by Tudor, C. J.
“Try again.”
“You don’t understand. The number is unavailable. Even if I wanted to help you, I can’t. She’s gone.”
Gone. With Izzy. Gabe wanted to punch the wall in frustration. And then he remembered DI Maddock’s words:
“We found the car. We found another victim nearby. A woman.”
“Harry, when I told you I’d found the car, did you tell the woman?”
He had the grace to look sheepish. “Yes.”
“Christ!”
“What?” Harry looked at him strangely.
“There was a body in the trunk, badly decomposed. It had been there a while. When the police pulled the car out of the lake today, they found a woman nearby, barely alive.”
Gabe saw the realization dawn in Harry’s watery eyes. “You think it’s the woman who took Izzy?”
“I think, after you told her I’d found the car, she went back, maybe to destroy the evidence.”
“But, if it’s her, then—”
“Where the hell is my daughter?”
When the Titanic was sinking, the band continued to play. Everyone had heard that story. But often, Katie wondered why. Denial, duty or simply the need to focus on something familiar and comforting when all else was lost? When the worst had happened.
She felt a bit like she was playing on the Titanic this morning. Or fiddling while Rome burned. Doing all the normal things, when nothing about this was normal at all.
She poured out cornflakes, splashed milk into bowls, buttered toast and poured glasses of orange juice. She made a cup of tea then settled Sam and Gracie in front of the TV in the living room while she searched in the tumble dryer for missing school cardigans and socks. All the while trying to ignore the voice inside her head that kept screaming: Iceberg! Iceberg!
Have you seen me? I think it’s you.
Alice (she wasn’t ready to answer to Izzy) was still in bed. It had been gone 11 p.m. by the time Katie had wearily tucked her in. She had absorbed the revelation calmly. Worryingly so. Despite Katie’s best efforts to coax more out of her, Alice claimed not to remember anything about the night her mum died. Just that it was something bad. Fran had saved her. She repeated it like a mantra, like she had learned it off by heart. But Katie wasn’t so sure.
It was true that most children, once they reached eight or nine, would forget events from their earliest years. Childhood amnesia. Something to do with how fast the brain is growing and laying down new neural pathways.
But, if Katie was right and Alice was who she thought she was, she would have just turned five when her mother was murdered. Old enough to summon up some memories, even if her brain had done its own whitewash job to protect her from the trauma.
Memories didn’t just evaporate like steam. They were more like lost keys. You might have put them somewhere for safekeeping or thrown them into a deep well because you didn’t ever want to unlock that particular door again, but they were still there, somewhere. You just had to find a way to retrieve them.
Her first instinct had been to call Gabe. He deserved to know that his daughter was alive. That he had been right, all along. And if Alice saw her daddy, maybe some of those memories of her former life would come back to her.
But then, Katie had caught herself. Gabe might still be in the hospital. And Alice needed rest; she needed time to let this settle. If Gabe insisted on seeing her straight away (which he would), it could all be too much. For both of them. Besides, Katie wanted to be sure. She didn’t want to get the poor man’s hopes up just to dash them again.
After she had put Alice to bed, she spent several hours scouring the internet for information about the murders. Three years ago (so, the girl’s age was right). It had been all over the television and newspapers at the time. No one had ever been caught and there seemed to be no motive, certainly not after Gabe was absolved. No robbery. No sign of forced entry. Like the killer had just been invited in.
And maybe she had, Katie thought. After all, who would feel threatened by a woman with a child?
She felt a coldness steal in and wrap itself around her heart. What was she suggesting? That Fran was somehow involved. But what about her daughter? If Alice was telling the truth, she’d been killed, too. Katie refused to believe that Fran would let her own child come to harm. So, what was the alternative? Was Fran just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or was the answer somewhere in between? Was she an accomplice? Drawn into a situation that spiraled out of control? Where the only option left was to save one child and run? But from who?
She thought about the postcard again.
I did it for Dad.
Katie picked up her mug of tea and took a sip. Predictably, it had gone cold. Sometimes, it seemed like her entire life was measured out in undrunk mugs of tea. She was just about to pour it away and make another when the front doorbell rang. She jumped. Christ, her nerves were shot this morning.
She walked into the hall. Through the glass at the top of the door she could see what looked like the fluorescent jacket of a police officer.
Fran. Had they found her?
She pulled the door open.
“All right, Katie?”
It took her a moment. She had only met her sister’s boyfriend a handful of times and, while she was aware of his job, she had never seen him in uniform.
“Steve? What are you doing here?”
“Didn’t get you out of bed, did I?”
He smiled. Katie had the urge to pull her dressing gown a little bit tighter around her body.
“Actually, I was just getting breakfast.”
“Right. Can I come in?”
She hesitated. Gracie and Sam were still ensconced in front of the TV. Alice was upstairs asleep. But if she came down…
“It’s important.”
Reluctantly, she nodded. “Okay.”
She led him into the kitchen, even as something worried at the back of her mind. How did he know her address? She supposed he was a police officer. But there was something else, something niggling.
She closed the kitchen door and turned to face him, forcing a smile. “So, can you tell me what this is about?”
He looked around. “Aren’t you going to offer me a cuppa?”
She fought down her natural instinct to be polite. “I have to get the kids to school. You said it was important.”
His face immediately darkened. She thought about Lou. Her poor choices. How a uniform was no indicator of character.
“It’s about your sister Fran.”
She stiffened. “What do you know about my sister?”
“I know she’s got herself into trouble and she’s going to get you into trouble, too.”
“I haven’t seen my sister in nine years.”
“Where’s the girl, Katie?”
A jolt of fear shot through her. How the hell did he know about Alice? What was this?
“Sorry?”
“If you’re hiding her, you’re obstructing justice.”
She tried to keep her voice steady. “I thought you worked in Traffic, not Missing Persons?”
“I know she’s here. Just fetch the girl and we’ll all be sweet.”
And suddenly she remembered what else was bothering her. Yesterday, Steve had said he had two days off. But here he was, in uniform.
Iceberg. Iceberg.
“Are you even on duty?”
He sighed, held out his hands. “You’re right. This isn’t police business. Call it debt collection. Your sister owes and it’s time to pay.”
“I’d like you to leave, please.”
“Fine.” He smiled. And punched her in the face.
Her nose exploded with an agonizing crack. She tried to scream, but her throat was full of blood. She gurgled and staggered backward. He caught her before she could hit t
he floor, pushing her against the sink.
“Nothing personal. Just earning a little overtime.”
She forced out the words: “Furr…who?”
“Oh, I think you know.” He whispered the name in her ear, his lips brushing her skin. Terror squeezed her insides.
“Whut…’bout…Lou?”
A sneer. “That fat-slag sister of yours? She was business, not pleasure. Keeping tabs.”
He wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed. She tried to scream, to draw in breath, but her nose was a mushy mess and her throat was half choked. Faintly, from the living room, she could hear the Scooby Doo theme. Oh God, what if the children came in here? What if he hurt them?
She grabbed for his face, scratching at his skin with her nails. He squeezed her throat harder. She kicked and writhed, trying to throw him off, but he was too strong.
He pressed his face into hers. “I’d rather it had been you. If I had more time, we could make this a lot of fun.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flicker of movement. The door opened. Alice stepped into the kitchen. No, Katie thought. No. Don’t come in here. Get away. Run. Get Sam and Gracie and run.
But Alice didn’t run. She moved forward and swung something over her head. There was a rattling sound, a heavy thud, and the pressure on Katie’s throat was released. She gasped for air. Steve staggered to one side, toppling into the table and chairs.
Before he could recover, Alice raised the rucksack and swung it again. It connected with his skull with a satisfying crunch. This time, he slumped heavily to the floor, out cold.
Christ. Alice had just assaulted a police officer.
A police officer who was trying to kill you.
If she hadn’t have been scared, and in so much pain, Katie would have laughed at the sheer insanity of it. She dragged in a couple more rasping breaths. Alice stood, still clutching the rucksack, as though debating whether to use it again. Katie forced her trembling legs to walk over to her and wrapped an arm around her thin shoulders.
“What have you got in there?” she croaked. “Rocks?”
Alice shook her head. “Pebbles.”
Of course.
“Mum? What’s happened?”
She turned. Sam stood in the kitchen doorway with Gracie. They stared at her in horror. Gracie started to sob.
“Mummy! Your face.”
Katie hurried over and hugged them. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
“Why is Uncle Steve on the floor?
She glanced back at Steve. The blow had knocked him out, but she couldn’t see any blood. On one hand, that was probably good. Murdering a police officer was something else. On the other hand, he was going to wake up.
“We could make this a lot of fun.”
“I’ll explain later. Right now, I want you to get your shoes and coats on. We need to leave. Now.”
“I want you to visit Isabella.”
And so began his real sentence.
When it came to the trial, Gabe’s age and former good record had counted for him. Witnesses confirmed that the girl had just walked out, right in front of the car. He couldn’t have stopped in time. While the others had fled the scene, Gabe had stayed, holding the girl’s hand and talking to her until the ambulance arrived. In the shock and confusion, the crowd hadn’t realized that he was the driver. However, he had probably been speeding, he was over the limit and, even though the girl was alive, barely, his solicitor had told him that there was very little chance he could avoid a custodial sentence…
If it hadn’t been for the letter.
Charlotte Harris, the mother of the girl—whose name he now knew was Isabella—had written to the judge. He never saw the contents of the letter, but he would learn later that Charlotte was someone of influence. She had asked for leniency.
And she had asked to meet him.
They sat in an enormous living room. Balconied windows and wide French doors looked out over the chalk cliffs. Lush lawns unfurled, like a thick green carpet, down to a shimmering swimming pool. Around them porcelain, marble and glass sparkled and shone.
Beautiful. And yet…Gabe found it hard to imagine a teenage girl, with all her clumsiness, color and mess, ever living here. The huge space felt empty. He wondered if it had ever felt alive.
Charlotte Harris poured water into crystal glasses. Like the house, she was polished and poised; pale blonde hair, immaculate cream dress, shiny pearls.
“The visits will take place every Monday at precisely 2 p.m. For exactly one hour. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing.”
“Wh–why Monday?”
Charlotte regarded Gabe coolly. “Isabella was born at 2 p.m. on a Monday.” She let this thought weigh upon him before continuing. “You will not deviate from the day or time. You will continue to visit Isabella without fail until the day she recovers.”
Gabe stared at her. Isabella remained in a persistent vegetative state. No one knew when, or if, she would ever regain consciousness, let alone recover.
“But what if”—he swallowed—“she doesn’t?”
Charlotte smiled and Gabe felt her hatred emanate from every pore.
“Then you will visit her without fail until the day one of you dies. Do you understand?”
He understood.
* * *
—
EVERY MONDAY GABE sat at Isabella’s bedside while machines whirred and beeped around her. He talked to her, read to her; sometimes he held her soft, cool hand.
Isabella slept. A pale girl in a white room.
He visited her while he studied at the local polytechnic, chosen because it was within walking distance of the hospital.
He visited after he had finished his degree at the poly, working evenings in a pub and doing freelance work for a local advertising agency to free up his days. When the agency offered him a permanent copywriting position, he negotiated a cut from the already meager salary in exchange for every Monday afternoon off, lying about visiting his dying mother in the hospital, even though his mother was already dead by then.
He visited when Isabella’s mother moved her from the hospital to a specially constructed annex in the remote cliff house, catching two buses and walking a mile from the bus stop to get there.
He visited after he was headhunted for a job at a top agency, miles away in Nottingham, insisting on working remotely for two days a week so he could drive the four hours to Sussex and back.
He visited after he met Jenny. The urge to tell her, to share everything with the woman he loved, was overwhelming, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in her eyes.
He visited when he should have been spending holidays with his wife and daughter, inventing ever more elaborate excuses to avoid a whole week away. He had booked earlier flights home, deliberately missed trains, faked food poisoning and even invented an old friend whose funeral he needed to attend. All to keep his promise.
He visited when Jenny was in labor.
He visited when Izzy performed in her first nativity and on her third birthday.
He visited when his wife was being slaughtered and his daughter kidnapped—the hideous irony of this only sinking in later.
He visited afterward, fighting through throngs of reporters and photographers outside his home, chasing him with accusations and stories about his former crime.
Man questioned over murders of mother and daughter left girl in coma.
Father whose family were slain visits teenage girl he left for dead.
The first victim.
Oh yes. Gabe understood.
He understood that Charlotte had made him more of a prisoner than if he had been behind bars. Chained to Isabella for life.
* * *
—
“THAT’S WHY NONE of this makes any sense. Charl
otte wanted me to pay. But not like this.”
He turned to the Samaritan. They stood on the motorway bridge, vehicles parked a short distance away. The policeman had not returned to Gabe’s van last night. Gabe thought that the Samaritan had sounded a little disappointed when he told Gabe this.
“You destroyed her daughter’s life,” he said now. “Sounds like she had a pretty good reason to want to destroy yours.”
The wind gusted cold drizzle into their faces. Gabe pulled his collar up to his chin. The Samaritan leaned on the railing, in his usual black jacket and T-shirt, seemingly oblivious to the weather. Below, the motorway flowed with fast-moving early-morning traffic. Like a river, it never stopped, not entirely. Always more cars. Always more journeys.
“Charlotte isn’t behind this,” Gabe said firmly. “She didn’t contact the Other People.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“For a start, Charlotte hated technology. Miriam once told me that she didn’t even own a mobile phone. She had no idea what Google was, let alone the Dark Web.”
“Maybe she got someone to help her?”
Gabe shook his head. “No. She was a virtual recluse. No family. No friends.”
“People will surprise you,” the Samaritan said. “Not usually in a good way. And Charlotte Harris sounds like a piece of work.”
“Oh, she was.”
Charlotte Harris was a polished shell full of poison. And Gabe was sure she would have taken great delight in his torment over losing his wife and daughter.
But she never had the chance.
The Samaritan shot him a look. “Was?”
Gabe smiled thinly. “Charlotte Harris is dead. She died a year before Izzy was born.”
They sat at a sticky table in a corner of the motorway café. The place smelled of stale food, and the fluorescent lighting lent everyone the pallor of zombies. A young girl served customers behind the counter. Katie half expected to see a parallel version of herself walk out and start collecting cups.
They were a few junctions south of Newton Green. Katie didn’t dare risk returning to her own place of work. For a start, Steve knew where that was. He could come after her. Once, that might have sounded paranoid. Not anymore.