‘She’s only fifteen,’ he said. ‘They would bring her back.’
‘How would she get there?’ she repeated. ‘Where would she get the money? She could have hitched, I suppose. Would she know how to do that? Why didn’t she take any clothes?’
For two days she had asked too many questions that Graham couldn’t answer. He would have liked to tell her that he was sure Laura could have got no further than Bakewell, and that the police would pick her up before the night was over. He had tried to tell her, but the words dried up in his throat.
‘Don’t you want to come in now? It’s time to eat.’
‘Not just yet,’ she said.
‘It’s starting to go dark. You’ll want to change at least.’
‘I want to be out here,’ she said.
‘Charlie –’
‘As long as they’re still looking,’ she said. ‘I want to be out here.’
A book had been turned face down on to the table. Very little of it had been read, but it didn’t need to be. Graham could see from the cover that it was the latest in a best-selling series about an American pathologist who was for ever dissecting dead bodies and catching serial killers. The illustration showed a barely identifiable part of a naked body, set against a dark background.
‘I can’t think of anywhere else that she might have gone,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’ve been trying and trying, racking my brains. But we’ve tried everywhere, haven’t we, Graham? Can you think of anywhere else?’
‘We’ve tried them all,’ said Graham.
‘There’s that girl in Marple.’
‘We’ve tried there,’ said Graham. ‘Her parents said she was in France for the summer.’
‘Oh yes, I forgot.’
‘If she’s met up with the wrong sort of people …’
‘How could she?’ said Charlotte quickly. ‘We’ve been so careful. How could she meet the wrong people?’
‘We have to face it, it does happen. Some of her friends … Even if they’re from the best families, they can go astray.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I’ve heard there are these rave things. Some of them go on all weekend, they say.’
Charlotte shuddered. ‘That means drugs, doesn’t it?’
‘We’ll have to talk to her about it seriously, when she’s back.’
After the helicopter had moved away to hover somewhere along the valley, the faint sound of voices could be heard, carried towards the house on the evening breeze. Graham and Charlotte could see no one because of the heavy tree cover, but both of them knew, without discussing it, that there were many men out there on the hillside, calling to each other, searching for their daughter.
‘Of course, there were probably friends she didn’t tell us about,’ said Graham. ‘We have to face up to that. Places she went that she didn’t want us to know about.’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘Laura didn’t keep secrets from me,’ she said. ‘From you, of course. But not from me.’
‘If you say so, Charlie.’
A small frown flickered across Charlotte’s face at his calm acceptance. ‘Is there something you know, Graham? Something that you’re not telling me?’
‘Of course not.’
He was thinking of his last conversation with Laura. It had been late on Thursday night, when she had slipped into his study and persuaded him to let her have a glass of his whisky. Her face had been flushed with some other excitement, even before the whisky had begun to take effect. She had perched on the edge of his desk and stroked his arm, smiling at him with that mature, seductive smile she had learned had such an effect on their male visitors. She had dyed her hair again, a deeper red than ever, almost violet, and her fingernails were painted a colour so dark it was practically black. Then she had talked to him, with that knowing look in her eyes and that sly wink, and told him what she wanted. The following morning, he had sacked Lee Sherratt. The second gardener they had lost that year.
‘No, of course not, Charlie.’
She accepted his word. ‘And the boy, Lee?’
Graham said nothing. He closed the abandoned novel, slipping a soft leather bookmark between the pages. He collected the book and the half-full glass of Bacardi from the table. The sun had almost gone from their part of the valley now. But the jagged shapes of the Witches were bathed in a dull red light that was streaked with black runnels where the rocky gulleys were in shadow.
‘What about him, Graham? What about the boy?’
He knew Charlotte still thought of Laura as pure and innocent. It was the way she would think of her daughter for ever. But Graham had begun to see her with different eyes. And the boy? The boy had already been punished. Punished for not dancing to the tune that Laura had played. Lee Sherratt had been too stubborn to play the game – but of course, he had been busy playing other games by then. And so Graham had sacked him. It was what Laura had wanted.
‘The police have spoken to him. He told them he hasn’t seen Laura for days.’
‘Do you believe that?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows what to believe just now?’
‘I want to speak to him. I want to ask him myself. Make him tell the truth.’
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, Charlie. Leave it to the police.’
‘They know about him, don’t they?’
‘Of course. They’ve got him on their records anyway. Over that stolen car.’
‘What?’
‘You remember. The car that was taken from the car park at the top of the cliff. It belonged to some German people. Laura told us about it.’
‘Did she?’ said Charlotte vaguely.
At last she allowed him to lead her back into the room, where she began to touch familiar objects – a cushion, the back of a chair cover, the piano stool, a series of gilt-framed photographs in a cabinet. She opened her handbag, touched up her lipstick and lit another cigarette.
‘Who else is supposed to be coming tomorrow night?’ she said.
‘The Wingates. Paddy and Frances. And they’re bringing some friends of theirs from Totley. Apparently, they’re building up a big computer business, installing systems in Doncaster and Rotherham. Paddy says they’ve got a really good future. They’d make an ideal account, but I need to get in quickly and make the contact.’
‘I’d better see to the food then.’
‘Good
