by Lisa Hall
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Oh, Charlie, what have you done?’
CHAPTER 22
My mother’s words are laced with worry and disappointment and I have to swallow hard to squash down the emotion that rises up in me at the sound of her voice.
‘Hi, Mum. Nice of you to ring. I’m not too sure what you mean by that, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’ I say the words, but I do know, of course I do, and my heart sinks like a lead weight.
‘The girl. The missing girl in Surrey. Why didn’t you tell me?’ Her voice catches, and I hear her suck in, and I know she’s smoking, even though she promised my dad she’d given up.
‘I couldn’t,’ I say, my eyes smarting. ‘And how did you know?’
‘BBC online.’ There’s a pause. ‘There’s a breaking news banner on the website. A picture of you leaving the police station, and a headline that says, Did the nanny do it?’
‘So, you’re ringing to ask me if I had anything to do with Laurel’s abduction?’ A fist of hurt twists in my belly. I am still nothing more than a disappointment to her.
‘No, silly girl,’ she says softly, ‘I’m calling to see if you’re OK. To ask why you didn’t tell me that you were home. Why you wanted me to think you were still in Killin.’
‘Mum . . .’ I battle for a moment to take a breath, the lump in my throat is so big.
She says nothing, simply waits for me to continue. I picture her in the house I grew up in, miles away from here, her dressing gown tied tightly around her waist, standing in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil as she did so many times before when I sneaked in late. She was always waiting for me, waiting to hear what I had to say. I don’t know when that changed. Was it when I decided to skip out on a law degree and train to be a nanny? When I decided I was being stifled and I ran away to Scotland, to be with a lad I barely knew? Or when I was accused of killing a small boy, the press and the public picking over every aspect of our lives?
I start to speak, the words tumbling over one another. ‘Do you remember, Mum, what it was like? When you came up to Killin, when they first said that I did it?’
‘I remember,’ she says, her voice heavy. ‘Of course, I remember.’
‘The way people reacted – spitting at me in the street, shouting and swearing at me, my face on the front page of the newspaper every day.’ My voice breaks, but I push on. ‘That day . . . the day they said I could go, that they believed I didn’t do it . . . the day you came and met me . . . that man pushed you, told you that you were the mother of a murderer and that we’d both rot in hell. That was the day I knew everything had changed, nothing was ever going to be the same again if I came home.’
‘You didn’t have to lie to me though, Charlie, you didn’t have to pretend that you were still in Scotland. You could have come home, I would have taken care of you.’ My mother sniffs, and I know that I’ve made her cry, again, the way I have so many times before.
‘I couldn’t . . . I felt ashamed, I suppose. I know I didn’t do it, and the police, the media, they eventually agreed that I was innocent but it wouldn’t have mattered to anyone else. How could I come back and live at home, knowing the way people would react? The things they’d say to you? Or even do to you?’ It was bad enough before, people threw eggs at my parents’ house, vandalised my dad’s car, refused to serve them in the local shop.
‘I thought I would come home sometime, to you and Dad, but I just couldn’t let you go through all that again. I only wanted to protect you. And then it got harder and harder to say anything, and I got the job here, but I was using the name Anna Cox and it was all so complicated, so I kept on pretending to you that I was still there . . .’ I stop, not sure where to go anymore. ‘I didn’t want to disappoint you more than I already had done.’
‘Charlie, you have never disappointed me – I might not have always agreed with your decisions, but it doesn’t mean I’m not proud of what you’ve achieved. What happened in Killin – it doesn’t change what I think about you. You’re my daughter, and I love you, I know that you never meant for that boy to get hurt. None of that matters anymore. What does matter though is what’s happened to Laurel – and what’s going to happen to you. I’m worried about you, Charlie.’
‘I know. I don’t know what to do, what to think. We all just want her back. I can’t think past that at the moment.’
‘I understand that, Charlie, I really do, but you need to think about what is best for you. I don’t want to see you caught up in all of this, not again. If it all becomes too much, I think you should consider getting away from things for a while. I’m sure the Jessops would understand.’
I glance towards my suitcase, still only half unpacked, and then to the birthday card on the bedside table that Laurel drew for me, what seems like a million years ago. ‘I can’t come home, Mum, I can’t leave Fran. Dominic hasn’t come back from the station yet, and things have been a little . . . fraught round here today.’ As I say the words, the thought of going home, hugging my mum, sitting in the kitchen letting her fuss round me is all too tempting.
‘You’re not on your own, Charlie, you’ve never been on your own in any of it. We’re here if you need us, me and Dad. Or, if you don’t want to come home you can always go to Aunt Lou’s holiday home – she’s not been back there since Uncle John died and I’m sure she’d be grateful for someone to look after the place for her. Just a thought.’
I realise that she is giving me an out if I need one – if the press attention becomes too much, or if Fran decides she does want me to leave. I’ve managed to keep out of the way for the most part up until now, but now the press have caught wind of the fact that I was being questioned at the station, it’s only a matter of time before they find out who I really am, before things escalate, exactly as they did in Killin.
‘Thanks, Mum.’ We say our goodbyes and I hang up, feeling better than I have in a long time. I have no more secrets left to keep, nothing left to hide now that I have been honest about what happened in Scotland, and I have confessed to being someone other than Anna Cox. Now all I have to hope is that the secret of whoever took Laurel will be revealed soon. That the truth will come out.
The next morning marks a month since we last saw Laurel. It is the first weekend in December, a weekend which would usually be spent trawling the local Christmas tree farm searching for the best possible tree. The first year I worked for the Jessops Dominic went out of his way to be there on this weekend, not wanting to miss the search for the elusive perfect tree, but for the past two years he hasn’t; citing work as the reason for his absence. This meant that for the last couple of years I have been included on this most special occasion, responsible for holding tight to Laurel’s hand to make sure she didn’t run off too far amongst the trees. There is a bittersweet moment when I wake, and I forget that she isn’t here before the heavy sense of loss returns. I think that maybe Fran will skip the ritual this year – if I, as Laurel’s nanny, don’t feel like celebrating, or even acknowledging a Christmas without Laurel I don’t see how Fran will want to – but when I come downstairs she is in the hallway, pulling her boots on, the fur cuff leaving stray hairs on the bottom of her designer jogging pants.
‘You’re up!’ she exclaims, giving me a thin smile. It’s as though our conversation the previous evening never happened, like I never confessed my secret to her and everything is as usual, but despite her attempt at normality, her face is pale and the dark rings around her eyes tell me that she didn’t sleep last night. Again. ‘It’s tree day, you didn’t forget, did you?’
‘No, but . . .’ I watch as she reaches for her thick ski jacket, shoving her arms into it and pulling a grey woollen hat out of the pocket, feeling a little uneasy at the way she is behaving as usual. ‘I thought maybe you’d want to give it a miss this year, seeing as Laurel isn’t here?’
Fran stops, her blue eyes icy cold as she stares at me. ‘She’s not here now, today, Anna but she might be by Christmas Day. She’d w
ant a tree. And besides . . .’ she clears her throat, ‘it helps. To feel a bit normal, you know? After everything.’
I say nothing, but reach for my own jacket, my skin prickling uncomfortably as I note that she still calls me Anna. There is still no sign of Dominic, and Fran doesn’t mention him. It feels wrong to be carrying on like nothing has happened, as though Laurel will come barrelling downstairs at any moment, demanding that I help her with her boots, singing Christmas carols in an off-key voice that always makes me smile. Fran is still the boss, whether Laurel is here or not, so I pull on my coat and follow her outside.
It takes all day to find the ideal tree. It’s perfect winter weather – the sun is shining, and frost crackles under our feet as we arrive at the Christmas tree farm, eventually thawing to leave a clear, crisp day. My feet are numb as we eventually choose our tree, the tree that Fran declares ‘The One’ and she pays for it, arranging with the manager to have it delivered to the house. I’ve tried my hardest to engage with her today, to offer an opinion when asked, but I can’t help feeling that this was all a pointless exercise, something to make Fran feel better, more normal. I am waking up to the fact that Laurel not being here is the new normal – might be the only normal that we know from now on. The idea of getting away from here, going home, or even further afield, is more and more appealing, but I’m concerned about broaching the subject with Fran just yet, especially after our row yesterday and while the media are still circling. I don’t want to look as though I’m running away – I have nothing to run away from this time. Fran doesn’t talk much on the way home, and I don’t try to fill the silence.
As we approach the house we see DS Wright waiting on the doorstep, in the dusky twilight, her breath reaching out in smoky plumes as she runs a hand over her hair.
‘Oh.’ Fran stops, and I almost crash into her. ‘DS Wright.’
‘Fran. Can I come in?’ She looks frozen, the tip of her nose a bright pink. Kelly stands beside her, her eyes looking everywhere except at Fran.
‘Of course. Anna?’ Fran looks at me, and I fumble in my pocket for the door key, avoiding Wright’s eye as she registers that Fran still calls me Anna. Pushing open the door I stand to one side to let them both in, following behind them as they head into the living room. Wright stands until Fran gestures to her to take a seat. There is a strangely formal air in the room.
‘Dominic isn’t home yet,’ Fran says, a slight frown creasing her brow. It’s been too long between botox injections. ‘Maybe we should wait for him. Anna, what do you think?’
I look to DS Wright, who gives a slight shake of her head, and say nothing.
‘Mrs Jessop, Fran, there’s something I need to tell you,’ DS Wright says, shadows from the now lit lamp flickering across her face. ‘Dominic won’t be coming home. Not tonight. Not for a while, I should think.’
Something crosses Fran’s face, an emotion that I can’t put a name to before it is gone again, her features blank and smooth as she waits for Wright to go on. The only thing that truly belies her feelings is the way her fingers knit tightly together, what’s left of her bitten fingernails digging into the backs of her hands.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks, quietly, but I know. I know exactly what DS Wright is here to say.
‘Fran . . . we’ve charged Dominic with the abduction of your daughter, Laurel.’
CHAPTER 23
I watch Fran as she blinks twice, slowly, her hands falling to her sides before she lowers herself into a nearby chair. She raises her hands to her mouth briefly, and I see her fingers shaking as she brings her hands back into her lap. I can feel my pulse thudding hard in my temple, and I wonder if Fran’s heart is galloping the way mine is.
‘Dominic?’ Fran says, her eyes never leaving Wright’s face. She gives a small nod and glances towards me, and I remember our conversation in the cemetery, when I wanted to tell her about the hair on his jacket, the suspicions I was harbouring about exactly where Dominic was the night Laurel disappeared.
‘I’m sorry, Fran.’ Wright nods her head towards Kelly, who stands to one side in the doorway. At her gesture she rushes forward and stoops down next to Fran, clasping her pale, lifeless fingers in her hand.
‘Don’t fuss over me,’ Fran snaps, shaking her fingers free and getting to her feet. As she begins to pace she looks at me, shaking a finger in my direction. ‘You had an idea this was coming, didn’t you, Anna?’
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Yes, I was suspicious of Dominic, but I had nothing concrete to back my gut feeling up. ‘I didn’t . . . I mean, I don’t . . .’ I manage to stammer out, flicking my eyes towards Wright, a knot of terror building in my chest at the thought of everything I told DC Bishop in my interview, of her and DI Dove thinking I was in on it with Dominic.
‘You said to me that day at the church,’ Fran says, ‘you had a feeling then, didn’t you? That Dominic was lying about something.’ Before I can reply she turns to Wright and carries on speaking, her words tumbling out over one another as she barely pauses for breath. ‘Has he told you where she is? Did you find Laurel? Anna, come on, get your jacket, we’ll need to go now and see her . . . we can see her, can’t we?’ Now she halts, her chest hitching. DS Wright looks uncomfortable, rocking slightly on her heels, and Kelly steps forward.
‘Fran, Dominic hasn’t told us where she is yet.’ Kelly’s voice is quiet, and she hesitates for a moment, her hand in the air as if to place it reassuringly on Fran’s arm, before she thinks better of it, and lets her hand drop to her side. ‘He’s denying knowing anything about what happened to Laurel that night.’
‘So how have you arrested him? Something must have happened to make you people think he’s guilty? You don’t simply arrest people with no reason.’
‘There is something,’ Wright says, ‘a few things, in fact. We do need to talk to you about some things that have come to light. Are you OK to talk here, or would you rather . . .?’
‘No. Here is fine. Anna, come and sit by me.’ Fran pats the seat next to her distractedly and I slowly move towards her, my legs like lead. There is a strange numbness around me, as if I have lost all sense of feeling, and I realise that perhaps I am in shock.
‘Fran, Dominic was supposed to meet you that night, wasn’t he?’ Wright says, flicking through a notepad that she pulls from her bag. ‘But he didn’t show up. Not until you had arrived back here with the police after leaving the site of Laurel’s disappearance.’
‘That’s . . .’ Clearing her throat, Fran tries again, the words seeming to get caught on their way out. ‘That’s right, yes. He said he would meet us at the field, as he had a list at the hospital until six o’clock. There didn’t seem much point in us waiting here to meet him, as we would have missed the start of the bonfire, so I told him to meet us there. We argued about it, actually.’ She blinks, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger as if to stop the tears. ‘Do we really have to do this now? Shouldn’t you be there, at the station, questioning him? Making him tell you where Laurel is? I can’t bear this much longer.’ Her voice breaks, and a single tear rolls down her cheek. ‘I really need to know that she’s OK.’
‘We are trying, Fran, I promise. We need you to tell us as much as you possibly can in order to help us get the information we need. So, Dominic never showed up. Did he ever tell you where he was that night? Anna?’ Wright turns towards me.
‘He never told me,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘All he said was that he’d told you where he was, and that I shouldn’t mention it to Fran. Sorry.’ My stomach churns at the thought that all of this could have been dealt with, Dominic could have been dealt with days or even weeks ago if I had just told the police my suspicions. ‘I thought perhaps . . .’ I glance towards Fran, as she sits, head down, her fingers picking at her cuticles. ‘I thought perhaps he’d gone to meet a woman.’
‘Instead he . . . what? Snatched Laurel? Oh God, I feel sick,’ Fran moans, leaning forward, clutching at her stomach.
&nb
sp; ‘But if he took Laurel, how could he have known that she would follow Fran to the portaloos?’ I ask, still not wanting to believe that Dominic, the man I’ve worked for, shared a house with for the past three years, the man who supported me all those times when Fran was being difficult, could be capable of something so horrific.
‘This may not have been something that he planned,’ Wright says, ‘it may have been a spur of the moment decision, but in any case, Dominic doesn’t have an alibi for the time frame in which Laurel went missing.’
‘Where does he say he was?’ Fran asks, her face clammy, tendrils of hair sticking slightly to her damp forehead. She looks ill, as though she might throw up at any minute.
‘He has admitted that he arranged to meet Pamela, but then never showed. He says he was driving around, but he couldn’t tell us exactly where. He said he was still upset with you, Fran, after your argument that morning. There isn’t any CCTV along those country roads, so it’s been difficult for us to trace his exact whereabouts that evening.’
‘So, he doesn’t have any sort of alibi at all?’ I ask. It’s looking more and more as though my instinct was right, and I rub at my arms, as a sudden chill runs over me as though someone has walked over my grave.
‘No. It doesn’t look that way,’ Wright says. She sinks into the chair opposite Fran, leaning forward to catch Fran’s eye. Fran is still staring at her feet, her eyes wide and unblinking, unwilling to meet DS Wright’s gaze. ‘There are a few other things that I need to speak with you about, Fran, relating to Dominic and his arrest. We found some . . .’ Wright tilts her head to one side as she considers how best to put her next words, ‘some disturbing images on his computer.’