by M. A. Hunter
I feel physically sick and reach for another crisp to settle my stomach. ‘I had no idea there were so many moving parts.’
‘And we haven’t even got to identifying Anna’s motive for killing Tomlinson, if she even did.’
It is Anna’s potential motive for yesterday’s incident that has been troubling me most. Tomlinson wasn’t part of our investigation until I was anonymously sent that photograph of him laughing with Turgood and Reverend Saltzing. That was what set us off pursuing possible links between Tomlinson and the ring of traffickers, but as far as I’m aware, Jack has yet to find any evidence to support such an allegation. Does that mean that Tomlinson has been good at covering his tracks, or that there is no evidence to cover because the allegation is false? We don’t know who sent that photograph, nor the pictures of Faye McKenna and Cormack Fitzpatrick. What if it was the ring that sent the pictures to throw us off their scent? Jack and I haven’t really considered that possibility, but as time has progressed I think I’ve started to believe more and more that Tomlinson is involved, with no evidence to support the assumption.
What if we’ve got it terribly wrong?
I have to remind myself that despite the success I’ve enjoyed in helping Freddie, Cassie Hilliard, and Sally Curtis, I am not a professional detective. I’m an amateur sleuth at best, and amateurs can make mistakes. It hangs around my neck like a great weight.
But whether he has a connection to the ring or not, what the hell was Anna doing at his house yesterday? I think back over the detail I gave to Saira in her office ahead of her agreeing to go and meet Anna. I told her all about Anna disappearing that day in Portland, the police investigation that turned up nothing, and my eventual decision to reignite interest in her case while I was at university. It broke my heart when I told Saira how Jack and I inadvertently stumbled upon the video of thirteen-year-old Anna on Turgood’s confiscated hard drive. That video all but proves that Anna was being abused by the same ring responsible for the abuse inflicted on Faye McKenna, Aurélie Lebrun, and Freddie Mitchell.
Freddie once told me that Turgood would offer them rewards to appear in those videos, but whether or not Anna was persuaded to appear or forced to, it’s still abuse. No thirteen-year-old is able to rationally decide that she wants to appear in that kind of filth. It was abuse whether she was a perceived willing participant or not. But what happened in those intervening years that drove her to Tomlinson’s house yesterday morning?
Should I draw the conclusion that Tomlinson was one of her abusers and her confrontation with him yesterday was driven by a desire to get revenge for the abuse he’d inflicted? It feels too simplistic an explanation, and whilst a part of me would feel he got his just deserts, I can’t condone that kind of reaction. And how did she find him so many years after?
I raise my glass to my forehead and roll the condensation around my temple.
‘Headache?’ Jack asks.
I nod. ‘Give it to me straight, Jack: is Anna going to prison?’
He begins to shake his head, before finishing in a shrug. ‘As I said, there are too many—’
‘Worst-case scenario,’ I interrupt.
He sighs, and his eyes dance around the room as he tries to find the words that he knows are going to sting, but that I’m demanding regardless. ‘Okay, okay. Worst-case scenario, they have her prints on the weapon, GSR was recovered from her person, and they manage to determine a motive for her wanting him dead… She’d be charged with murder, and would go to court for a plea hearing. If she pleads guilty, the judge might be kinder in his sentencing; if she pleads not guilty and it goes to trial but a jury still finds her guilty, then it’s life imprisonment.’
It’s like he’s plunged an ice-cold knife into my chest. I can’t breathe, and it’s all I can do to get to my feet and stumble blindly towards the toilets. Bursting in through the door, I make it to the cubicle before I expel the remains of my fried breakfast.
I find Jack waiting for me outside the door. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t mean that’s what will happen.’
I take his arm and he leads me unsteadily back to the booth. I’m conscious that my breath probably stinks, but I find a packet of mints in my satchel and place three on my tongue, welcoming the sting of mint and the sweet taste.
‘Can I get you anything?’ Jack asks, his face a picture of anxious concern.
I shake my head, but my T-shirt is clinging to my clammy body, and all I want is another shower. I look at my watch again. It’s been almost an hour since we left Saira’s office. I’d half expected her to phone apologetically and tell me that Anna had still refused her support, but no phone call might mean that my sister is listening to Saira’s advice, which I suppose can only be a good thing.
There’s so much I wasn’t able to tell her about Anna. I don’t know where she lives – is she local? Did she travel far to reach Market Harborough yesterday? Is she living under the Kylie Shakespeare identity or was that just a name she plucked from obscurity when forced to provide one at the police station? Is there a significant other in her life who should be notified of her arrest? Presumably the custody officer would have asked if she wanted to phone anybody and advise them of her arrest, but did she take them up on that offer? Or was I her phone call? And wherever she lives, does she have pets that might need feeding if she’s going to be away for a long time? Here I am assuming that I’m the only one who could possibly care about the mess she’s in, but I don’t know what network of friends and family she has developed without me in her life. Even someone as introverted as me has friends I can rely on in difficult times.
These are the sorts of questions I should have told Oakley to ask her last night when my brain was stuck in the fog, but none of them presented themselves.
I’ve almost finished my lemonade when Saira arrives, but she declines Jack’s offer of a drink. She’s even prettier up close, her skin smooth and her makeup sparingly applied, and yet she seems to wear her beauty as a chip on her shoulder. Maybe she’s just fed up of people making assumptions based on her appearance, rather than her skill and intellect.
‘Did you speak to her? Is she okay?’
Saira nods. ‘Yes, she agreed to speak to me, and yeah, overall I’d say she is well. She’s obviously worried about what she’s facing, but was willing to allow me to sit with her when they brought her in for a second interview.’
‘Did she agree to answer their questions?’
She shakes her head this time. ‘I advised her not to, as they weren’t willing to disclose their evidence yet. They ran through a series of basic questions, to which she refused to comment, and then she was bailed, pending further investigation.’
My mouth drops. ‘Bailed? They’ve let her go?’
‘Of course. They’re only allowed to hold her for twenty-four hours before they must make their case. I think DI Oakley had requested an extension, but it must have been declined. They will go away and continue their investigation, and as and when they’re ready, they’ll recall Anna to the station, at which point I imagine they’ll disclose what they’ve got ahead of the interview, and allow me to advise Anna of her options.’
I’m suddenly conscious of the fact that Anna isn’t with Saira. ‘Where is she then?’
Saira’s face is devoid of emotion as she speaks to me. ‘As far as she tells me, she isn’t aware that she has a sister, and when I advised that her sister had reached out to me to contact her… she didn’t react well. You know better than anyone how difficult it would be to process the reality of a long-lost sister coming out of the woodwork.’
‘So where is she? Is she staying locally? I need to speak to her.’
‘I’m sorry, Emma, but she doesn’t want to see you right now. I know where she is, and will continue to work with her for as long as she wants me to, but for now there’s nothing more I can tell you.’
‘But I’m the one who hired you.’
She shrugs. ‘My conversation with your sister is protected by cli
ent–attorney privilege, and I’m not at liberty to divulge what she told me.’
I open my mouth to interrupt, but she raises a placatory hand to cut me off.
‘Your sister is fine, and she’s no longer in police custody. Give her some time to get her head together, and I’m sure she’ll contact you when she’s ready.’
This doesn’t feel right. After twenty-one years, my sister comes back into my life, but now disappears just as quickly. I feel adrift.
‘Go home, Emma. I have your address and phone numbers. There is nothing more you can do for now.’ She looks at her watch. ‘I need to go. I will keep you updated as best I can.’ She slides out of the booth, and collects her bag from the floor. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you. I’m a big fan of your books.’
With that, she spins and departs, leaving Jack and me with nothing to do but start the long journey back to Weymouth.
Chapter Ten
Then
Portland, Dorset
Four days and no Anna. Four days of perky Polly – who was now being referred to as the Family Liaison Officer – sleeping on the downstairs sofa. Four days of microwave dinners and meals whenever boredom struck. Four days of strained smiles, and jumping at the sound of every telephone call. Four days of being woken by her mum’s sudden cries of anguish in the middle of the night. If this were some kind of practical joke, seven-year-old Emma certainly wasn’t laughing.
It had also been four days being kept off school, which ordinarily would have had Emma bouncing off the walls with excitement, but because it wasn’t half-term, there weren’t any cartoons on the television to watch.
‘Do you fancy helping me make your mam a cup of tea in the kitchen?’ Polly asked, though from her tone it was clear she already knew what the answer would be.
Emma nodded and clambered off the sofa, following Polly into the kitchen and watching as she moved effortlessly from cupboard to cupboard, selecting the apparatus she would need as if it were her kitchen. It might as well have been, as Emma wasn’t sure she could remember the last time she’d seen her mum leave the sofa.
‘Think of me as a handy helper,’ Polly had said when it had been confirmed she would be temporarily moving in with the family. ‘Anything you need, you’re only to ask. Best to leave your mammy and daddy to deal with everything they’ve got going on.’
Polly hadn’t alluded to what activity that included, but as far as Emma could tell, it meant drinking lots of tea, crying, and answering the questions of whichever police officer turned up next.
‘Would you like a chockie bicky?’ Polly asked, reaching for the tin from the top shelf of the cupboard above the microwave.
Dad’s secret stash – Emma didn’t tell her, just accepted the chocolate-covered digestive.
‘We’re running out,’ Polly said, biting into one of her own. ‘Maybe you and I could go to the local shop this afternoon and pick up some supplies. What do you think?’
Emma didn’t mind. At least it meant she’d be able to escape the claustrophobic cloud that had descended in the aftermath of Sunday afternoon. It felt odd having Polly in the house; she’d said she had joined the police because she liked solving puzzles, but all she’d done so far was cook and babysit. Was that really a role in the police force? Polly didn’t seem to mind though, and was a ray of sunshine every morning when Emma emerged from her bedroom.
Emma brushed the crumbs from her hands into the bin before looking at Polly and trying to summon the courage to ask the question that had been playing on her mind.
‘You look like you’ve got something on your mind,’ Polly commented as the kettle whistled on its stand.
‘You said I can ask you anything, right?’ Emma began.
‘Aye, anything you like. I promise I will always be honest, and if it’s a question I can’t answer, I’ll tell you why.’
That sounded fair enough, so Emma took a deep breath. ‘How long will I be off school?’
Polly’s anxiety evaporated into a thin smile and a waggling of her eyebrows. ‘Oh, I see. Well, I suppose that will be up to your mammy and daddy to decide. Are you missing school?’
Emma nodded. In truth, she’d finished the book she’d borrowed from the school library and was eager to swap it for the next in the series.
‘I bet you’re missing all your friends, aren’t ye?’
Emma nodded again. She enjoyed the routine of school, and time certainly seemed to go much quicker between the sounds of the school bell than it did stuck in the house with nothing to do. Mum hadn’t let her out in the yard to play on her skateboard since Sunday, and the grass in the back garden was too wet and muddy to play on.
‘I bet they’re all missing you too. I’ll ask your mam in a bit and see whether she’s happy for you to go back tomorrow. How does that sound? I can always drop you in and collect ye if she thinks it will be too much for her.’
It wasn’t like her mum had anything better to do, but Emma just nodded and followed Polly back into the living room, climbing onto the sofa beside her mum, who didn’t react to the movement.
‘Emma helped me fix you a cup of tea, Bronwyn,’ Polly said.
Emma looked up at her mum, but it was as if someone had frozen her in time. Her hair was poking out at all angles, in need of a brush, and her face looked as though someone had rubbed white chalk all over it, save for the dark circles beneath her bloodshot eyes. She looked as though she was crying, yet her cheeks were dry as a bone; no more tears left, Emma supposed.
‘And if it’s okay with ye and Mr Hunter, I might take Emma to the shop with me this afternoon to pick up a few supplies.’
Emma’s mum’s head turned to look at her daughter, but her face was devoid of any emotion. Emma gave her brightest smile, resting her hand on top of her mum’s, jarring slightly at the cold touch.
‘We could buy you some flowers to brighten things, Mummy,’ Emma said, squeezing the hand slightly.
Her mum always seemed to smile whenever her dad returned from work with a fresh bouquet, though Emma wasn’t certain what type of flowers were her mum’s favourite.
Emma’s mum continued to look at her daughter, before returning Polly’s gaze, and nodding ever so slightly.
‘Good,’ Polly acknowledged. ‘I’ll have a rummage through the kitchen and make a list of bits and pieces to pick up: bread, milk, cheese, and that sort of thing.’
Emma watched her leave, slightly annoyed that Polly hadn’t asked the question about her returning to school, when it had felt like the perfect opportunity. She was about to ask herself when the phone rang and her mum snatched away her hands, standing and hurrying to where it hung on the wall.
‘H-hello?’ she stammered into the device.
Emma remained where she was, watching as Polly joined her mum, and secretly hoping that it was Anna on the end, finally revealing where she’d been hiding all this time. It didn’t once cross her mind that Anna probably wouldn’t even know what number to dial to get through to them.
Emma’s mum’s eyes widened at whatever was said down the phone, her face finally gaining some colour, before she thrust the phone at Polly.
‘You’re speaking to PC Polly Wells, whom am I speaking—? No, you’ll have to go via the media relations team for any comments on the current investigation, as I’m sure you know only too well. No, neither Mr nor Mrs Hunter are available to comment on your story. Do not call here again.’
‘Did you hear what they asked?’ Emma’s mum said, incredulous. ‘They wanted to know whether we were being charged with killing Anna. How can they just phone up and bowl out with such a vicious allegation?’
Polly offered her hands, palms out, in a calming gesture. ‘Just ignore the phone. If it’s anything about the case, the DI will phone my mobile.’
‘But how did they get our number? How do they know Anna’s name? There hasn’t been a public appeal made yet.’
Polly opened her mouth to answer, but thought better of it, and shrugged instead. ‘Unfortunately, these th
ings always have a way of getting out. Somebody somewhere lets something slip, and a journalist gets wind of it. The DI is due to make the public appeal tomorrow lunchtime, so it could be as simple as reporters from the local news outlets being contacted, and people putting two and two together. I’ll mention the call to the DI and see if we can put some kind of caller ID on the line so we can pre-empt who’s calling you before answering.’
Emma had stopped listening at mention of the allegation the journalist had made. Was that really what people thought? That her mum and dad had killed Anna? It was a preposterous idea as neither of them had been there when Anna had wandered off. Emma felt angry that people out there could be judging her family in such a way, and wished she had a means to correct them all.
‘Try not to let it bother you, and in the meantime, why don’t you leave me to answer the phone for you? If it’s a friend or relative, I can screen the call, and then hand it over. After tomorrow’s press conference, you can expect to see an increase in the volume of calls and the attention that will come your way. Ultimately, the more people talking about Anna, the more people will be looking for her, but there is a trade-off required.’
Polly caught Emma looking over and offered her a bright smile, as if it would be enough to wipe any memory of what she’d just witnessed. ‘I’ll go and make that shopping list, and then you can show me where the nearest shop is, Emma. How does that sound?’
Emma nodded from the safety of the sofa, and with Polly returning to the kitchen, Bronwyn returned to her place on the sofa.
‘It will be all right, Mum,’ Emma offered. ‘The police will find Anna and bring her home, and then everything can go back to normal.’
Bronwyn’s eyes welled as she took in her daughter’s naivety, and she pressed a hand to her cheek.
‘I hope you’re right, my darling.’