by M. A. Hunter
She links her arm through mine as we follow the path back to the car park. ‘Hey, don’t worry about it. What are friends for?’
The car park is a lot emptier now, though there are still half a dozen vehicles parked up and empty, including the VW campervan blocking sight of Rachel’s car. From the entrance to the car park you wouldn’t even know it was there.
I freeze, dragging Rachel to a stop, as my eyes fall on the figure leaning against the campervan, smoking a cigarette. The shaved head and grey tracksuit top are identical to those I saw in the image Oakley and Yates showed to me the other night.
Unless my eyes are deceiving me, we’ve found her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Now
Alton, Hampshire
I don’t hesitate. Breaking into a sprint, I tear off across the car park. Rachel struggles to keep up. I don’t want to frighten Anna, but I also don’t want to give her the chance to get to whatever vehicle she’s arrived in and make her escape. She doesn’t notice me at first, which gives me an advantage, but flailing arms in a bright-yellow overcoat aren’t exactly subtle, and it isn’t long before our eyes meet and I see her flick the cigarette away. I can’t be certain she realises who I am at first; I see her tense, and immediately look to the opposite side of the car park, as if anticipating seeing a troop of police cars moving in to block her exits.
My thighs and lungs are burning in equal measure as I swallow up the distance between us, and although she remains coiled like a spring, she maintains her position at the front of the campervan. I’m breathless as I pull up, and as much as I want to tell her I can’t believe I’ve finally found her after all these years, I can’t get a single word past my lips. Who knew I was so out of shape? If she were to take off now, I don’t think I’d have the energy to give chase; I’ll just have to hope that her standing by our car is more than coincidence.
Rachel catches up with me while I’m bent over, hands pressed into my legs, trying to compose myself. It irks that she’s not so out of breath.
Anna hasn’t spoken a word, but is eyeing the pair of us carefully; I imagine with everything she’s been through, she doesn’t welcome trust and faith without a full cavity search.
I straighten, ready to speak, and yet the time it’s taken to catch my breath has also filtered fresh doubt into my mind. I’ve never been much of a hugger, aside from Rachel and Mum. Given how long it’s been since I last saw Anna, I don’t instinctively feel like hugging her is the right move. Throw into the mix the fact that for all I know she’s murdered two people in cold blood in the last few days, and maybe I should be a bit more wary of mine and Rachel’s safety.
‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ I settle for, now resting my hands on my hips as the adrenaline continues to flood my system.
She continues to eye us warily, while her other eye remains on the two possible escape routes from the car park. ‘They said… they said you’re my sister?’
Her voice is deeper, grittier than I’m expecting. There’s an edge to it that would suggest an upbringing in maybe London or Essex, though the smoking could also be the cause of the gravelly echo.
‘That’s what they told me too,’ I reply, offering a passive smile, trying to put her at ease, but now I’m questioning whether Oakley and Yates could have lied to the pair of us, and in fact this woman’s DNA doesn’t match my sister’s. I never actually saw the DNA test results.
I push the thought to one side. I know those eyes, though they’re much darker than I remember. And that nose, although it is more bent out of shape – I’m guessing it’s been broken at least once – still resembles what I picture in my mind when I see her stomping off from the yard that day.
‘Do you remember me?’ I ask next, wanting to move closer but my legs refuse to cooperate.
She shakes her head instantly. ‘I don’t remember anything from before… I didn’t even know I had a sister.’
I try to keep the disappointment from my face, as I remember my recent conversations with Zara Edwards – the Brighton Rock Girl – who’d also managed to repress much of her past prior to her abduction. I can’t blame Anna for not remembering.
‘Well, I’m Emma,’ I say, in case she isn’t actually aware who I am. ‘And your name is Anna. Anna Hunter. Unless you’re married?’ I correct myself. There was me assuming she’d adopted the surname ‘Shakespeare’ when she could just as easily have taken her partner’s surname.
‘I’m not married,’ she confirms. ‘You?’
‘No.’ I shake my head, chuckling, but uncertain why.
This all just feels so odd. In all the years I’ve been searching for her, so many times I’ve pictured the moment we’d meet, and what we’d discuss: old memories, love-life disasters, favourite movies and books. None of those topics feels appropriate right now.
Rachel clears her throat, and I quickly introduce her. ‘Rachel and I met at university, and have been best friends since.’
Anna nods at her. ‘I read about you in Emma’s books. It’s nice to put a face to the name.’
Rachel smiles, but for the first time in her life appears to be lost for words.
Anna’s stance suddenly changes and she thrusts a hand out, snapping her fingers. ‘I need your phones. Now.’
‘I don’t have one,’ I reply quickly. ‘Mine was stolen this morning. Rach, give her your phone.’
Rachel looks reluctant, but eventually hands it over. I know it’s still relatively new, and the doubt in her temple suggests she’s worried it’s about to get trampled on.
Mentioning my own phone has suddenly reminded me that I should check in with Rick at some point and find out whether he was able to recover it. The last we spoke, he was haring off after the thieves, trailing the signal. I don’t think Rick has my landline number, nor Rachel’s contact details, so I may just have to wait until he makes contact at home.
Anna studies Rachel’s phone screen before asking for her PIN. Again, Rachel gives it reluctantly, and once the screen is unlocked, Anna lights a fresh cigarette and taps at the screen.
‘No tracing software,’ she concludes, reaching into her pocket and extracting a paperclip, which she straightens out, before inserting it into Rachel’s phone and removing the SIM card. ‘But if they’re monitoring your number, they’ll know you’re here.’ She looks back to me. ‘Promise me you’re not lying about not having your phone with you.’
I fix her with a hard stare. ‘I swear. I will never lie to you. You’re my sister, after all.’
She passes the phone back to Rachel but keeps the SIM card, pocketing it along with the paperclip. We’ve clearly not established any trust yet.
‘How did you know we’d be here?’ I ask next.
She inhales deeply, before exhaling a cloud. ‘I didn’t. I needed somewhere to lie low, and figured hiding in plain sight was better than a layby. You’d be surprised at the number of people who are so unobservant in a car park. I was parked here when you arrived, and couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you hurrying towards the house. I thought I’d imagined it at first, and figured if I waited long enough by your car, you’d eventually come back and I’d know for sure.’
‘We came here as kids,’ I tell her. ‘It was a birthday present for you, I think. Mum knew how much you loved Jane Austen and Elinor Wylie, and figured…’ I stop speaking as her eyes narrow. Have I just triggered a glimpse of a memory? If I keep talking, will I unlock more?
‘We shouldn’t stay here,’ she says, stretching her arms over her head as if preparing to sprint away. ‘If they’ve been tracking your phone, it won’t take them long to figure out what you’re doing here.’
‘I don’t think anybody would track my phone,’ Rachel says, looking at me for reassurance. ‘Nobody knows the two of us are together today.’
She raises a single eyebrow, a trick I remember my dad doing from time to time. ‘Are you fucking kidding me? Haven’t you read any of her books?’ The cigarette bounces up and down as she speaks, a
s if nodding in agreement with her. ‘You two are like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Where one goes, the other follows.’
She probably has a point. If Oakley learns that my phone was stolen this morning, it wouldn’t take a huge leap of imagination to consider checking Rachel’s phone. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so explicit about our relationship in my other books. But ultimately, would it be so bad if Hampshire Constabulary rocked up here now? Ultimately, the woman before me is under suspicion of murder and child endangerment.
‘Where’s Daisy Beauchamp?’ I ask, as casually as my racing pulse will allow.
Anna takes a long and deep inhale again, before exhaling the big cloud. ‘She’s perfectly fine. Don’t worry.’
I was secretly hoping she’d say she had no idea what I was talking about; that she’d never heard of Daisy Beauchamp and had nothing to do with her being taken. I’m again questioning just how much trust I can place in the broken woman before me. She might be my sister by birth, but this isn’t the same person I remember.
She steps forward, as if to move away, but I take a sideways step to stop her. We’re not going anywhere until I know Daisy is safe.
‘Where is she? Her family are worried.’
Anna blows smoke into my face. ‘I told you not to worry. She’s close by, and is perfectly safe.’
‘Why did you abduct her?’
She snorts with derision. ‘I didn’t abduct her. She was a willing participant.’
I frown. The witness said that Daisy had willingly got into the stolen car, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t under false pretences. There’s so much going on behind those eyes; I need to understand her intentions, but I doubt she’ll tell me if I ask her outright.
‘I’m sure she didn’t realise you were going to stop her going to school so you could use her as a means of getting back at her great-uncle.’
There’s a twitch of her head. ‘Good, so you figured out who Daisy is, and how Uncle Ian fits into all of this.’
‘Not exactly, no. Is Ian Beauchamp connected to all of this? Jack’s team investigated him, but he was cleared of any involvement.’
‘I wondered when you’d mention Jack,’ she smiles. ‘I’m surprised he isn’t tailing along too.’
‘He’s back in London trying to help find me find you. If you’re worried that the police won’t listen to what you have to say, let me take you to Jack. He won’t judge. He’ll listen, and will look after you.’
She throws the cigarette away. ‘Not yet. There’s more I need to find before I take it to the police. If your intention is to try and convince me otherwise, you’re wasting your time.’
‘You killed Tomlinson and abducted Daisy; the police will catch up with you eventually. Your best means of getting through all this is to turn yourself in.’
‘I never killed Tomlinson,’ she snaps, the first real emotion she’s shown today.
‘You were found at his house, when he was shot. You were arrested on suspicion of his murder.’
‘He was already dead when I got there.’
‘You were seen breaking into his house before the shot was fired.’
She shakes her head. ‘It was staged.’
‘Staged? By who?’
‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be searching for answers.’
‘What were you doing at his house if it wasn’t your intention to kill him?’
She sighs loudly. ‘I went there to ask him what he knew about the ring of traffickers I’ve been trying to expose for the last five years. I have reason to believe that he knew the likes of Arthur Turgood and that bastard Peter Saltzing. You know all of this: I did send you the picture I found.’
My heart skips a beat. ‘So it was you who sent those pictures? You knew Faye and Cormack?’
Her anger quickly subsides to an expression of remorse. ‘I knew Precious and Chesney, but later learned their real identities. They died because of me, and the bastards responsible need to answer for that; for all their crimes.’
‘Then let me help you,’ I plead. ‘You’ve read my books, right? You know I only want to expose the truth.’
‘I sent you those photos months ago, and you’ve done nothing with them. Your next book – from what I’ve read online – is about some missing French girl. Why aren’t you telling Faye and Cormack’s stories?’
‘I will, but they’re not ready yet. There’s so much more I need to know before I can do that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like, who are the ringleaders? Jack searched for ties to Tomlinson, but couldn’t find anything.’
‘Tomlinson wasn’t involved… at least, not in that way. I thought he was, after I found that picture in Terry Brown’s filing cabinet, but I then discovered that they were just using it to blackmail him into silence. He told me as much before they killed him, framing me in the process. All Tomlinson was guilty of was not pursuing the bastards.’
I don’t know whether to believe her or not. In theory, if Oakley could prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Anna was guilty of murder, she never would have allowed her to go free on bail. That doesn’t mean she isn’t guilty, but I want to believe she was framed, and so I’m choosing to trust her now.
‘Even if you didn’t kill Tomlinson, you did abduct Daisy.’
‘No, I didn’t. I collected Daisy from the bus stop this morning because she asked me to. Ask her yourself if you don’t believe me.’
‘I will if you take me to her.’
She pauses, considering the suggestion, before eventually nodding and spinning on her heel. She disappears behind the campervan. I hurry after her, finding her gripping the handle of the sliding door. A moment later, she drags it open, allowing Rachel and me to peer inside to where Daisy Beauchamp is propped up against the side.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Then
Portland, Dorset
‘Right, my bag’s packed,’ Emma told her mum, coming down the stairs, and immediately heading for the coat rack. She’d been dreading the weekend visit to her dad all month, but knew there was no point in arguing with her mum about going. Instead, she’d packed three new books, a bag of her favourite sweets, and the MP3 player she’d been given for Christmas. Even if Dad planned to spend the afternoon getting drunk in front of the horse racing, at least Emma wouldn’t be bored.
The first few times she’d visited him in Swanage, she’d clung to the hope that it was only a temporary situation, that both of her parents would eventually see sense, that her mum would welcome him home and they’d find a way through all the post-Anna mess. He’d now been living at the bedsit for nineteen months, and Emma wasn’t prepared to waste precious brain fodder on impossible dreams. Her family life was over. Her dad was gone, Anna was gone, and neither was likely to return any time soon.
That had been a monumental moment in her young life: finally accepting that her sister wasn’t coming back. For a long time she’d wanted to believe her mum was right, that Anna was simply lost and that if they kept searching for her, she’d eventually be found and come back. But Emma had eventually caved and actually listened to the mutterings of her classmates. If Anna was simply missing, there would have been some clue to what had happened to her. But nobody knew. Not even the police after their extensive investigation could truly say what had happened. It was as if she had just disappeared off the face of the earth that day. One moment she’d been stalking away from the yard, and the next, poof! Gone.
If only Emma’s mum would finally accept the certain truth, maybe she’d find a way to move on with her own life. If her future wasn’t to be with her husband, wasn’t it time she started finding new love? Emma knew enough about what happened between a man and a woman (or a woman and a woman) from the sex education classes they’d had to endure at school. While the boys had giggled at mentions of penises and vaginas, Emma had listened and learned. Whilst she wasn’t looking for a new brother or sister, her mum deserved some kind of companionship. There were dating websites now where single people c
ould meet other single people and form friendships and more. Emma had broached the subject once, and her mum had quickly dismissed the idea out of hand, but that hadn’t stopped Emma creating a profile for her mum in secret, and in the ten days since it had gone live, Bronwyn Hunter had received several requests for dates. Emma would have to vet the applicants carefully before confessing what she’d done, but she was hopeful of persuading her mum to consider it.
Emma pulled on her coat before turning to see whether her mum was any nearer to joining her at the door, only to find she hadn’t moved from the spot in front of the television.
‘Mum, we’re going to be late,’ Emma said, fastening the zip.
Still, Bronwyn remained where she was, a hand at her mouth. Emma finally joined her to see what had so captured her attention, freezing when she read the words at the bottom of the screen.
‘A riot at the prison? That’s where Dad works, isn’t it?’
Bronwyn nodded, dropping into the sofa and beckoning Emma to join her. ‘Apparently it started right after visiting time yesterday afternoon,’ she explained. ‘Several of the prisoners barricaded themselves inside the visiting suite, threatening staff and two members of the public with weapons they’d made from various implements.’
Emma’s dad had often claimed that his job was more perilous than he ever let on, but when Emma had tried to get him to open up about the types of dangers he faced, he always refused to say.
‘Best you not know,’ he would say time and again.
‘Is Dad there now?’ Emma asked, sitting beside her mum.
‘I don’t know,’ Bronwyn replied. ‘I thought he’d said he was supposed to be off yesterday, but you know what he’s like with overtime. I’ve tried phoning him, but his mobile is switched off.’
‘Do you think they would have called him in on his day off after the riot broke out?’