t heard from Julianne since she left the cottage. Monk has been in touch with the incident room. Gideon called again, using my mobile. He was somewhere in central Bristol, near the cathedral. Oliver Rabb couldn’t locate him before the handset was left on a bus. The phone was recovered from the Muller Road Bus Depot an hour ago.

There’s no word on Charlie. According to Monk everything that can be done is being done, but that’s not true. Forty detectives are working on the case. Why not four hundred or four thousand? A TV and radio appeal has been launched. Why not sound sirens from the rooftops and search every residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse and outhouse? Why not get Tommy Lee Jones out there, organizing the search?

Ruiz pulls into the driveway of Stonebridge Manor. The metal gates are bleached white by the high-beam headlights. Nobody answers the buzzer. Ruiz holds it down for thirty seconds. Silence.

Getting out of the car, he peers through the bars. There are lights on in the house.

“Hey, Darcy, how much d’you weigh?” asks Ruiz.

“You’re not supposed to ask a girl questions like that,” she replies.

“Think you can climb over that wall?”

She follows his gaze. “Sure.”

“Be careful of the broken glass.”

Ruiz throws his coat over the wall to protect her hands.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Attracting attention.”

Darcy puts her right foot in his cupped hands and is hoisted upwards onto the wall. She holds on to a branch and scrambles to her feet, balancing between the broken half-bottles embedded in the concrete. Her arms are outstretched to keep her steady, but there’s no chance of her falling. Her poise and balance come from hours of practice.

“She’ll get herself shot,” I tell Ruiz.

“Skipper couldn’t aim that straight,” he replies.

A voice answers him from the darkness. “I can shoot the eyes out of a squirrel at fifty paces.”

“And I had you down as a nature lover,” replies Ruiz. “Guess you’re a redneck through and through.”

Skipper emerges into the glow of the headlights, cradling a rifle across his chest. Darcy is still standing on the wall.

“Get down, miss.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods.

Darcy obeys, but not the way he expects. She jumps towards him and Skipper has to drop his rifle to catch her before she lands. Now she’s on his side of the gate. It’s a problem he hasn’t bargained on.

“We need to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Chambers,” I say.

“They’re not available.”

“You said that last time,” says Ruiz.

Skipper is holding Darcy by the arm. He doesn’t know what to do.

“My daughter is missing. Gideon Tyler has taken her.”

The way his eyes flash to mine I know that I have his full attention. That’s why he’s here—to stop Gideon getting inside.

“Where’s Tyler now?”

“We don’t know.”

He looks at the car, as if worried that Gideon might be hiding inside. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a two-way radio, signaling the house. I don’t hear the message, but the gates begin to open. Skipper circles the car. He checks the boot and looks in both directions along the lane before waving us through.

Security lights trigger on either side of the drive as the Merc floats by. Skipper is sitting in the passenger seat, with his rifle resting on his lap, pointed towards Ruiz.

I look at my watch. Charlie has been missing for eight hours. What am I going to say to Bryan and Claudia Chambers? I’m going to beg. I’m going to clutch at straws. I’m going to ask for exactly what Gideon Tyler wants—his wife and daughter. He has made me believe what he believes. They’re alive. I have no choice but to accept this.

Skipper escorts us up the steps, through the main door and across the foyer. Wall lamps reflect off the polished wooden floor and brighter lights spill from the sitting room.

Bryan Chambers rises from a sofa, squaring his shoulders.

“I thought our business was finished.”

Claudia is opposite him. She rises, adjusting the waistband of her skirt. Her pretty almond-shaped eyes don’t make contact with mine. She married a powerful man, thick-skinned and heavy-footed, but her own strength is more self-contained.

“This is Darcy Wheeler,” I say. “Christine’s daughter.”

Claudia’s face bears all her sadness. She takes Darcy’s hand and pulls her gently into her arms. They’re almost the same height.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “Your mother was a wonderful friend to my daughter.”

Bryan Chambers looks at Darcy with a kind of wonderment. He sits down and leans forward, resting his hands between his knees. His jaw is stubbled and flecks of white spit are gathered in the corners of his mouth.

“Gideon Tyler has kidnapped my daughter,” I announce.

The shudder of silence that follows reveals more about the Chambers than an hour in a consulting room could possibly tell me.

“I know that Helen and Chloe are alive.”

“You’re crazy,” says Bryan Chambers. “You’re as mad as Tyler is.”

His wife stiffens slightly and her eyes meet her husband’s for just a moment. It’s a micro-expression. The barest trace of a signal passes between them.

That’s the thing about lies. They’re easy to tell but difficult to hide. Some people can perform them brilliantly but most of us struggle because our minds don’t control our bodies completely. There are thousands of automatic human responses from a beating heart to a prickling skin that have nothing to do with free will, things that we can’t control, that give us away.

Bryan Chambers has turned away. He pours himself a scotch from a crystal decanter. I wait for glass to touch glass. His hand is almost too steady.

“Where are they?” I ask.

“Get out of my house!”

“Gideon found out. That’s why he’s been harassing you, stalking you, tormenting you. What does he know?”

Rocking on his heels, he squeezes the tumbler in his fist. “Are you calling me a liar? Gideon Tyler has made our lives a misery. The police have done nothing. Nothing.”

“What does Gideon know?”

Chambers looks ready to erupt. “My daughter and granddaughter are dead,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

Claudia stands alongside him, her eyes a cold shade of blue. She loves her husband. She loves her family. She’ll do whatever it takes to protect them.

“I’m sorry about your daughter,” she whispers. “But we’ve already given enough to Gideon Tyler.”

They’re lying—they’re both lying—but all I can do is shuffle and clear my throat with a sort of helpless croaking sound.

“We can stop him,” argues Ruiz. “We can make sure he doesn’t do it again.”

“You can’t even find him,” scoffs Bryan Chambers. “Nobody can. He melts through walls.”

I look around the room, trying to summon a reason, an argument, a threat, anything that might change the outcome. The images of Chloe are everywhere, on the mantelpiece, the side tables, framed and hung on the walls.

“Why did you give the Greek authorities the photograph of someone other than Helen?” I ask.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Bryan Chambers.

I take the faxed photograph from my pocket and unfold it on the table.

“It’s a criminal offense to provide false information to a police investigation,” says Ruiz. “And that includes an investigation in a foreign country.”

Bryan Chambers’s face turns three shades darker, blood up. Ruiz doesn’t back down. I don’t think he understands the concept of giving ground, not when it comes to missing children. There have been too many in his career; children he couldn’t save.

“You sent them the wrong photograph because your daughter is still alive. You faked her death.”

Bryan Chambers sways backwards to throw the first punch. It’s a giveaway. Ruiz dodges it and slaps him on the back of the head like cuffing a naughty schoolboy.

This just fires him up. With a bellow and a loping charge, the bigger man drives his head into Ruiz’s stomach and wraps his arms around him, running him backwards into the wall. The collision seems to shake the entire house. Photographs topple over in their frames, falling like dominoes.

“Stop it! Stop it!” screams Darcy. She is standing near the door, fists bunched, eyes shining.

Everything slows down. Even the ticking of the grandfather clock sounds like a slow-dripping tap. Bryan Chambers is holding his head. He has a cut above his left eye. It’s not deep but it’s bleeding heavily. Ruiz is nursing his ribs.

I lean down and begin picking up the photographs. The glass has broken in one of the frames. It’s a snapshot of a birthday party. Candles spark in Chloe’s eyes as she leans over a cake with her cheeks puffed out like a trombone player. I wonder what she wished for.

The photograph is not unusual, yet something jars as being wrong. Ruiz has a memory like a metal trap that seems to lock up facts and hold them. I’m not talking about useless ephemera like pop songs or Grand National winners or right-backs who’ve played for Manchester United since the war. Important details. Dates. Addresses. Descriptions.

“When was Chloe born?” I ask him.

“August 8, 2000.”

Bryan Chambers is now violently sober. Claudia has gone to Darcy, trying to console her.

“Explain this to me,” I say, pointing to the photograph. “How can your granddaughter be blowing out seven candles on a birthday cake if she died two weeks before her seventh birthday?”

The button beneath the floor has summoned Skipper. He’s carrying a shotgun but this time it’s not resting in the crook of his arm. He points the barrel at chest height, moving it in an arc.

“Get them out of my house,” bellows Bryan Chambers, still holding his forehead. Blood has leaked over his eyebrow and the side of his cheek.

“How many more people are going to get hurt unless we stop this now?” I plead.

It makes no difference. Skipper waves the rifle. Darcy steps in front of him. I don’t know where she gets the courage.

“It’s all right,” I tell her. “We’ll go.”

“But what about Charlie?”

“This isn’t helping.”

Nothing is going to change. The wrongness of the situation, the imminent catastrophe, is lost on the Chamberses, who seem to be caught in a permanent twilight of fear and denial.

I’m being escorted out of this house for a second time. Ruiz goes first, followed by Darcy. As I cross the foyer, in the very periphery of my vision, I catch sight of something white, pressed against the railings of the stairs. It’s a barefoot child in a white nightdress peering through the turned wooden railings. Ethereal and almost otherworldly, she’s holding a rag doll and watching us leave.

I stop and stare. The others turn.

“You should be asleep,” says Claudia.

“I woke up. I heard a bang.”

“It was nothing. Go back to bed.”

She rubs her eyes. “Will you tuck me in?”

I can feel the rhythm of my blood beneath my skin. Bryan Chambers steps in front of me. The stock of the rifle is tucked against Skipper’s shoulder. There are footsteps on the stairs. A woman appears, looking agitated, scooping up the child.

“Helen?”

She doesn’t react.

“I know who you are.”

She turns to me, lifting a hand to brush a fringe from across her eyes. Her head is drawn down between her shoulders and her thin arms are tightly folded around Chloe.

“He has my daughter.”

She doesn’t answer. Instead she turns to climb the stairs.

“You’ve come this far. Help me.”

She’s gone, back to her room, unseen, unheard, unconvinced.