by Tudor, C. J.
“Where did you get these?”
He hesitated. Even though he was pretty sure that Harry was a lying son of a bitch, he didn’t want to hand him to the police. Not yet.
“I can’t tell you.”
Her lips thinned. “Seems like there’s a lot of stuff you can’t tell me.”
“Look—someone sent me the photos. I think they were trying to convince me Jenny and Izzy were dead, but they got it wrong. Because of the scratch.”
She squinted at the photos. “I don’t see a scratch.”
“Exactly. That morning, our cat scratched Izzy. But there’s no scratch in this photo.”
“The cat must have scratched her another morning. You’re confused.”
“No. I’m not. I’m just sick of being called a liar.”
“No one is calling you a liar. Despite what you think, I am not your enemy.”
“You thought I was a murderer.”
“Actually, I never really thought that. It didn’t work. To drive home, murder your wife and child, get yourself cleaned up, drive back along the motorway and call from the service station, miraculously avoiding all the traffic cameras? Not feasible. And then there was the anonymous caller.”
Gabe had thought about that, too. The call reporting a break-in at Gabe’s house, just before the murders. It wasn’t a neighbor. The police had decided it must have been a concerned passerby. But why not come forward?
“There was me thinking it was my honest face,” he said now.
“Never trust an honest face.” A pause. “Of course, if you’d just told us where you really were from the start, it would have made our jobs a lot easier.”
“And have you judge me for that, too?”
“You were judged by the court and sentenced.”
“Please,” he said. “Can’t you just ask about the photographs, check with the coroner or something? I mean, only Harry identified the bodies. It’s just his word.”
“And you think he lied?”
“Maybe. Maybe he was…mistaken.”
“You’re suggesting that your father-in-law misidentified your wife and daughter’s bodies.”
“No, just Izzy’s.”
“Do you understand how insane that sounds?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
Maddock picked up the photos again. She peered more closely at the one of Izzy. He waited, heart thumping. Finally, she turned to him.
“Okay. I’ll get someone to look at the photos. But first—where’s the car?”
“I—”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
He debated. He could lie. Claim he just stumbled over it. Say he never looked in the trunk.
“Barton Marsh, off Junction 14. There’s a lay-by just past a farm. Follow the footpath till you get there.”
She jotted it down.
“Don’t suppose you care to tell me how you found it?”
“No.”
“Fine.” She put the notebook back in her pocket and started to do the same with the photos.
“Wait.”
“What?”
He hesitated. “The photos. They’re all I’ve got. The only proof.”
“And you think I’m the sort of police officer who would misplace evidence?”
“No, but—”
The “but” hung in the air, reverberating with accusation.
“You have to trust someone, at some point.”
He debated with himself then nodded. “Fine.”
She tucked the photographs into her pocket.
“Thank you. Now, if I do this for you, can you do something for me?”
“What?”
“Think about what I said before. Siestas. Sipping margaritas at sundown.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good. Everyone deserves a second chance.”
“Even me.”
“Especially you.”
A police car was parked outside her mum’s house.
Katie pulled up behind it, yanked on the handbrake and climbed out. Her heart felt like it was fighting her lungs for space. She couldn’t help it. The sight of a police car, outside their house. Too many memories.
However difficult her mum was, however awkward their relationship, she still worried about her, still cared for her. It isn’t until you lost a parent that you understood the magnitude of their presence in your life. So many times, after Dad, she would pick up the phone to call him and pause, mid-dial, remembering that he would no longer greet her from the other end with a cheery “Hello, sweetheart.” It wasn’t a temporary absence. He was gone. Forever. The realization sideswiped her again and again.
This is not the same, she tried to tell herself as she walked up the driveway. Not the same. Still, the feeling of unease that had started back in the café had increased tenfold. She rang the bell. A few seconds later it swung open.
Her mum stood in front of her. She looked thin, haggard and older than ever. She eyed Katie suspiciously.
“Why are you here? Has she called you? Have you seen her?”
“Mum. Calm down. I was worried about you, so I left work and drove straight over.”
Her mum glared at her and then turned abruptly. “You’d better come in,” she said, and walked back down the hallway.
Trying to fight the irritation nipping at her already frayed edges, Kate followed her into the small, beige kitchen. A young police officer with a ruddy face and sandy-colored hair sat awkwardly at the table, a mug of tea in front of him. A bottle of red and a full glass sat in front of the other chair.
Just something to steady my nerves, her mum had probably told him. Katie had heard that excuse before. She had heard all of them.
“This is Katie, one of my other daughters,” her mum said as she slumped into the chair and took a sip of wine. The police officer stood and offered a hand.
“PC Manford.”
Katie shook it. “Could you tell me what’s going on?”
“That’s what we’re just trying to get to the bottom of.”
Katie felt like saying the only thing her mum was trying to get to the bottom of was that bloody bottle of wine, but she bit her tongue.
“My mum called you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wilson wants to report a missing person.”
Katie frowned. “Who’s missing?”
“Your sister, Francesca—”
“My sister moved away years ago.”
“She was here,” her mum said. “Today.”
Katie stared at her. “You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Just turned up, out of the blue, then took off again.”
Katie tried to digest this. Fran. Back. After all this time.
“You’re positive it was Fran?”
“I know my own daughter.”
“But now she’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I still don’t think you can report her missing if she left of her own volition…”
“I don’t want to report her missing. I couldn’t care less if she never comes back. She was always trouble. You don’t remember, you were too young—”
“Mum,” Katie broke in. “If you don’t want to report Fran missing, then why did you call the police?”
“Because of the little girl.”
“What little girl?”
“Alice. She just left her here.”
“Who’s Alice?”
“Fran’s daughter. My eldest granddaughter.”
Granddaughter? Katie opened her mouth, closed it again. She was about to say that Fran didn’t have a daughter, but what did she know? She hadn’t seen her sister in almost a decade. She could have a whole brood. Nephews and nieces Katie had never met.
“Well, where’s the little girl
now?”
“Missing. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. She ran away. She’s out there somewhere all alone—” Her mum’s face softened and, for a fleeting moment, Katie could almost see the parent she used to be.
“We have to find her. Before something terrible happens.”
It was growing dark, the sky blotted out by heavy clouds, by the time Gabe walked—tentatively, feeling sore and light-headed—from the hospital. His pocket rustled with painkillers and a “Self-care” leaflet that explained what he should do if the wound started to bleed, became inflamed or wept yellow pus. Surprisingly, this was not “Carry on and ignore it.”
He had booked a cab to take him back to the services, where he had left his van. A text had just informed him it was on its way. He stood, shivering, outside the hospital entrance, peering at every car that passed by.
A few smokers huddled in dressing gowns and slippers, one clutching an IV stand. Some people might sneer at how ill patients would stand outside in the cold just to get their nicotine fix. But Gabe understood.
We all have our addictions. Things we value even more than life itself. Things we know will probably kill us. In a way, they make life simpler. You know what’s going to get you. You’re not blindsided. As Bill Hicks said: “It’s you people dying of nothing that are the problem.”
A car horn beeped. He glanced up. A white Toyota with “Ace Cabs” stuck wonkily on the side had pulled up in the pickup area. He shuffled over. The taxi driver was a bald Asian man with a small goatee.
“For Gabriel?” Gabe asked.
“Yeah.”
He climbed inside, wincing a little as he did so.
“Newton Green Services, yeah?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
He eased himself into the seat and fumbled for the seatbelt.
“Been in an accident?”
“Sorry?”
“A lot of people we pick up from here have been in accidents on the motorway. Nearest one, innit?”
“I suppose.”
“What happened?”
“Just a shunt.”
“Yeah? We had one the other day where this old dear had a heart attack at the wheel…”
Gabe leaned back and tuned him out. He was tired and cold; brittle bones draped in a sprinkling of skin. It felt like going over a bump might cause him to dissolve into dust. He kept wondering if he had done the right thing, telling Maddock about the car, sharing the photos. He worried that the Samaritan would not be happy. But then, this wasn’t about him. He yawned. It hurt. The motorway passed in a blur of darkness and light.
“Whereabouts d’you want dropping, mate?”
The taxi pulled into the services car park. Gabe must have dozed off for a few minutes. The driver didn’t appear to notice or care. Gabe blinked.
“Erm, could you just go down to the bottom and pull up next to the VW camper van?”
“Okay.”
The taxi trundled down to where the van was still parked. Gabe had a momentary panic. Where were his keys? He patted his pockets and found them in the top-right one, where he never put them.
“Thanks. How much is that?”
“Eighteen forty.”
He had the same fleeting panic about his wallet, and then found it in his other pocket, where he usually put his keys.
He fumbled out a crumpled twenty and handed it to the cab driver. “Call it twenty.”
He probably couldn’t afford to be so generous, but he was too exhausted to care.
“Cheers, mate.”
Gabe climbed out of the cab, clutching at his side. He looked around, feeling nervous. As the cab pulled away, part of him wanted to shout for the driver to come back. Not to leave him here, on his own. Stupid, he knew. The car park was busy. Vehicles came and went. People trudged in and out of the brightly lit services. A thin woman with a large brown Labrador traipsed around a narrow strip of grass, chanting: “Wees and poos. C’mon, Bourbon. Wees and poos.”
Normal service-station stuff. Except nothing felt normal any more. Everything felt darker, sharper, more suspicious. He had never thought about the danger of sleeping in his van before. He had heard about people being attacked and robbed, but he had always thought that, as a six-foot-three male, he was safe. Now, the tug of the stitches in his stomach reminded him that he was also vulnerable.
“Good girl, Bourbon!”
The dog was taking a crap. The woman sounded delighted beyond measure, and she was hardly going to attack him with a loaded poo bag. He just needed to get some sleep. He was tired and jittery. And this was not a random attack, he reminded himself. The man had what he wanted. Gabe didn’t think he was going to come back.
He unlocked the camper-van door, climbed inside and almost imitated the dog as a voice said: “You gotta do something about those locks, man.”
* * *
—
THE SAMARITAN SIPPED the bitter coffee that Gabe had heated on the small stove.
“How did you get in here?”
“Told you—you need better locks.”
“You scared the shit out of me.”
The Samaritan shrugged.
Something else occurred to Gabe. “How did you even know where to find me?”
“I got my ways.”
Wasn’t that the truth, Gabe thought.
“I heard some idiot had got himself stabbed at Newton Green Services. White male, early forties.”
“And you just presumed it was me?”
“Someone was always gonna try to kill you some day. So? What happened?”
Gabe told him.
“I think he wanted the stuff we found in the car.”
The Samaritan listened, long legs crossed, face impassive. When Gabe had finished, he didn’t speak for a long while.
“Okay,” he said eventually. “This is what we’re going to do.”
“We?”
“You want my help or not?”
Gabe often felt that by accepting help from the Samaritan he was making a lot of very small deals with the devil. But what choice did he have?
He sighed. “Okay.”
“You need to leave your van here and then go check yourself in at a hotel.”
“Why?”
“Because, in this van, you’re a sitting duck.”
“But the man got what he wanted.”
“And you got a good look at him.”
“You think he’ll come back?”
The Samaritan stared at him with his fathomless eyes.
“I would.”
“All right.”
“You can take my car.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s just temporary. You keep your head down and wait to hear from me.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll stay in your van. If your man comes back, I’ll be waiting for him and we’ll have a little chat. Understand?”
Gabe nodded slowly.
“All right.”
“Don’t worry. He won’t bother you again.”
The Samaritan sat back and grinned. The strange, shiny stone in his tooth gleamed. Gabe tried to contain a shiver.
Gabe had found it best not to think about what lay behind that smile. Just like he tried not to wonder who this man really was, why he wanted to help him or what he might want one day in return.
“Some people call me the Samaritan.”
But sometimes, Gabe wondered what the others called him.
Alice sat on a swing in the run-down playground, pushing herself slowly back and forth. It was getting dark. Younger children and their parents had gone, heading home for dinner, baths and bed. One group of teenagers remained, pushing each other too fast on the small roundabout.
Alice kept her head down, swinging quietly. No o
ne took much notice of a child in a playground, and she looked old enough to walk home on her own. That was what Fran had always told her. Hide in plain sight. Hang out in a playground, or park, near a school. Near other families and parents. Somewhere that people expect to see children, among other children. If anyone asks where your mum is, point at someone in the distance or say they’re just coming. Hang tight and wait for me to call.
“Wait for me to call.”
That was the other thing Fran had always told her. If something goes wrong, if I don’t reply to your text, wait for me to call you. Don’t call me. It’s too risky.
She had tried. She had waited and waited. The mobile on her lap remained dark and silent. And then she had broken the rule. She just needed to hear Fran’s voice. But the voice she got was automated, telling her the number was unavailable.
She pushed herself back and forth restlessly. The swing squeaked like an animal in pain. There was still time, she told herself. Still time. Even as a weak drizzle began to spit from the sky and her fingers numbed with cold. Still time. Just wait.
Because she didn’t want to think about the end of waiting. About what happened if she stopped. About what that meant. About the final thing Fran had told her.
“If I don’t call, it means something bad has happened. I might be hurt. Or dead. So, you don’t call me. You call this number. And you do what we planned. Yes?”
She remembered nodding, thinking that she was agreeing to something that would never happen. Despite what had happened before. Despite the very bad thing that they were never supposed to talk about. The very bad thing that Alice pretended she couldn’t remember. But sometimes she did. Bits of it. She remembered the man. And the blood. And her mum—her real mum.
She had felt safe with Fran. She loved her, in a way. She had no one else. But now, Fran was gone and Alice was the most frightened she had ever been.
She stared down at the phone. Just a little longer, she told herself. Just a little longer.
Katie hated being late for her children. She had always promised she would never let them down. She would always be there for them.
Even before Mum’s drinking had spiraled into dependency there had been too many occasions when she had arrived blurry-eyed at the school gates, blaming bad traffic or an appointment. Katie had never forgotten that nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach, the embarrassment of her and Lou being the last ones standing there, watching enviously as their classmates skipped off home with their mummies, mummies whose cars probably didn’t clink with the sound of bottles in the trunk when they drove around a corner.