Page 12 of The Tapes

EIGHT

Whenever I tell Mark I’m off to have lunch with my friend, he puts on a high-pitched voice and says, ‘Oooh, you’re one of those ladies who lunch.’ Every time he does this, I have to fight the urge to put a brick through the window of his BMW. This happens once a week.

Nicola’s mother picks me up in her Range Rover – then immediately proves it’s too big for her.

She almost barrels into a pair of parked cars while trying to figure out how to reverse, then shoots forward, almost hitting a bollard.

Nicola is in the passenger seat, knowing when to be silent, as I sit in the back, like a kid waiting for Mum and Dad to start fighting in the front.

Lucy Parris drives us out to the golf club, taking three attempts to reverse park, before breezing through the main doors into the restaurant.

It’s a different world as someone in a suit greets her as ‘Ms Parris’, before guiding us onto the veranda.

There’s a table already waiting, with a view overlooking the lush valley of greens and fairways.

Nicola’s mother doesn’t play golf – but she enjoys the facilities.

Less than a minute after being seated, there’s a large glass of red wine in front of Lucy as she tells her daughter she’ll have to drive us back.

As I watch Nicola’s mum gulp a large mouthful of wine, I wonder if Mark had a point back at the office.

Perhaps I am a woman who lunches, albeit against my will.

My usual weekly catch-up with Nicola involves a sandwich in the pub at the end of the road and a general gossip about anyone we know who’s had a recent Facebook meltdown. This is the unwanted exception.

‘Eve’s been clearing out her dad’s garage,’ Nicola says, after her mum’s downed another mouthful. ‘She says he’s a borderline hoarder.’

Now she’s settled with her wine, it’s clear Nicola’s mother would’ve been happy to be here alone, were it not for the way the staff would look at her. No free ride home, either.

‘Mum’s always going on at Dad to tidy the spare room,’ Nicola adds, trying to involve her mother in the conversation.

‘Maybe all dads are like that,’ I reply. I’ve known Lucy Parris for years, though I don’t think we’ve ever quite got on. We come from the same place – but it can be very different.

‘Maybe you can help sort out our place when you’re done with the garage?’ Lucy says, and it feels half-serious. ‘I found a bag of coat hangers in our spare room the other week. Kieron said you never know when you might need them. I wouldn’t mind, except he got a storage locker when we downsized.’

There’s a side glance of disapproval towards her daughter, followed by another swig of wine.

When Nicola said her mum missed the Aga, she was speaking specifically about the one in her kitchen.

Her parents once owned the farmhouse, though downsized to an apartment a few years back.

My dad reckoned it was probably some sort of inheritance tax scam thing, though I’ve never asked.

One thing’s for certain: I don’t think it was the idea of Nicola’s mother.

‘Thanks for the RSVP for the funeral,’ I say, unsure what we should be talking about.

‘Oh, that’s all Kieron. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

There’s a flourish of the hand as she beckons across a waiter, though the sarcasm was impossible to miss. When the waiter arrives, she orders seared scallops for the three of us, not bothering to ask if that’s OK. I guess she is paying, after all.

As she stares across the course towards some golfers in the distance, Nicola locks eyes and mouths ‘I’m sorry’ at me. We swap a smile but this isn’t the first time her mum has gatecrashed one of our lunches. They always go the same way.

‘What are you doing with the house?’ Nicola’s mother asks. It’s so out of the blue that it’s only when she turns that I realise she’s talking to me.

‘It was left jointly to my brother and me, so we’re waiting for the probate and then it’ll be sold.’

That gets a tight nod. ‘What will you do with the money?’

‘I don’t know. Dad only died a week ago.’

‘I’m surprised he left anything, to be honest.’

I open my mouth to say something, though I’m not sure what. Nicola’s mother is the sort of person who can make anything sound like a personal insult. ‘Hello’ comes off as ‘I am demeaning myself by even acknowledging you exist’.

She’s been in my life to some degree for around two decades.

When Mum got herself into trouble with the police one time, there was a pilot scheme where officers would act as mentors in an attempt to stop reoffending.

Mum got her conditional discharge, but had to check in with a police officer once a month.

For some time at least, that meant Nicola’s father.

A year or two on, Nicola and I ended up in the same pre-natal classes and we realised the connection.

With her barb going unanswered, Lucy swivels back to me. ‘I could probably put in a word if you want to hold the wake here,’ she says. ‘Alain is a personal friend of mine.’

‘We’ve already booked Dad’s social club,’ I say.

‘Which one?’

‘The Labour Club in town. He still went once or twice a week.’

Lucy looks to me blankly, as if she’s never heard of such a place. ‘Surely, it’s nicer here? Don’t you think guests would appreciate the view…?’

‘Maybe – but I’ve already sent the invites. The Labour Club is more him.’

That gets a pouted bottom lip. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

I sense Nicola tensing a little across the table as she wonders if this will be the time that I finally break. Every minute I spend in her mother’s presence pushes me closer to the very sweary meltdown that’s surely going to come one of these years.

Not today.

Lucy slips from her chair and says she’ll be back, before strolling off towards the toilets.

Her daughter lets out a long breath. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘She’s being a bigger bitch than usual.’

‘I thought she was actually being nicer.’

Nicola laughs, though not really. Before she can say anything else, the waiter reappears with a trio of plates. He places them around the table, pours more water for Nicola and I, and then leaves us to it.

‘I don’t know why she ordered for us,’ Nicola says. ‘She does this all the time, like it’s some sort of power play. She’ll say she wants to take me out for dinner, then we’ll end up in some high-end place where she’ll get lashed on the wine, while insisting I eat whatever she does.’

‘It looks like three small severed thumbs in congealed snot,’ I reply, eyeing the plate.

Nicola pokes at one with a fork, before eating the scallop in one.

‘Have you still been thinking about your mum?’ she asks, after swallowing.

It takes a moment to realise that’s what I told Nicola at her house yesterday. I’d only just found the tape and struggled not to talk about it.

‘Sort of. Dad, too. You do miss them when they’re gone.’

Nicola stares towards the bathroom for a moment. ‘Do you ever think she could come back?’

I’m slow today and it takes a while more to realise she’s talking about my mother.

‘Not really,’ I reply. ‘Maybe. Mum’s friends all said the disappearance was out-of-character. She’d not talked to any of them about a fall-out, or wanting to leave. Nobody at her work knew anything about her being unhappy.’

I dwell on that a moment, because all it really made me think was that her friends didn’t know her that well. But then I have been listening to her tapes, so perhaps I’m seeing things with retrospective eyes.

‘What did your dad say?’

So much has happened in the last thirteen years that it’s hard to answer.

Those confusing few weeks after Mum disappeared blended into each other.

There were sightings that weren’t real; rumours that weren’t true.

I always assumed she’d return home, even when days turned to weeks to months. I’m not sure when I stopped believing.

‘Dad had gone to the Labour Club at lunchtime,’ I say.

‘He got back about two hours later and she wasn’t home.

By the time it got to about half-four, he was calling, asking if I’d seen her.

I’d not heard from her since that text about Sunday lunch.

None of the neighbours had seen her, none of her friends, not me.

Her bag was on the side, her phone was in the living room, her keys were on the hook, passport in the drawer, car in the garage. She’d just gone.’

‘…if they say I’m missing, I’m not. I’ve been killed.’

How did she know? Why didn’t she simply tell me – or anyone? Why the tape?

‘Wasn’t it the week of the floods…?’ Nicola says – and she’s right.

It’s one of the reasons Mum’s disappearance never quite got the attention some do.

We’d had three months of rain across a weekend and the river had burst its banks.

Hard for people to care about a single missing person when hundreds were being evacuated into hotels, unsure when or if they’d be able to return home.

The police were never going to prioritise a missing middle-aged woman when they’d been roped into building emergency sandbag barriers on the riverbank.

‘There were no cash withdrawals,’ I reply.

I’m back in that week now. I think of Mum’s disappearance and I think of rain.

It’s impossible not to. The unrelenting wall of water.

‘The police did check in the end. They asked the taxi companies but there were no pickups in our area during that time. They said they looked at the CCTV from the shops at the end of the road but she didn’t go past. There was no sign of an attack, and we never got a ransom.

After a week or so, we asked, “What now?” and they sort of shrugged.

They told us it’s not illegal for an adult to disappear. ’

I’m not sure I ever quite got over that.

It’s perfectly legal for a person to walk away from their life and never look back.

Given what Mum was like, me and Dad never pushed for more.

What were we supposed to do? Stand outside the police station with a giant sign?

Being a victim of the Earring Killer was never really a suggestion as she didn’t fit the bill.

We don’t get a chance to say any more, because Nicola’s mother is striding back from the toilets. She slots back between us and has a drink from her glass before clicking her fingers at the waiter. A moment later, and he’s returned with the bottle and a polite ‘madam’, as he pours for her.

She urges us to dig in, and then eats one of her own scallops. I do the same and, luckily, it tastes better than it looks.

‘How’s that husband of yours?’ Lucy asks, talking to her daughter.

‘Busy,’ Nicola replies.

Her mother points towards the wall near the toilets. ‘I saw his flyer on the board. You know my friend Annie says he’s a miracle worker.’

Nicola eats her final scallop and takes her time chewing. ‘He could just work at a gym,’ she says eventually.

‘Oh, don’t be so silly. I don’t know where this jealous streak of yours comes from.’

The daggers Nicola stares at her mother are impossible to miss as I chew another of the scallops.

I’ve often thought Nicola’s jealousy of her husband was a little silly – but this is the first time I’ve heard anyone else saying as much.

I don’t think it’s the personal training with which she has a problem, it’s that he visits people in their houses.

Or, more specifically, women in their houses.

It feels like a non-issue, but Nicola did once tell me that Ethan was engaged to somebody before her.

Even though they’re now married, it doesn’t feel as if she’s ever got over that.

‘Who’s side are you on?’ Nicola replies, and there’s spite in her tone.

‘Sanity’s,’ her mother replies, deliberately stoking the fire, having already tried to wind me up.

Just as it feels as if Nicola might go off, my bag begins to buzz. I ignore the disdainful look from Nicola’s mother to grab my phone. Usually, I would ignore a call from an unknown number – but it could be the funeral director ahead of Friday, plus I could do with an out anyway.

‘Is that Eve Falconer?’ a voice asks after I say hello.

‘Yes…?’

‘This is Detective Sergeant Zoe Cox. Can I just check it was your daughter who reported finding a gun yesterday?’

There’s a chill and I stand, moving away from the table towards the window, keeping my back to Nicola and Lucy.

‘Is Faith OK?’ I ask, suddenly worried.

‘Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean that. There’s no problem with your daughter. It’s about the gun itself.’

‘What about it?’

‘This is sort of complicated. We were hoping you might be able to come to the station…?’

‘What’s happened?’ I ask.

There’s a humming from the other end, a smidge of uncertainty. ‘We tested the gun for fingerprints,’ the officer says. ‘We got a match.’

She waits, taking a breath, but there’s something in her voice that I know means she can’t explain what she’s about to say.

‘The fingerprints belong to your mother.’