by M. A. Hunter
‘As far as I’m aware,’ I confirm.
‘Have you ever had cause to interact with her in any other way? Email? Phone? Text message?’
‘Again, as far as I know, no, I haven’t.’
I gulp audibly as I think of the spyware that Jack located on my mobile. What if it’s possible that the hackers who downloaded the software have been secretly holding conversations with this woman behind my back? It seems ludicrous, but I’m not tech savvy enough to know if that’s possible.
Yates whispers something to Oakley behind her hand, before the Detective Inspector nods. I know in the deepest recesses of my mind this is a common ploy used to throw off the interviewee, but it doesn’t stop my pulse quickening another notch.
‘Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink before we continue?’ Yates asks, suddenly all smiles.
She’s trying to worm her way into my subconscious. If I tell her my mouth is as arid as the Sahara, will she take that as a sign of my guilt, even though I’ve nothing to feel guilty about? Or if I refuse, will she take that as a sign that I am compliant in whatever I’m suspected of? Or is she just taking pity on me because the questions so far have merely been to break the ice, and we’re yet to get to the crux of why they’ve dragged me in here? I don’t know what to do for the best, and quickly shake my head.
‘Okay, we’ll move on then,’ she says, ticking something on her pad.
‘On second thought, I would like a drink,’ I say, my tongue unnaturally swollen; at least, that’s how it feels.
Yates raises her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Not a problem; I’ll get us some water.’
She leaves the recorder running, explaining that she is stepping out to get me a drink. The sound of the door closing seems to echo around the room, and I don’t know where to settle my gaze. DI Oakley is studying her notebook, the ballpoint pen scratching against the page. Should I make small talk, to throw them off the scent of my panic? If only making small talk were one of my strengths! I’m about to attempt something when the door bursts open again, and DS Yates places three stacked paper cups on the desk, along with a translucent jug of water. She doesn’t pour me a drink, just leaves the jug standing there enticingly. She announces her return for the recording, and I buckle.
‘Can I just help myself?’ I ask uncertainly.
‘Yes, please do,’ she replies, her eyes skimming her notes again as if my request for a drink means nothing to her, and is simply a minor irritation. I wish my overactive imagination would just settle and focus on the fact that I have done nothing wrong, and in fact should be angered that I’m only here because they requested I come.
Stick to facts, I remind myself internally, taking a long and satisfying sip.
‘Better?’ Yates asks.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Good. Now, where were we?’ She pauses as if waiting for the answer to leap from the page in front of her. ‘Ah yes, of course. Can you tell me what you know about the victim, Sir Anthony Tomlinson?’
I cough as spittle catches in my throat. Ultimately, he may or may not be the reason we’re all here, I don’t say. I’m suddenly conscious of just who else could be listening to this conversation playing out. I’m aware that others may one day listen back to the recording, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other officers in this very building listening in. It also doesn’t rule out the possibility of unseen faces elsewhere hanging on every word.
Stick to facts, I tell myself again.
‘Only what I heard on the news,’ I reply. ‘I understand he was a former Met Police Commissioner.’
‘Yes, indeed, something of a minor celebrity in these parts. Much like yourself in that respect.’
Was that a dig? Maybe a subconscious one if not fully intended.
I don’t rise to it, awaiting her next question.
There is a pause before she moves on. ‘You didn’t know Sir Anthony?’
‘Not personally, no,’ I reply evenly, the adrenalin still playing havoc with my nervous system.
She frowns as she looks back at her notes before the wrinkles flatten in her forehead. ‘So you’ve never met Kylie Shakespeare or the victim of today’s shooting, Sir Anthony?’
‘As I’ve already stated: to the best of my knowledge, I’ve never met or spoken with either.’
I desperately want to let out the sigh that’s building within me, but hold it back for now.
‘Okay, let’s talk about you next,’ Yates continues, still looking down at her list of questions. ‘How long have you been writing for?’
The question is a bit out of left field, but I can’t imagine it will lead to anything incriminating.
‘On and off since university,’ I answer honestly. ‘I interned and then worked as a freelance journalist at the Dorset Echo for a few years, until I published my first book.’
‘Ah yes, the now infamous Monsters Under the Bed,’ she says. ‘Would you say it was the book that put you on the map, so to speak?’
The question is worded very oddly, but I half nod, half shrug.
‘For the purposes of the tape, Miss Hunter has nodded in response to the question.’
I simmer inside; I don’t need someone narrating my actions for me.
‘Yes, Monsters was certainly the project that brought me to the attention of the public,’ I say loudly. ‘And just as well it did,’ I add snidely, ‘as otherwise the victims highlighted in the book wouldn’t have found the justice they deserved.’
I know it’s a cheap shot, but I’m fed up of being on the receiving end of police officers that see my work as a general criticism of the role they carry out. It isn’t that. I told Freddie, Mike, and Steve’s stories because their previous attempts had gone unheard. I wanted to expose Arthur Turgood and those who quashed their victims’ complaints. Yes, that did include one or two serving police officers, but they were only a minority, as far as I was concerned. I’d say that more than ninety-nine per cent of the serving police officers I’ve met and had dealings with were nothing short of angels in Doc Martens. I’ve never intended to cast them in any other light than that of selfless heroes putting their lives on the line for the sake of humanity.
‘Your missing sister never got the justice she deserved, did she?’
I open my mouth to respond, but I don’t know how to, as the question is even more bizarre than the last one.
‘M-my sister?’ I stammer.
‘Yes, your missing sister features quite prominently in the books you’ve published since Monsters Under the Bed, hasn’t she?’
‘Well, yes, my pursuit of the truth about what happened to her goes on.’
‘In fact, you’ve created quite the backstory about her mysterious disappearance, haven’t you?’
Her questions are coming in at such speed and at such angles that it’s making the room spin in front of me.
‘What does my missing sister have to do with any of this?’ I ask, reaching for the water again.
I suddenly have the strangest feeling, like when you’re asleep and you realise that what you’re witnessing is just your subconscious’ landscape of the world, and that you are in fact dreaming. I lower my free hand to my thigh and pinch the skin, but the two plainclothes detectives don’t disappear in a swirl. They remain very much there, living and breathing in front of me. Maybe it’s just the short and frequent breaths I’m taking that are making me feel so lightheaded.
‘You were only seven when she disappeared, right?’ Yates says, studying my reaction closely.
‘That’s right,’ I reply uncertainly.
‘It must have been so hard for you.’
‘It was painful for all of us.’
‘And you were the last one to see her right before she disappeared, from what I’ve managed to dig up?’
It troubles me that she would feel the need to do any digging on my background, let alone the moment that has haunted me for the last twenty-one years.
‘That’s right,’ I say again, unwilling
to share any of the pain and self-recrimination that followed in the days, weeks, months and years after that fateful day. I don’t know why she’s decided to ask these questions, but I think I’m just about through with them holding all the cards.
I take a deep breath. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on? I was perfectly happy at home in Weymouth when you called me and told me that one of your suspects wanted to talk to me. You were quite insistent that I drop everything and make the five-hour trip up here in heavy traffic, only stopping once for any kind of refreshment. You didn’t phone me back at any point to say that plans had changed, yet ever since I arrived, I’ve been treated like I’m a criminal. I don’t know what elaborate game you’re playing, but unless you’re prepared to explain yourselves, I think I might have had second thoughts about that offer of legal representation.’
‘You are of course well within your rights to legal rep—’ Yates begins, before Oakley raises her arm in front of her, cutting off the well-rehearsed speech in an instant.
The Detective Inspector reaches into the notepad before her, and extracts a coloured page, sliding it across the desk towards me. ‘Do you recognise the woman in this photograph?’
I look down at the mugshot of the shaven-headed woman. The cheek below her left eye is slightly swollen and there is yellow bruising starting to glow beneath the eyelid. There isn’t a trace of makeup on the freshly washed face, and whilst there is something quite striking about her, I can’t say I recognise her.
I shake my head. ‘No, but I’m going to hazard a guess that this is Kylie Shakespeare?’ I look from Oakley to Yates. ‘You mentioned on the phone that she had a shaved head,’ I add for the benefit of the recording.
‘That’s correct,’ Oakley replies, fixing me with a hard stare. ‘Miss Shakespeare wasn’t carrying any form of identification when she was arrested in the home of Mr Tomlinson. She would only give us her name, but refused to provide a date of birth or home address. Once we’d taken her clothing for forensic examination, and had cleaned the blood from her hands and face, we took a copy of her fingerprints for examination purposes, but there was no match on IDENT1, which I’m sure you know is the national database.’
She pauses to ensure she has my full attention, though she needn’t have bothered, as I’m hanging on every word.
‘We did, however, find a match to the samples of DNA we collected from her.’
Another pause, and I now sense that she’s about to lay the royal flush she’s been keeping so close to her chest.
‘The woman currently being held in the cells of this very police station is none other than your missing sister, Anna.’
Chapter Four
Then
Portland, Dorset
‘What do you mean she’s missing?’ Emma’s dad turned and looked directly at her, crouching on the staircase. ‘Where’s your sister?’
‘She went to Grandma’s house,’ Emma replied, no longer certain of her statement, terrified by the gnawing feeling in her gut.
Emma’s dad held a hand out to his wife as if presenting an imaginary gift. ‘There you go; she’s at your mother’s.’
Bronwyn swatted the hand away. ‘I’ve just spoken to Mum, and she isn’t there.’
‘Well, we can collect her on our way.’ He turned, satisfied with the resolution he’d engineered, but Emma’s mum pulled on his arm.
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you: Emma said she left for Mum’s ages ago, and she hasn’t made it. She isn’t at my mum’s, and there’s no sign of her in the house.’
He looked back down at Emma, who could feel the tears starting to pool and blur her vision. She nodded helplessly, hoping to convince him of the situation.
He opened his mouth to speak, before thinking better of it and throwing his arms into the air in frustration. ‘Have you checked out on the road for her? Maybe she’s just hiding from her sister.’
Bronwyn shook her head, unsure how she hadn’t considered it the next logical step.
Emma’s dad left the pair of them at the staircase and marched purposefully towards the front door, pulling down the latch and thrusting the door open in one swift movement. He stepped out, scanning the yard with military precision, before moving down to the pavement and searching left and right, as if he would suddenly spot his daughter and the world would make sense again. But there was no sign of her.
Returning to the house, he crouched down beside Emma. ‘I want you to tell me everything you remember. Okay? You won’t be in any trouble, Emma, but what did Anna say?’
Emma swallowed her frustration that Anna’s selfish tantrum had now landed the pair of them in trouble. She tried to recall the exact moment when she’d last seen Anna, but in truth she hadn’t been concentrating, relieved to have the skateboard all to herself, and concentrating on maintaining her balance as she tried to push the board along the uneven ground.
‘She said she was going to Grandma’s house,’ Emma said, unable to look either of her parents in the eye, in case they saw through her self-doubt.
‘And when was this?’ he pressed.
They kept asking how long ago the argument had occurred, but she really couldn’t say for certain. She had to have been back in the house for several minutes, and it was some time before that when Anna had left, but whether it was ten minutes, or fifteen, or even twenty, Emma had no sense of how long had passed.
Her lip trembled, as she raised her gaze to his. ‘I-I’m sorry, Daddy… I-I don’t know.’
He straightened and looked at Bronwyn. ‘Let’s see if we can work this out. We had lunch, and that must have finished at what…? Two? The kids were playing in their rooms for a while—’
‘Until you kicked them out for being too noisy,’ Bronwyn reprimanded.
‘I didn’t kick them out,’ he snapped back.
‘You were the one who told them they should go outside and play.’
The finger of blame had been pointed, and whilst it wasn’t beneficial to start analysing the fallout of the afternoon’s decisions, Bronwyn would never forget.
‘What time was that though? Three-ish? They were outside when the Grand Prix started on the television, and it hasn’t finished yet, so they can’t have been outside for more than an hour. What time is it now?’ He pulled up his shirt sleeve and studied his watch. ‘Jesus! It’s nearly five already.’
‘Where is she, John? It’s so unlike her to be out this long without checking in. What if…?’ She stopped herself finishing the sentence, her eyes falling on her tearful daughter at her feet.
‘She can’t have gone far,’ Emma’s dad said, pulling down his shirt sleeve. ‘She might have just bumped into a friend on her way to your mum’s and lost track of time. I’ll walk to your mum’s now, and check the usual haunts for her. You pop next door and see if any of our neighbours have seen her. Okay? She’s probably just at a friend’s house.’
He didn’t wait for his wife to respond, hurrying out of the front door once again, before darting back in and grabbing his anorak from the hook behind the door. ‘It’s started spitting,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t have her coat on, so if she is outside, she’ll soon come running back; you know she doesn’t like the rain.’
With that, he was gone again. Bronwyn double-checked the coat hooks, part of her satisfied that both of Anna’s coats were where they should be, pulling down her own and helping Emma fasten her cagoule.
‘I’m sorry about Anna, Mum,’ Emma tried, but she wasn’t really listening. Bronwyn snatched her house keys from the dish on the side and grabbed Emma’s wrist as she ploughed out into the fine rain.
Emma’s cagoule wore a sheen of tiny droplets by the time they made it to Mrs Hammond’s house next door. Her mum’s grip on her wrist remained firm as she hammered on the PVC frame. Anna would be in so much trouble when they caught up with her. It was one thing for her to have walked to Grandma’s without telling Mum and Dad, but to have wandered off and caused such panic would receive some punishment. Emma just
had to hope she wouldn’t become too entangled in whatever sentence was passed. She’d be angry if the skateboard was taken away as a result.
‘Hi, Jill,’ Bronwyn now said as Mrs Hammond’s door was opened. ‘Have you seen Anna this afternoon?’
Mrs Hammond was wearing an apron covered with flour, and had to put on the glasses hanging from the string around her neck before she realised exactly who was speaking to her. Emma wasn’t sure how old Mrs Hammond was, but her short hair was grey all over, and her own children had long since grown up and left home.
‘Anna? No I haven’t seen her, I’m afraid. I’ve been in the kitchen baking all afternoon, I’m afraid.’
Unlike the houses across the road, the kitchens on this side all faced the rear garden.
‘Is everything okay?’ Mrs Hammond asked now.
Emma’s mum pushed the fringe back over her head. ‘We were supposed to be going away this afternoon and she’s wandered off. Can you do me a favour? We’re going to keep looking for her. If she comes back while we’re out, would you grab her and call my mobile?’
‘Of course, of course. Do you want me to keep an eye on young Emma here for you? It’s no bother.’
Bronwyn glanced down at her daughter, considering the offer, before shaking her head. ‘Thank you, but I’d best keep an eye on this one. Thanks, Jill.’
Mrs Hammond remained on the doorstep, watching as they headed back down the driveway, and moved up along the next one, repeating the brief interrogation with Mr and Mrs Knowles, and then onto the Parsonses’ house. The responses were the same: nobody had seen her.
Emma’s wrist was tugged once again, as she was dragged back to the yard.
‘I want you to show me what happened,’ Bronwyn said. ‘Where were you standing, what did your sister say, and then which direction did she go in?’
Emma was relieved when her wrist was finally released, and she rubbed it gingerly as she picked up her skateboard, and put it back where she thought it had been when the argument had started. She closed her eyes and heard Anna’s voice shouting: