Magpie: The gripping psychological suspense with a twist Read online

I hold the phone from my ear. How dare he! The phone line’s dead. I feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes. Bloody teenagers.

  Callum hadn’t heard me. It was a problem with the line. Or more likely, Callum recognised my number and chose to ignore me. Maybe he didn’t recognise the number and thought I was a crank caller, about to hassle him about a non-existent insurance policy.

  It’s humiliating making these calls. The desperation must have been evident in my voice. Joe’s mother. She’s always ringing me, chasing after him. She needs help … I can just hear him moaning to his mates, then laughing and swigging another beer. I don’t feel comfortable with the idea that Joe has reignited his friendship with Callum, especially since the guy kept his distance at secondary school for so long. Something doesn’t quite stack up.

  I’m sat down, my hands flat on the kitchen table to keep them still, pressing my fingers down one by one until the joints bend the wrong way and my fingernails turn white. Should I call the police? Is now the time to call the police? When I rang them last summer, they were very clear about it – if he’s over eighteen and left school, has no registered health problems and there are no specific suspicious circumstances, then there’s nothing they can do.

  Do you know how many young men go ‘missing’, luv?

  A person can choose to go missing.

  Martin said pretty much the same – he knew Joe’s history, but that they’d keep an eye out. And Joe did come back. I thought this move would change things, yet here I am playing out the same routine, chasing after my son. Except this time, I can’t call Duncan. There’s no way I’m going to speak to Duncan. Besides, I know he won’t want to speak to me. And Martin? I’m not sure … I’ve had that text from Joe. Martin will tell me there’s nothing they can do. That unless there’s clear evidence of foul play …

  I could ring Becky, though, couldn’t I?

  I pick up the phone then throw it down again. No, I can’t call Becky. She’d ask too many questions. Every time I think of it, I know that I can’t call her. She won’t understand. She’s my best friend but she’s Duncan’s sister, too. She’s never going to forgive me for leaving her brother. How can I explain to her the truth behind my marriage? The way things really are between Duncan and me. How can I accuse her brother of all those one-night stands, the affairs? Let alone tell her about Evangeline.

  Oh, God. I swallow painfully. It might come to that eventually. No, it can’t. Never.

  A darkness descends on me.

  I can’t tell her. It’s too much to expect of her, family or no. The longer I wait to pick up the phone, the harder it seems to become.

  I think of my other friends, but there’s been no one as close as Becky. I’ve been so focused on Joe, I guess I’ve pushed other people away. Becky was family and the only one who understood or cared, given her own experience with Alex. It’s amazing how quickly people walk away once they realise you come encumbered with problems.

  I think of the women I’ve met at school. The staff who look down on you for birthing a difficult child, or blame all of his problems on bad parenting. The stay-at-home mother types who’ve made a career out of looking smart for their men, cleaning their homes and being seen at the right coffee mornings – they wouldn’t touch anyone like me, who’s overweight and more interested in books than make-up. The busy working-mum types, dashing from childcare to work to school runs, too harassed to have time to chat or have sympathy for any problems other than their own – Oh, Claire, my boy adores your Joe. It’s so sweet, why don’t we set up a playdate? Yes? Fabulous – I’ll bring him round to yours for a few hours on Saturday – will nine to five do? Perfect. Bloody hell, the number of times I fell for that one. And the grandmothers besotted with their grandchildren, standing in for parents who never have time to do a school run at all, other than turn up once a year for parents’ evening.

  I don’t fit in, never did fit in. Thanks to Joe. No, thanks to Duncan. No – that’s not fair. I can’t blame it on anyone but myself – my fault, my decisions, my failures … it’s just how I choose to rationalise it, isn’t it? When I’m feeling low.

  I’m tired, my eyes drooping in spite of myself. Nothing seems to matter anymore; I only want to sleep. I lay my head against my arms, feeling the cold, hard wood of the table against my skin, a counterpoint to the headache pounding behind my eyes.

  There’s Frances. Duncan and I have known her a long time, she’s been at the practice since the start. She’s a few years older than me, no kids, never got married, yet wise. Wise because she never got married. Wisdom grows when you work with animals. I’ve always liked Frances; though we’ve never been close. I wonder if she has an idea of what Duncan’s really like but doesn’t want to say. It’s hard, breaking that unspoken code of keeping your nose out of other people’s business.

  She’s pretty forthright, though. I’ve seen her give a few of the staff a dressing-down when they’ve made a mistake. She tore a strip off Tim once, when he gave a dog the wrong dosage. Fortunately, the dog was okay, but Tim was mortified. He never made the same mistake again. She can even keep Duncan in line when she chooses to. Which is probably why I like her. But she’s fond of him, always has been. Is it her, his affair? I can’t bring myself to believe it. She’s too nice, too … I don’t know. No, I can’t talk to her, either.

  I feel my body sinking into a half-slumber. It’s started to rain outside. I hear it drumming on the garden path. It should be soothing, but I hate it. I can’t bear the cold sound of drops pattering against the glass, the steady chink of water flowing in the drains, getting louder and louder. The old cottage window frames creak, adjusting to the damp, like the water is pushing on them from the outside, trying to get in.

  I drag myself awake. New life pulses in the rain, the fresh, metallic scent of it seeping through the gaps. I gaze at the lush greenery in the garden, the leaves bent vertical by the rain. I search the brooding clouds. Rain is good, it cleanses the air, replenishes a thirsty ground. It brings everything back to life – healing, that’s how I should think of it. But it’s no good, it only makes me feel bleak.

  A male blackbird scoots across the lawn despite the rain – scoot and stop, scoot and stop, lifting his yellow beak, shaking the droplets from his head. He turns to one side, searching, checking each time he gets a little closer to his goal. Whatever that is. He clucks – a sharp, repetitive sound, like a fire alarm on a low battery. Then I see the cause of his anxiety – a magpie is rooted to the tree above. Its blue-and-white plumage shines in the rain and one beady eye swivels down to the ground. I’m witnessing a magpie–blackbird stand-off, the one hungry for blackbird chick pie, the other desperate to protect his family.

  Sing a song of sixpence,

  A pocket full of rye,

  Four and twenty blackbirds,

  Baked in a pie.

  The blackbird hops again, scoot and stop, daring the magpie to get any closer as it chatters overhead. Eventually, the magpie gives an angry flutter of its wings and flies away. The blackbird clucks one last warning before disappearing into the hedge beneath, swallowed up by its tightly woven branches.

  Someone came to visit me yesterday. I’m not sure who. I think maybe someone from the estate. Checking on me. There was a knock at the door. I didn’t answer it. Something made me hang back and I’m sure I saw him walking away. It was a him. But every time I try to picture the man in my head, my brain veers away. I have this constant feeling of dread, terror almost, and the nausea returns. It’s as if, since I left Duncan, I’ve become paranoid: about Joe, strangers, living here on my own – I never used to be like that. It never bothered me at all living out here in the countryside, miles from my nearest neighbour.

  I don’t want to go to a doctor. I’m not depressed. I don’t want to tell them how I feel. I don’t want them to put me on medication, or tell Duncan – would they tell Duncan? He’s still my next of kin. I feel the anxiety in me twist even tighter, like strips of willow in a log basket. Nothing seems quite re
al.

  Until I hear the sound of hooves outside on the lane. That’s real. I perk up. A rider. I thought there was no one living around here, the village empty, the cottage on its own dead-end track where there’s nowhere else to go.

  The horse gives a soft whinny and the hooves seem to stop and start, as if the animal is restless or won’t go on. It can’t go on. It must be turning round. Then the sound picks up, increases and fades away until the horse and rider are gone.

  Something’s wrong with me. I’m not the same as I was before. I don’t seem to be able to cope now that I’m living on my own. I rub my eyes, kneading at the middle of my forehead. Joe, Becky, living here on my own. I didn’t think it would be like this.

  CHAPTER 20

  DUNCAN – AFTER

  This morning, the surgery was already stupidly busy. Duncan was going to have to consider expanding operations again. Tim was always fully booked and recruiting Paula might not be enough. It was exciting but daunting, too, and finding more money might be a problem. Duncan was fast becoming a victim of his own success. Animal baskets blocked the floor and the reception area resonated with barks and yowling cats, and there was a long queue at the desk.

  Duncan ignored them all as he strode through the waiting room to his office. He was an hour late. He was never late. When he sat down, he was surprised to see Sally there, drawing the door shut behind her with a soft click.

  He shrugged out of his jacket and tugged at the V-neck of his short-sleeved surgical top, then spun round to his PC under the window, tapping into the screen to log on.

  ‘Now’s not a good time,’ he said, his voice brisk and businesslike.

  ‘I need to tell you something.’

  Not speak to you, but tell you something. Duncan gave a sigh and turned to face his colleague. She stood with her back to the door, her hands still clutching the handle, her face taut but oddly purposeful.

  ‘Let me guess, you’re pregnant!’

  Sally flushed. ‘That’s hardly funny!’

  No, it wasn’t. Cheap shot, thought Duncan, in very poor taste, marvelling at his own bad mood. Just as well he was his own boss. Sally looked petite and young against the door, her skirt a little too short, her green practice T-shirt flattering her shape. She lifted her chin. He didn’t apologise.

  ‘Well, didn’t you hear me?’ he said. ‘Haven’t you noticed the queue out there? We’ve got Mr Garfield and Betsy next, I think.’

  The elderly, incontinent greyhound, on her return appointment.

  ‘That’s what I need to speak to you about.’ Sally bit her lip. ‘Garfield’s not coming.’

  ‘So?’ Duncan gave a puff of annoyance. ‘Make him another appointment and send me whoever’s next.’

  Duncan swung back to his screen.

  ‘I can’t. I mean, I tried to. He did come, he was at the front desk a few minutes ago, but only to say that he’s not bringing her back in.’

  Duncan turned back to Sally again, scowling.

  ‘What’s his excuse this time? You know I want to keep an eye on that one.’

  ‘Duncan … I …’

  ‘Spit it out, Sally, what is it? I’m already running late.’

  ‘Betsy, the dog, that is … she’s …’

  Sally looked suddenly tearful. She lifted her chin and released the door handle.

  ‘He’s had her put down.’

  ‘What!’ Duncan’s voice reverberated around the room.

  Outside, the reception area had gone quiet. Sally cast an agonised look over her shoulder at the door.

  ‘He came in,’ she said, ‘to say that because you wouldn’t do it, he had to find someone who would, a different vet. To put her down.’

  Duncan pushed himself from his chair, swearing bluntly.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, what kind of vet would do that?’

  ‘I don’t—’ Sally started.

  ‘Where is he? You said he’s just been in, is he still here?’

  ‘He left a few minutes ago …’

  ‘Out of the way, Sally!’

  She jumped aside as Duncan grabbed the door and sprinted into the reception area. Carving a path through the crowd, he burst out of the main door and into the front car park. Sally followed, gesturing helplessly to Madelaine on the desk. Duncan stopped to scan the car park and the pavement beyond.

  Garfield was still there, waiting at the bus stop on the far side of the street. Leaning on a stick, with his gaberdine mac and cloth cap, he was the very picture of elderly innocence. A red bus approached, indicators flashing. It screeched to a halt and Garfield made to climb on board. But Duncan was already there, blocking his path, almost dragging the man back towards the bus shelter.

  ‘You murdering fool!’ cried Duncan.

  There was a screech of alarm from the old man. His stick fell clattering to the ground and he tottered on his feet. Duncan was vaguely aware that the bus driver looked visibly shocked.

  ‘You killed your dog! After I specifically told you how to treat her!’

  A sea of faces in the bus ogled through the windows. A schoolboy pressed his nose against the glass with the kind of expression of one watching a horror movie for the first time. Duncan shoved Garfield in the chest and the man staggered backwards into the bus shelter as Duncan snarled again.

  ‘Are you seriously telling me you had Betsy put down? A perfectly healthy dog!’

  ‘She were too old, she ’ad no bladder control. She were clearly struggling.’

  ‘Only because you denied her water!’

  ‘I had ’er checked out by another vet. They agreed with me. That she were suffering and should be put down.’

  ‘Who? Which bloody vet said that!’

  There were only two other vets in the area – Duncan knew them both. He couldn’t imagine either one of them agreeing to euthanise a frail but otherwise healthy dog.

  ‘That’s none of yer business …’

  ‘Oh, yes it is!’ Duncan felt his fists clench. ‘Have you done it yourself? God help me, Garfield, I’ll …’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  A young man had stepped off the bus.

  ‘Stay out of this,’ Duncan snapped.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. You’re threatening this man and I think he needs my help.’

  The lad looked no more than sixteen but confident in himself for all that. His voice was calm and frustratingly reasonable. Duncan eyed him speculatively. He was younger even than Joe. Duncan’s expression changed. Would Joe have come to a stranger’s rescue like that?

  ‘You’ve got no idea what’s going on,’ he said, his voice tightly controlled. He turned back to Garfield.

  Garfield had retrieved his stick. He wobbled on it, milking the situation. The bus driver was speaking urgently into his radio. The engine throbbed in neutral and the stench of diesel filled the air. Duncan felt sick with fury and disgust as he looked from the young man to the bus driver and back to Garfield.

  ‘I’ll report you this time. Both you and your vet to the RSPCA. There was no justification whatsoever for killing that dog.’

  ‘Duncan, please …’

  A voice came from behind him. It was Sally. Her hand tugged at Duncan’s arm.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she addressed the bus driver. ‘This man’ – she nodded at Garfield – ‘has had his dog put down against Duncan’s professional advice. We’re all very upset.’

  ‘Why don’t you come on board, Mr …’ The student held his arm out to Garfield, ignoring both Sally and Duncan.

  Duncan rocked on his heels, clenching both hands. The muscles on his bare arms bounced into profile. Garfield took the student’s arm and shuffled with surprising agility onto the bus. The driver flung his radio down and eagerly revved up the engine. Sally held onto Duncan.

  ‘Get off me!’ he growled.

  He pulled away, moving towards the bus as if to mount it. Then he thought better of it and stepped back. The bus doors slid shut and the vehicle lurched into motion. Sally was still holding ont
o him with the tenacity of a lioness.

  Duncan jerked his arm free with such force that this time Sally lost her balance and stumbled backwards. He raised his face to the rear of the bus, noting its passengers were still staring wide-eyed from the windows. He lifted up one fist, middle finger up.

  ‘Fucking wanker!’

  CHAPTER 21

  CLAIRE – AFTER

  MISSING, JOE HENDERSON

  Age 18, brown hair, blue eyes, height 6 foot 2

  Las%t se££en …

  My head hurts like hell today. I can’t even count my own fingers. I hit backspace and keep the key pressed down until those last two words disappear, then type again. Thinking about Joe has left me even more unsettled. It’s been long enough. I need to do something. I print off a batch of posters, pushing them into thin plastic wallets. I decide to spend the day pinning them to trees around the immediate area.

  Where the lane drops over the hill, the view opens out to reveal a close network of gently sloping fields, enfolding the smooth waters of the reservoir. I can see the grey concrete expanse of the dam, the rooflines of the houses in the old village and in the distance, on the other side of the valley, the familiar shape of the folds of the hill, beyond which I know lies the Barn. It’s a long way away, but for me, today, not far enough.

  The landscape here is different to the rest of Derbyshire. Or so it seems to me. The fields are an extra degree of lush green, populated with an unlikely variety of trees. Their shapes and colours ornament the hedgerows, each tree having reached its full height unhindered, the way that old estate trees do. A few sheep drift across the upper fields with the laziness of domestic animals and the birds on the water seem to have no fear of predators.

  The rain stopped hours ago and the roads glisten. Every now and again, water bursts through the hedges, draining from the slopes above. I slow the car and open the window to feel the tentative warmth of an early spring day. The dappled verges are filled with sunshine daffodils and the first stitchwort are scattered under the trees like tiny white star-shaped sequins. It seems a pointless exercise, these posters, for I haven’t seen another soul in the valley all day. But I have to try. Eventually, I turn the car towards Brereton Edge. I have two posters left.