The Perfect Girl Read online

  “When are we going to do it?” she asks.

  “Soon,” I say. Claire doesn’t enjoy the planning stage as much as I do.

  “I still think we should go at night,” she says with unease.

  “No, it has to be daytime. We have to be able to see what we’re doing. Besides, if we go at night, we won’t get her alone.”

  “I just don’t want to get caught. They’ll take me away from you.”

  “Don’t worry,” I smile. “No one’s going to take you away. Not ever.”

  I can’t decide if Claire’s smile is genuine or fake.

  23

  Gabriella was hard to miss in her lime-green dress and matching wedges. Her jewellery clanged as she walked and the ancient librarian tutted under her breath.

  “You found us alright, then?” Jock said.

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  “Thank you for coming. It’s so much easier to talk in person.”

  He led her over to the bank of computers where they were sitting.

  “This is my friend, Dylan,” he said, wishing Dylan would sit up straight for a minute. “He’s the one who found the video clip.”

  “Where are your shoes?” Gabriella asked him.

  “Oh, I don’t really do shoes,” Dylan said. “They constrict my toes. Bare feet are comfortable feet, I find.”

  “Bare feet are smelly feet,” she said, giving him a look.

  “It’s okay; he’s harmless,” Jock said, wishing he didn’t also stink of vodka from the night before. At least, he hoped it was from the night before. Dylan didn’t usually drink before lunch, as far as he knew.

  “Why don’t you take a seat here?” he said to Gabriella, planting himself in between them. He played the clip for her.

  “Yes, it’s much clearer on this big screen than it was on my phone,” she said.

  “And?”

  “And it’s Claire. I’m sure it is.”

  “How sure?” asked Dylan. “Percentage-wise.”

  “I don’t know – about ninety-nine percent?”

  “So there’s still one percent of you that isn’t sure?”

  “Only because it seems so unlikely. I mean, if this is genuine, then it’s huge. My father couldn’t have killed her if she’s still alive, could he?”

  “What about all the other May Queens?” Jock said. “What if they’re still alive, too?”

  “Hold your horses,” Dylan cautioned. “We don’t want to get overexcited. We haven’t got definitive proof that this is Claire yet, let alone any idea what it means.”

  Gabriella adjusted one of her large hoop earrings. “All I know is we haven’t had any death threats since Sapphire disappeared.”

  “Death threats?” Jock said, his eyes scanning the room.

  She nodded. “We used to get them all the time, ever since Dad was arrested. You’d think they’d stop when he died, but they didn’t. People seem to think the family of a serial killer is fair game.”

  “That’s awful,” he said. “Did you go to the police?”

  “Of course. But they’ve never found the person responsible. They just keep telling us that people who make death threats rarely carry them out, like that’s supposed to be a comfort. Rarely isn’t never, is it?”

  “No. No, it’s not.”

  “What kind of threats did you get?” Dylan asked.

  “Letters – the old-fashioned kind, typed on a computer, addressed to Mum, mostly. Whoever sends them seems to know us and our routines. They put in these little details to freak us out.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like they’ll say, ‘I hope you had fun at bingo last night. I wouldn’t think of going there again if I were you.’”

  “They don’t want you to play bingo?”

  “That’s just an example. It could be the tanning salon or Asda or anywhere really. They want to make us scared to go out.”

  “Do the police have any idea who sent the letters?” Dylan asked.

  “Not really. Dad’s name is out there. He’s notorious. It could be someone connected to the missing May Queens, a friend or a relative maybe. Or it could just be some sicko who’s latched onto us because we’ve been in the public eye. I’ve even wondered if it’s the May Queen Killer himself.” She fell silent for a moment, as if debating something in her head. “There are a couple of things that have always nagged me,” she said.

  “Go on.”

  “It’s just that Dad was the one who suggested Claire sleep over the night she disappeared. He said it didn’t make sense for her to go all the way back to her house, when we lived nearer the club.”

  “And you think that incriminates him?”

  “It makes me uneasy.” She fiddled with her ponytail. “No one wants to believe that someone they love is evil, even more so when that person is no longer around to defend themselves. If my dad really was a monster then he never showed that side to me or Mum.”

  “Was there anything else about Claire’s disappearance which sticks in your mind?” Jock asked gently.

  “Nothing major, but …”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, the night Claire disappeared, I’d laid my clothes out on a chair by my bed, so I wouldn’t have to wake her if I woke up first. She had a tendency to sleep late and I’ve always been an early bird.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, the thing is, when I went to get dressed the next morning, my socks were missing. I wouldn’t care, but they were my Pringle ones. I never did find them. The police didn’t either. I know, it probably has no relevance whatsoever, but I just can’t understand what on earth happened to them.”

  Jock exchanged a glance with Dylan. He had the feeling they were thinking the same thing: that Claire’s abductor could have stuffed them in her mouth to keep her quiet. He didn’t say it, though. There was no need to upset Gabriella.

  “Jock, I told you all this because I want you to know all the facts. But what I really want is for you to prove them all wrong and to find out that my dad was innocent.”

  “We’ll do our best,” he said.

  Dylan nodded. It was the most serious Jock had seen him.

  “Do you think it’s going to rain?” Gabriella asked, as they left the library.

  “Nah,” Dylan said, kicking a can along the road.

  “It is a bit cloudy,” Jock said. “Ow!” he cried out in pain as a small stone hit him in the forehead.

  “Quick, inside!” Gabriella yelled, fending off the tiny rocks with her hands as a barrage of hail assaulted them. Dylan shot ahead, into Fleckford’s only McDonald’s. But Gabriella was as unfit as Jock and they were both puffing and panting by the time they reached the restaurant.

  “Bloody hell! That was sudden!” Jock gasped, as they sheltered in the doorway, watching the hail batter the glass.

  “Do you want to get something to eat?” Gabriella asked, as they stood there shivering. “Those burgers smell lush!”

  Jock smiled. “Why not?”

  “Not for me,” said Dylan, but Jock knew his game. He wouldn’t order a thing, but then he would pick at their food. Crafty sod.

  “I wouldn’t have thought a place this small would have a McDonald’s,” Gabriella commented, as they waited their turn.

  “It’s the last one before the Welsh border,” Dylan told her proudly. “There’s a sign on the door.”

  “Wow! We’d better stock up!”

  “You know, I make a point of visiting a McDonald’s in every place I visit,” Dylan went on. “It’s sort of like a cultural experiment.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it’s a point of comparison, isn’t it? I like to see what’s the same and what’s different.”

  “As hobbies go, that’s pretty sad,” Gabriella said with a laugh.

  “You know what I like about this one?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell us.”

  “The sign on the toilets
.”

  “Lovely.”

  “No, look. Instead of the standard ‘toilets’, it says ‘tolets’.”

  “Did the ‘I’ drop off?”

  “No, it was never there. Look, the ‘O’ and the ‘L’ are too close together to fit an ‘I’ in there. It must have been printed wrong.”

  “I wonder how many other McDonald’s have a misspelled toilet sign,” she said.

  “None that I’ve ever been to, which leads me to suspect that something happened to the original sign and they had to replace it. Look, it’s not even in the standard font.”

  Gabriella cracked a grin. “You really are a huge nerd, aren’t you?”

  Dylan ran his hand through his hair, which was now flat from the rain. “Just observant is all.”

  “What shall we get?” Jock asked.

  “The chicken’s good,” Dylan murmured.

  Jock ignored him. If Dylan wanted chicken, he would just have to buy it himself.

  “The coffee’s good here,” Gabriella said. “Just don’t spill it on your lap because it hurts like hell.”

  They had just sat down to eat when a couple more people burst through the door. Even with his hood up, Jock recognised Simon straight away.

  “Lovely weather!” he called.

  “Marvellous,” Simon grunted. He and Anthony were both soaking from head to foot.

  “Dad, can I have a burger?” Anthony asked, his hungry eyes scanning the menu.

  “Now we’ve talked about this …”

  “Aw, go on Dad! I’m starving.”

  “You can have a bean burger.”

  “A bean burger? That’s pants!”

  “A bean burger and a milkshake. That’s my final offer.”

  Simon held out a crisp ten pound note and Anthony snatched it without hesitation.

  “Just get me a coffee while you’re at it. I’ll get us a table.”

  “Why don’t you join us?” Jock asked. “There’s plenty of room.”

  He glanced at Gabriella. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Course not,” she said. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Oh, this is Simon.”

  “Simon, Gabriella,” he said, as Simon pulled up chairs for himself and Anthony.

  “And what do you do, Gabriella?” Simon asked.

  She smiled proudly. “I own an art gallery.”

  “Really? That sounds interesting.”

  She glanced at Anthony, who was standing, or rather fidgeting, in the queue. “How old’s your boy?” she asked.

  “Nearly twelve.”

  “He’s quite small, isn’t he? I would have thought he’d inherit your build.”

  “Yes, well, there’s still time.”

  He sounded little irritable. He was probably sick of talking about his height.

  “Whose phone is that?” Gabriella asked, as the table vibrated.

  Jock fumbled in his jacket pocket. “Excuse me, I’d better get this.” He walked over to the door to take the call.

  “Who was that?” Dylan asked when he got off the phone.

  “My editor. She wants to know when I’m going to send her the rest of the novel.”

  “Haven’t you almost finished it?” Dylan asked.

  “Nowhere near!” He wolfed down the last of his burger and jumped to his feet. “If you’ll all excuse me, I’d better get to it. Thanks again for coming, Gabriella.”

  “Yeah, I’ll see you again, I’m sure.”

  “Fancy a pint?” Dylan asked as Jock walked through the bar that evening.

  Jock swallowed. “No thanks. And I don’t think you should either.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look, I haven’t been much of a friend to you, letting you go on like this …”

  “Wow! You’re sounding really girly right now. I could almost fancy you. Who’s put you up to this? I bet it was Angie.”

  “She did mention the small matter of your diseased liver.”

  “Hey, it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  “It’s exactly as bad as it sounds! You’re drinking yourself to death, Dylan, and I’m not about to watch.”

  “I’m not asking you to watch. I’ve got my own YouTube channel for that.”

  “I’m serious, Dylan.”

  “Wow! If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were morphing into Simon. Except you’re growing out rather than up.”

  “Dylan–”

  “Shh! If you’re going to start talking to me about endangered species, you can save your breath. I’ve already heard it all from Simon and I’m in favour.”

  “Have it your way.”

  He left Dylan at the bar and trudged upstairs to his room. It was really boring sitting up there all evening, but at least he didn’t have to answer to his conscience.

  The next morning, Jock walked into the library and sat down in an empty carrel. It didn’t take him long to get into his groove, his fingers flying across the keys as if they were hot to the touch. He hadn’t quite figured out how his murderer had killed his victim. He was pretty sure he knew who had done it and where, but until he worked out the method, he couldn’t be sure. His mind worked rapidly. A fresh bolt of inspiration flashed through his mind and he almost had it, when he heard the scrunching of paper. He looked up sharply. Someone sitting across from him was not having a good time. That was about the seventh time he had heard paper being scrunched. Typical! Now he had lost his train of thought. He had just worked out that the murder weapon would have been concealed in the icebox because … For the love of God! More scrunching! Couldn’t people cock up quietly? Yet again, he turned back to his laptop and willed himself to concentrate. Yes, that was it: the icebox was necessary, because without it, the murder weapon would have melted and then … What was that noise? It sounded like fingernails being scraped across a chalkboard. Ugh! There it was again. How was he supposed to work with that going on? As much as he hated confrontation, he was going to have to have a word with this person. Or better still, report them to the librarian. That way he could stay out of it. He didn’t like to make enemies. You never knew what some crazy person might do.

  He got to his feet and casually walked past the carrel opposite so that he could catch a glimpse. He saw a pair of muddy boots up on the desk. The man’s face was hidden behind a men’s magazine. Honestly, some people had no respect for the library. As he watched, the man casually scraped his fingernails down the side of the desk then tore a page from the magazine and scrunched it up loudly, tossing it onto the pile on his desk. Jock whipped the magazine away.

  “Oi! I was reading that!”

  Just as he had thought. It was Dylan, with an indignant pout etched into his idiotic face. He should probably have punched him by now.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hissed. But instead of answering, Dylan continued to play Pacman on his phone.

  “Dylan!” he repeated, loud enough to make a couple of people turn and glare.

  Still, Dylan refused to look up.

  “This is ridiculous!”

  He stalked back to his desk and swept all his stuff back into his bag. It was hard enough, having Sapphire constantly on his mind. There was no way he could concentrate while Dylan was here being a total twonk.

  He trudged back down the hill to Sapphire’s. The tea shop was quieter than it had been for a while. The number of journalists had dwindled over the weekend; not surprising considering there hadn’t been any significant developments since Simon was released almost a week ago – nothing that had been made public, at least. Jock wondered if the police knew what he and Dylan knew. What if they didn’t? He wondered again if he should tell them. Was it really worth keeping quiet just for Dylan’s sake? Especially now he was being such a pain in the bum.

  “What can I get you?” Angie asked, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. He tried not to stare at the pencil sticking out of her bun. Did she know it was there or had she stuck it there momentarily and was now wonderi
ng where it was?

  “Jock?”

  “A cup of tea and a slice of Battenberg, please.”

  “I’m sorry; we’re out of Battenberg.”

  “Oh!”

  This had never happened before. Bronwyn always made a plentiful supply. Angie nudged him and he saw Dylan sitting at a nearby table with three whole Battenbergs in front of him. His cheeks were suspiciously red and his hair damp with sweat. He must have legged it down the hill to get there first.

  “I must admit, I wondered what he was up to,” she sighed. “I know for a fact he’s not a big fan of marzipan.”

  Jock folded his arms. Dylan wasn’t just being an arse; he was being a pimple on the arse of an arse. And how he longed to pop him.

  “All this because I told him I wouldn’t be his drinking buddy anymore.”

  “Pillock!” Angie said.

  “Prize bloody pillock!” Jock agreed. But he was hurt, all the same. It wasn’t fair that he was being punished for being a good friend.

  A little later, Angie walked out of the kitchen holding a Spider-Man cake, which she set down in front of Anthony.

  “Wait, wait!” Simon said. “Does anyone have a lighter?”

  “Dad, that’s really not necessary,” Anthony said, sounding embarrassed. “It’s not even my birthday!”

  “What’s with the cake, then?” Jock asked.

  “Anthony has to go home tomorrow,” Angie said in a low voice. “And Simon won’t see him again till the summer holidays, which means he’ll miss his birthday.”

  “Jock? Lighter?” Simon asked.

  “No, sorry. I don’t smoke.”

  Several people made apologetic faces.

  “Where’s Dylan when you need him?” Simon muttered.

  “He’s just left,” Angie said.

  “Well, what about Morgan? She smokes like a chimney.”

  “She’s late.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “It’s alright, Dad!” Anthony said, touching his arm.

  “Shh!”

  Angie flicked on the light on her iPhone and began to sing. “Happy birthday to you …”

  Anthony’s ears burned as everyone in the shop joined in.