Local Gone Missing Read online

  ALSO BY FIONA BARTON

  THE WIDOW

  THE CHILD

  THE SUSPECT

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2022 by figbarton productions ltd.

  Readers Guide copyright © 2022 by Penguin Random House LLC

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Barton, Fiona, author.

  Title: Local gone missing / Fiona Barton.

  Description: New York : Berkley, [2022]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021051387 (print) | LCCN 2021051388 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984803047 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781984803054 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PR6102.A7839 L63 2022 (print) | LCC PR6102.A7839 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021051387

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021051388

  Cover image by dan_prat / Getty Images

  Cover design by Adam Auerbach

  Book design by Daniel Brount, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_6.0_140170202_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Fiona Barton

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Chapter Seventy-two

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Guide

  About the Author

  For

  David Thurlow

  February 19, 1932–January 12, 2021

  As long as you live, there’s always something waiting; and even if it’s bad, and you know it’s bad, what can you do? You can’t stop living.

  —TRUMAN CAPOTE, IN COLD BLOOD

  Prologue

  There was something buzzing. A fly.

  Unable to move, he could only listen to its whining drone and try to follow it round the small room in his head. Where was it? Near the sinks? The drain in the floor?

  There was a silence and then it was flickering at the edge of his vision. He shook his head violently to stop it coming nearer but it waited and landed just below his left eye where sweat had pooled. It lifted off when he flinched but was back immediately. He was totally at its mercy. And the fly seemed to know, loitering like one of those sullen teenage boys who hung around the High Street.

  The fly danced over the damp tea towel plugging his mouth and moved toward his nostrils, rising and landing, the light brush of its feet and wings a subtle torture. When it finally flew off, it headed straight for the window, the sole source of light. He turned his head slowly to watch it frenetically beating against the pane before falling exhausted to the sill.

  It was a prisoner too.

  He closed his eyes and tried to focus on how he was going to get out. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. How long he’d got before they returned. It was getting darker in the room. The summer evening was fading and he struggled against his bindings one more time until his muscles screamed for him to stop. It was useless. Maybe he could work the gag out and shout for help? He forced his mouth open as far as it would go, feeling the gristle pop in his jaw, and stabbed at the material with his tongue as he rocked in the chair. It was working but the effort made the blood sing in his ears and he began to choke. He stopped and tried to slow his breath, whistling down his nose. Then bucked in his chair until it toppled over, crashing him to the floor.

  As he lay, he was suddenly aware of the silence in the room. He strained to hear the fly’s whining and its pathetic attempt to break the glass. But there was nothing.

  Had it escaped? How?

  Dread spread like a stain through his whole body, and his heart started to bang against his chest wall.

  Someone must have let it out. While he was fighting to get free. Opened the door behind him. And come in. He tried to turn his head to see.

  One

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 24, 2019

  Dee

  Afterwards, Pauline said she hadn’t even noticed Charlie was missing until I woke her.

  The car had been in the drive but there’d been no sign of him when I’d let myself in to clean. I’ve got my own key and I’m often here before they’re up. I prefer it, to be honest. I can just get on with my job. I’m almost done before they even realize I’m about. The invisible woman, my husband jokes sometimes.
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  But he’s right. I can vanish when I walk through a client’s door. ’Course, they hear me hoovering or moving furniture, but most of them act as though I’m not there. It’s like on Downton Abbey when the servants materialize through hidden doors to dust the chandeliers while the family is discussing Lady Mary’s latest scandal. But there are no secret doors or belowstairs at the places I clean. I’m at the other end of the scale. I mean, the Perrys live in a caravan.

  “Luxury park home,” Pauline had snapped the first time I called it that. “Travelers live in caravans, Dee. And this is only temporary until we finish the big house.”

  The big house. When you see it from a distance, it does look special. But close up, it’s a different story. It’s crumbling, one brick at a time. There are great big holes in the roof, and ceilings are coming down inside. It ought to be condemned, my husband says, but Pauline still makes me polish the brass knocker and letter box. I suppose it helps her kid herself that she’ll be living in it soon. The things people do to make life bearable.

  Front, that’s what they all put on. The shiny outside that hides the filth. You should see what I see: the fat-caked ovens, the shit-streaked toilets, the stained mattresses. And hear what I hear—who has money problems or fungal infections. But you won’t. Part of the job is not to tell.

  “Charlie!” Pauline suddenly yells from her bedroom.

  “Haven’t seen him,” I call back, and put my head round the door.

  “Well, he’s not here,” she says, pulling his folded pajamas out from under his pillow.

  “Right,” I said.

  “I took one of my pills last night—I must have been asleep when he came in. And when he got up,” she says.

  But I can’t smell the lingering sour breath of Charlie’s secret last glass. I’ve been opening the window in the tiny room as soon as I can when I do in here—and helping him hide empties from Her Majesty. This morning the bedroom is filled with the salty stink of sweat and sex. And they don’t. Have sex, I mean. Charlie can’t manage it, according to Pauline. But someone can. There’s talk in town about Bram, the gardener, who’s up here a lot. And does no gardening.

  “He’s supposed to be buying me a new dress in Brighton today. He promised,” Pauline wails. “I’ve been stuck in this bloody caravan for days.”

  She’s used the C word. She’s properly furious.

  “I’ll get on with the kitchen,” I say. She pulls a face and nods.

  I should say something straightaway. That I saw Charlie last night. But there’d be questions.

  Don’t get involved, I tell myself. It’s none of your business. And you’ve got enough going on.

  I fill the bucket with soapy warm water while I try not to think about my own problems: about the rent that needs paying next week, Liam’s lack of work. And my family creeping back into my life after all these years. Making me remember.

  The bucket overflows and splashes onto my feet. Come on, Dee. It’ll all be okay, I tell myself.

  And Charlie’ll turn up in a minute, won’t he?

  BEFORE

  Two

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7, 2019

  Seventeen days earlier

  Charlie

  He could see his daughter through the window. Head cocked so that her hair fell over her face. Listening for the beep of his key locking the car door. She’d know he was there already, would have heard the car pull up, but he didn’t rush. He watched as she moved slowly from the window to the door, steadying herself on surfaces, ready to welcome him. Charlie Perry levered himself out of the car and pressed the key fob. His daughter smiled and raised her hand. He went to wave—still an automatic gesture after all these years—and let his hand drop. Instead, he tapped his greeting on her window and marched up the steps.

  “Good morning, Mr. Perry,” the new woman on the desk cooed at him. He’d asked them all to call him Charlie at the beginning but they’d just smiled. It wasn’t that kind of place. The staff at Wadham Manor didn’t wear those awful carer tunics—all pink polyester. Here, it was crisp white shirts and smart trousers. And disposable aprons only when the need arose.

  There were yellow roses on a central table in reception, replacing last week’s fat pink peonies. Charlie breathed in the purified air overlaid with wood polish and allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. It was a façade—he knew that; of course he did. Wadham Manor was still an institution but he’d let five-star reviews—“more like a country house hotel than a residential home”—and fresh flowers sell it to him. And it was what his girl deserved. What he owed her.

  “Good morning!” he sang back. He couldn’t remember her name but he’d make sure he asked someone. Always important to get names right. “How are you? And how is Birdie today?”

  “Good—she did brilliantly with the new physio yesterday. She’ll be so happy to see you.”

  Except she can’t, Charlie wanted to say. Birdie hadn’t seen him for almost twenty years.

  “I’ll go through,” he said.

  “Of course. And I’ll tell Mrs. Lyons you are here. There’s a note that she needs to speak to you afterward.”

  * * *

  —

  Birdie hugged him close when she opened the door to her apartment. “Wow! Did you fall in a vat of aftershave, Dad?” She laughed and held her nose.

  “What do you mean! Don’t you like it? It’s very expensive.”

  “I bet it is. Did Pauline pick it?”

  “She said she was sick of my old stuff. I needed updating.”

  “I liked the old stuff. You smell like an airport duty-free now.”

  “Ha! Shut up and make me a coffee. There’s a good girl.”

  He watched as she organized cups and milk in her kitchen area, tucking her beautiful dark hair behind her ear as she chatted. You’d never know she can’t see, he found himself thinking. But he knew.

  I’m lucky to still have her, he told himself. His mantra.

  “So how was the new physio yesterday?”

  His daughter’s sunny smile clouded over.

  “Physio?” she muttered.

  “You had a session in the morning.” Gently, gently. Let her cover if she wants to.

  “Oh, yeah. Nice. I think.” They both knew that her unreliable brain had let go of the information.

  Charlie reached for the folder that recorded all the things her memory couldn’t. “Says here, you were working on balance and strength—and that he had to tell you off for swearing.”

  “Dad! It does not say that,” she giggled.

  “It does,” he teased. He loved making her laugh. “There’s a list of words used. Some I haven’t heard since I was last in the East End.”

  “Shut up! Here’s your coffee. What’s the therapist called? I can’t quite . . .”

  Charlie skipped to the end of the report. “It’s, er, it’s Stu.” And his hand seemed to lose its grip on the handle of his mug. Coffee dripped onto the page, obliterating the name.

  “That’s it. Stu,” she said.

  Charlie held his breath and watched for a memory to flicker across her face but there was nothing. It meant nothing to her. It’d been wiped, like every detail of that night. The razor-sharp brain that had earned her a place at Oxford to study law had been catastrophically blunted in a matter of minutes. Fifteen minutes, the ambulance crew had calculated. She’d stopped breathing for the time it took him to drink a gin and tonic and her whole life had changed. When she emerged from her coma, she remembered nothing.

  She was lucky. It had never left Charlie.

  * * *

  —

  Mrs. Lyons was hovering when he came out, brutally tweaking the flower arrangement into shape.

  “Ah, here you are,” she chirped as if he was a favorite guest. He wasn’t.

  “Now, then,” she said as she seated him in her private
drawing room, “we really need to get this bill settled, don’t we?”

  “I will be transferring the money tomorrow, Mrs. Lyons,” Charlie said. “I am very grateful for your patience.”

  “Well, that is good news but I’m afraid that is what you said on the last occasion. And on the other occasions we have had to discuss this matter.”

  “As I explained last time, I have had a slight liquidity problem—I don’t want to bore you with the details—but the money will be in place.” He could feel the prickle of perspiration in his hairline. “You have my word.”

  Mrs. Lyons’s mouth hardened and she stood, smoothing her dress over her jutting hip bones.

  “Fine. But I cannot emphasize enough that this will be our last conversation on the subject. You are now six months in arrears and I’m afraid I cannot extend our more than generous terms any further. I feel you are taking advantage of us, Mr. Perry.”

  “Charlie, please.”

  “Perhaps you should be looking for alternative accommodation for Birdie, Mr. Perry.”

  * * *

  —

  He’d yanked a tissue from a fake ormolu box on Mrs. Lyons’s desk as he left and was wiping at the sweat under his eyes as he walked to the main door.

  “Is everything all right?” the receptionist called to him.

  “Oh, yes. Bit of hay fever. All splendid, thanks.”

  “Birdie’s such a lovely girl.”

  Girl. He wanted to say she was a woman—she would be thirty-eight next week—that she should have been a top-rung barrister by now. But her injuries had frozen her in time. Her vulnerability had kept her a girl in everyone’s eyes.

  “Yes. She is.”

  “She’s been a popular girl today. You’re not her first visitor.”

  “Really? She didn’t say anything. And it wasn’t in the folder.” Charlie scrambled through possibilities in his head.

  The visitor column in the weekly diary was almost exclusively confined to him and Birdie’s mother—they came on different days to avoid any awkwardness. One of Birdie’s old teachers came a couple of times a year but she always let him know beforehand so he could prime his daughter. Could it have been a school friend? The girls in her set had fallen away after they’d left for university but Birdie followed a couple of them on social media.