by M. A. Hunter
I still haven’t explained the incident to Jack yet, and it doesn’t feel right for him to overhear it in conversation. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. I’ll have to cancel the SIM card and get another one, I suppose. What can I do for you?’ There is a distant hum in the background, and I’m sure her voice is carrying an echo, as if I’m on speaker phone. ‘Wait, are you driving?’
‘You’re on Bluetooth,’ she clarifies, ‘but, yes I’m driving. On my way to you, as it happens.’
My heart quickens. ‘You’re coming down to Weymouth? That’s so good to hear.’ My gaze falls across the room where Jack’s sports bag is open on the floor, clothes strewn around it. It’ll be a tight squeeze, but to hell with it. ‘When can we expect to see you?’
‘I’m about an hour away, I think. The thing is,’ she pauses, ‘I was hoping you might be able to help me with something.’
Her reluctance to speak instantly makes me paranoid about what favour is about to come, but she is my best friend, so I brace myself instead.
‘I’ve got an audition of sorts,’ she explains. ‘The short of it is, I applied for a position at an online journal, and despite my credentials they want to know whether I can write something to drive traffic to their site. They’re small but growing by the day, and I’ve been wracking my brains for something punchy, and then I saw this morning’s news, and hey presto, I’m on my way.’
I haven’t watched any news yet, but I already sense what she’s going to say before I ask. ‘Today’s news?’
‘Haven’t you seen? Some woman has abducted the niece of Ian Beauchamp in broad daylight. It’s the number-one trending topic on Twitter. And so I thought… I know you usually work cold cases, but given your instincts, and how close it is to home… you might be willing to help me get the inside scoop?’ Her pace quickens. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, but I need to find a new job, and I haven’t told Daniella that I was forced out of the Telegraph; I’d prefer to wait until I have something new before I tell her. And you’re my best friend, and I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate… Please?’
Jack is trying to signal my attention.
‘Hold on, Rach,’ I say, lowering the phone, and covering the mouthpiece.
‘They’ve blocked my access,’ Jack says, straightening. ‘I was hoping they wouldn’t have taken me off the system yet, but it looks like they have.’
‘Okay, never mind,’ I begin to say, but he cuts me off mid-sentence.
‘I do have another idea. One person who is certain still to be able to review the case notes is DCS Rawani. I know when we last spoke to him he washed his hands of the case because of his retirement, but I’m sure if I could speak to him one to one he’d help. We need to be able to determine whether Beauchamp could somehow be entangled with the ring, and the notes should help provide some context. I don’t want to abandon you, but…’
‘You want to return to London?’
‘Only to help move things along. My new role starts on Monday, but I can see if I can take a couple of days’ leave before I start, and then I could come back.’
I don’t like the idea of being here alone, but with Rachel coming down today, it shouldn’t be too long.
‘There’s something else,’ Jack continues, cringing as he speaks. ‘I’m meant to be collecting Mila from school this afternoon and having her overnight. I meant to say something to you this morning when I got out of the shower – I was going to see if you wanted to come back with me – but then you weren’t here, and then Oakley arrived, and…’
Despite my own desire to keep him close, I refuse to keep him apart from his daughter, and quickly nod. ‘It’s fine, Jack. You go back and take care of Mila. If you get the chance to speak to Rawani too, then great. I’ll be fine.’
‘Are you sure? You’re more than welcome to still come with me. My flat is a bit cramped, but not much smaller than this place. It could help take your mind off things.’
I can see from his face that he knows how I’m going to respond. ‘Anna is down here somewhere, and you heard what Oakley said: she could reach out. I need to stay put, Jack. But I’ll be fine; Rach is coming down, so…’
Jack nods and an awkward silence descends before he points at his sports bag and begins to throw his clothes inside. I put the phone back to my ear.
‘Hi, Rach, sorry about that. What were you saying?’
‘I was about to thank my best friend for agreeing to help me find the girl who’s been abducted, and breaking the story exclusively with my new employer. Seriously though, it could be fun; the two of us back together again. It’ll be like when we were trying to figure out what happened to Sally Curtis. We make a great team.’
My work with Jack has always been allowed because the cases were cold, and not subject to the parameters of an investigative team. This is a live case, and we’ll have to tread carefully, but Oakley practically demanded I get involved, so how can I refuse? It’s in Anna’s best interests to figure out what’s going on.
‘There’s a lot more I need to tell you,’ I say, ‘but that can wait for when you arrive.’
‘Thank you so much, Em. Why don’t you take a look at the latest news so you’re up to speed when I arrive? They’ve flashed up a picture of the prime suspect, and she’s a real GI Jane-looking sort. The kind of woman you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of, if you know what I mean? Anyway, I’ll see you in a bit. Thanks again.’
She disconnects, and I reassure Jack that I’ll be fine as he zips up his sports bag.
‘If you need anything, just give me a call,’ he says, before slapping his palm against his forehead. ‘I forgot, you lost your phone… I don’t like the thought of leaving you without a phone.’
‘I have the landline,’ I say, pointing at the old device hanging from the wall. I can’t remember the last time I had to use it, but as I lift it from its bracket, I’m relieved to hear a dial tone. ‘I’ll be fine. Go and spend some time with Mila, and let me know what Rawani says.’
‘I will,’ he says, smiling. ‘And you keep me informed about how things progress down here. If you need anything, just call me. Okay?’
I move towards him and give him a squeeze hug, but as we separate, there’s a moment of electricity where our faces are so close I can smell his cologne. We stay like statues, until he shakes himself out of it and steps backwards.
My heart is racing so hard that I’m certain it’s the loudest noise in the room. If Jack can hear it he makes no indication, and he lets himself out of the door.
Chapter Eighteen
Now
Weymouth, Dorset
Rachel arrives within the hour, while I’m staring out of the window at the sand and the sea. My mind is elsewhere.
It’s like someone has kicked me in the brain, and everything inside has been stirred up into a cloud of dust and the memories are settling in a randomised order. I can’t help wondering if this is what it’s like for Mum every time she wakes up these days. Memories of Anna float behind my eyes, memories from before all of this. Glimpses into a fragmented world where we were all happy; naïve enough to believe that the creation of such memories would continue to occur until the end of time.
I see Anna and me sitting beside a Christmas tree, dressed in long pyjamas and wrapped in thick cotton dressing gowns. It is dark, the only light coming from a lamp Anna turned on in the corner of the room that was furthest from the living room door, so as not to disturb our parents. Anna has pressed a finger to her lips to remind me of the covert nature of the operation. I recall now that it was me who woke her and suggested we go and open our presents from Father Christmas. She told me we should wait until Mum and Dad tell us it’s okay to be awake, but she must see how sad that made me, and says it would probably be okay if we only opened one; one little present wouldn’t be noticed.
So, we’d put on our dressing gowns and snuck through the house on tiptoe, closing the living room door behind us, our eyes widening at the shiny boxes at the foot of the tree that impossibly
hadn’t been there the night before. Our presents had been so carefully stacked, mine in silver paper and Anna’s in rose-coloured paper, as they always were.
Despite her advice, my eyes had been instantly attracted to the biggest of the boxes at the bottom of the tower, but Anna had deterred me, pointing instead at a pyramid-shaped box at the top, taking a small book-shaped box from the top of hers.
‘Just these, and then bed,’ she’d reminded.
Good old Anna, always sharing the best of her experience with me. Her present had been a book of Elinor Wylie poems, the book that hadn’t left her side until that day; the same book that keeps pride of place on my desk, serving as a permanent reminder of the sister she once was. I can’t remember what my gift was, but I remember it doing little to satisfy my urge to tear into all the presents. So we’d opened another, and then another. Soon we’d been surrounded by brightly coloured packaging, and our parents had emerged through the lounge door, questioning what we thought we were doing. I’d been terrified they’d tell us we couldn’t have any of the toys because we were awake too early, but now all I can see is Mum smiling, and Dad tottering in carrying a big bowl of sausage rolls for us to eat.
It’s funny now because at least twenty minutes must have passed between our excited mutterings waking them to allow Dad to make the sausage rolls, but I don’t recall any cross words or return to bed. And I don’t recall Mum letting her mask slip and allowing us to think anyone but Father Christmas was responsible for the arrival and careful placement of the gifts. Parents lie to their children all the time – Father Christmas, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny – and yet when we find out the truth, we don’t hold them accountable. And when it’s our turn on the merry-go-round, we automatically repeat our parents’ lies with a clear conscience. Okay, so I don’t have children of my own yet, but I have no doubt that I will do everything in my power to prolong the magic, even though it is a deceit contrary to the honesty I will be trying to instil into him, her, or them. How many other parental lies will I claim as my own in the name of love? How many more did my parents tell me for my own good?
Another memory settles somewhere in the back of my mind: the first Christmas after Anna’s disappearance, when I only found one stack of presents beneath the tree, the paper somehow less glossy than before, the stack not looking quite as high without a second stack to compare it to. I remember asking Mum why Santa hadn’t brought Anna presents? Was it because he knew she wasn’t home? Would he still deliver her presents to wherever she had gone, and if so, did that mean he knew where she was? Couldn’t the police ask him her new address so they could bring her back? I can’t remember what lie was spun in response, or whether they even answered the question.
A third memory plays out in my head as Rachel climbs out of her car and waves at me through the window. This time, Anna and I are on a beach of beautifully golden sand, but I know in my heart we aren’t in Weymouth. The texture of the sand in the memory feels different to what I’m used to. The grains as they fall from my open toes aren’t as sharp as Weymouth sand; they’re softer and more forgiving, forming stronger sandcastle structures. I don’t know how old we are, but presumably I’m aged somewhere between six and seven, but I can’t recall us going away then; surely Mum would have reminded me had we been on holiday in that period.
I close my eyes and try to concentrate my mind’s power on recalling further detail. I can’t focus on anyone around us, but the whiff of suntan lotion is strong in the air. That, and the salt in the sea, only a few metres away from us. We are walking now, Anna clutching my hand tightly as she leads me along the soft sand towards the wide open green sea. The surf is thicker than we’re used to as our feet hit the warm water. Instinctively, I don’t think the memory is UK-based, yet I don’t recall us going anywhere foreign on holiday.
I sense now too that Anna and I shouldn’t be in the sea unaccompanied, which is why she is gripping my arm so tightly, as if she believes I will float away if she loosens her hold on me even a fraction. She stops us when the water is splashing against our ankles, and the sand beneath is claiming our feet for its own. There are so many people around us splashing in the surf, so many screams of joy. Anna stoops and fills her bucket with water, and urges me to do the same. My bucket feels heavy as I pull it back out and stare into it. The water looks so brown and cloudy up close, but Anna is already pulling us back out and up the hot sand, until we arrive at the enormous pit we’ve dug. She sits me down at one side, while she sits opposite, and then on the count of three we tip the warm water we’ve stolen over our feet, squealing in delight as it doesn’t instantly dissipate beneath our toes. Anna is pleased with herself, because we’ve dug deep enough – and close enough to the water’s edge – that the water is retained for long enough for us to splash our toes in it, before the sand eventually reclaims it.
Looking back on the memory, I can now see that Anna had built us our own kind of foot spa, but I don’t remember exactly when or where the memory was formed, or why it’s suddenly come back to me now.
The doorbell sounds and I pull myself away from the window, then go and answer the door to Rachel. She starts talking immediately, telling me how pleased she is that I’ve agreed to help her, and how if she can just get enough views on the site then she’s certain it will lead to bigger and better things. She tells me the site makes money by selling advertising space to third parties and that the bigger the viewing numbers the site claims, the more they can charge the third parties, and the bigger cut of the profits she can share.
‘It works out as pennies per line rather than per word, but with the right story, it could be an untapped gold mine,’ she adds excitedly as she dumps her small suitcase where Jack’s sports bag was less than an hour ago.
‘Are you all right?’ she questions, when I’m unresponsive to anything she’s said.
To be honest, it feels like a protective sheet has been thrown over me, and when I hear her words they sound further away, as if being received via a wireless transmitter rather than being spoken in the same room.
‘A-Anna’s back,’ I manage to stutter before my legs give way and I collapse into her arms.
Half an hour later, and with a mug of hot, strong, sweet tea in my hand, I have caught Rachel up on everything I’ve learned in the last couple of days. As always, she listens intently, offering words of encouragement whenever there’s a slight pause in the conversation, and passing no judgement.
‘I can’t believe you’ve found her, after all this time,’ she says when I pause to take a sip of the tea. ‘I’m just so pleased for you, Em. You’re a testament to never giving up on your dreams.’
But I can’t share in the smile spreading across her lips because this doesn’t feel like a dream come true. It’s a nightmare from which I can’t seem to wake. I’m thrilled Anna’s still alive, but not even in my wildest imagination did I ever think she’d return as a murderer and child abductor.
‘I have to say though,’ she concludes, ‘that DI Oakley is a bit out of order rocking up here and expecting you to do her work for her. The cheek of it! As if you wouldn’t tell them if you knew where she’d go.’
‘How could I know?’ I say glumly. ‘It’s been a lifetime since I saw her. How many experiences has she lived through that I can’t even begin to imagine? If she’s on the run, I can’t know where she’d go.’
‘Presumably if she has snatched this Daisy Beauchamp, it’ll only be a matter of time before she’ll contact the authorities and makes her demands anyway.’
Typical Rachel, refusing to outright point the finger of blame because she knows how much it’ll sting me. She won’t accept Oakley’s words as fact until I’m ready to do so too. But what choice do we have? There was no doubt in Oakley’s mind that Anna was responsible for taking the girl; the only question that remained was why, and what her intentions towards the girl were. Oakley hadn’t said it, but the implication had been there: Anna had already killed once, so what would stop her doing so ag
ain?
‘I’m here for whatever you need,’ Rachel adds, coming over to the sofa and wrapping her arms around me. ‘No question; no judgement.’
I already feel calmer just having her here with me.
‘I don’t know where to begin looking,’ I say, my shoulders dropping in resignation. ‘She didn’t even want to see me yesterday, so despite Oakley’s belief, I can’t see that she’d come down here or reach out to me.’
‘What about places you went as kids? Did she have a favourite place she might revert to in her desperate hour of need?’
The image of the beach-made foot spa flashes into my head, but I can no longer be certain it’s an actual memory or a dream I clung to after her disappearance. I have no frame of reference for when or where it was.
‘I just don’t know,’ I sigh.
The landline ringing has us both turning and staring at my desk. Rachel offers to go and retrieve it, but I put my hand out to keep her where she is and head over, finding the handset beneath the upturned Elinor Wylie book.
‘Hello? Jack?’ I say, anticipating his gravelly tones.
‘Emma? No, it’s Pam Ratchett. Sorry, I tried your mobile, but it was switched off. It’s about your mum; she’s had another heart attack and is on her way to Weymouth Community Hospital. I’m sorry, Emma, but I think you need to go there now while there’s still time.’
Chapter Nineteen
Then
Portland, Dorset
Almost two years had passed since Emma had last seen or spoken to her sister, and yet Anna’s disappearance was still the dark cloud that hung above the Hunter family. That Sunday had been like any other until the moment Anna had chosen to walk out on them. The Sundays that had followed had been filled with desperate hope and anticipation, until even that had abandoned them.