Exposed

by M. A. Hunter

  ‘Here they are,’ I hear Cavendish’s voice declare from behind me.

  Turning, I just about make out her face moving towards us, with Oakley in close proximity. The pair have been roped into the task force at Jack’s request, each representing their respective areas, and considered above reproach. Their credentials have been checked and double-checked against the list of names recovered from the hard drive provided by Daisy Beauchamp, and against the names considered in Jack and the NCA’s original investigation, as has the name of every officer involved in this morning’s operation.

  Oakley and Cavendish join Jack and me at the perimeter edge of the activity, and offer the cups of tea they have brought with them, which we gratefully accept.

  ‘DCS Rawani wanted you to know things will be starting any minute,’ Oakley says, ‘and to make sure that you both have a good viewing spot of the house as they move in to arrest Mr Beauchamp.’

  Jack nods and looks at me to make sure I’ve understood. I nod my agreement and follow as they lead us through the gathered crowd, and to the far side of the area.

  ‘How is Anna?’ Cavendish asks quietly as we pick up speed.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I respond carefully. ‘I haven’t heard from her since you two insisted she go into protective custody. I was actually hoping you might be able to give me more of an update.’

  Cavendish exchanges a glance with Oakley before meeting my gaze. ‘I’m sorry, but I hadn’t realised that had happened already.’

  ‘Don’t look so glum,’ Jack says next. ‘She’s there for her own protection, and it doesn’t mean you’ll never see her again. Once all the arrests have been made and those involved have had their day in court, there’ll be no reason for your sister to remain off the grid.’

  I nod, even though I don’t agree with either of their conclusions. I understand the rules of protective custody, and that she won’t be allowed to make contact with me, even if she wants to, and that’s the part I’m most uncertain of: even if she could, would she want to?

  We stop as we arrive at the far side of the screen, now beside a television screen, which is showing an undisturbed image of the front door of the property. There is a group of five men in black waiting in the wings of the door, and the one at the front holds out his hand, fingers splayed, and each slowly lowers, counting down, and when his fist is tight, they move forward as one, forcing an entrance to the property.

  I can almost hear them shouting that they are armed police as they move through the door, and then the image on the screen flicks to the bodycam footage of the officer at the front as he holds his weapon aloft and moves up the stairs, calling out as he goes.

  He stops at the first floor with another armed man, and they move from door to door, until a dressing-gown-clad and confused-looking Ian Beauchamp emerges from one of the doors and is quickly tackled to the ground, his wrists secured behind his back, and the paper warrant for his arrest pushed before his face. The screen flicks to a second bodycam which moves into the room from which Beauchamp emerged, and a woman is seen huddling beneath the duvet cover, presumably Mrs Beauchamp, though it is difficult to see in the darkness of the room.

  The screen returns to the first bodycam, as Beauchamp is lifted to his feet and is being led down the stairs, and then the screen flicks back to the view of the front door as Beauchamp is pushed through. He blinks against the bright light shining in his face. He looks as pompous as when he walked into my flat three days ago, so certain of himself, as if this entire scene has been planned. I can’t bear to watch it unfold and I step away.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Jack asks, hurrying after me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I reply, keeping my eyes low so he won’t see them watering. ‘You stay,’ I encourage. ‘I just need some air.’

  ‘You want me to drive you back to Weymouth? Or the train station?’

  I stop and pull him into my embrace. ‘Thank you, but I’d prefer to walk. Besides, you’re probably needed here.’

  He allows me to go, but I can feel his eyes on me for a long time, until I finally have the courage to turn and see that I’m alone. And that’s when I duck to the left and in through the trees. Once I’m off the main road, and certain I can no longer be seen from the main house, I follow the path through the trees, only stopping when I arrive at the new campervan that’s parked at the top.

  ‘Ah, good, it’s you,’ Anna says, stepping out of the shadows. ‘I thought you’d never make it.’

  I double-check that I haven’t been followed before turning back and smiling at my sister. ‘I said I would. Are you ready to go?’

  She nods, and opens the passenger door.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Now

  Wareham, Dorset

  Ken Bruce – apparently no relation to the Radio 2 DJ – told me on the phone that he is the private investigator my mum hired almost twenty years ago when it seemed like the police had given up hope of ever finding Anna. Unprepared to accept never seeing her daughter again, she would visit him every time I was at Dad’s place in Swanage. I always did wonder what her special appointments were all about as her hair never looked any different when she collected me at the bus stop, and Dad never seemed any the wiser either.

  Wareham is an historic market town, situated on the River Frome, and as we arrive I have a tingle of excitement, recognising the quay and some of the pubs along the main road. Watching Anna’s face, I’m sure there are traces of recognition in her eyes too. It’s funny, but when she suggested telling everyone that she’d gone into protective custody so she could slip under the radar, I thought I would never see her again, but she gave me a burner phone containing one number, and promised she would ring once she’d sorted out some new wheels.

  I’m pretty sure this campervan is even older and more rickety than the last one, but it was bought with cash, and she says it’s all she needs. I suppose after a lifetime on the run, it must be hard to put down roots. After I’d spoken to Ken, the investigator, I asked Anna if she would come with me. Even if she can’t remember Mum, she deserves to hear how hard Mum tried to get her back.

  We park at the Streche Road Car Park and make our way towards the fire station and away from the town centre, following the directions on my phone’s app, until we arrive at a small bungalow on Worgret Road. It is the smallest property amongst much larger detached houses covered in solar panels. I double-check the address, but this is what he gave me. I was expecting some kind of rundown office like in those old gumshoe movies Mum would watch late at night when I was supposed to be asleep. This must be Ken’s home, rather than his office.

  Heading up the drive, Anna is wearing a baseball cap to cover her head, and a tracksuit that makes her look as though she’s just left a gym. I’m in black jeans and a jacket, so as a pair we’re a bit of a before and after photograph.

  The man who comes to the door is out of breath, his large belly practically bursting out of his shirt and trousers. He’s wearing a confused expression until I give him my name.

  ‘Oh yes, of course, of course,’ he mutters moving back into the house and beckoning us to follow.

  Anna looks back along the road before stepping inside, keeping the peak of the cap pulled down over her eyes. I close the door behind us and take in the narrow corridor through which we are now walking. There is barely room for Ken to fit along it, and I can see nails poking out of the walls where frames must have once hung, but no more. Ken heads through the door to his left, where a large bay window adorns the room in sunlight. There is a battered leather armchair facing the window, but as Ken drops into it, he uses his feet to swivel it around to face us.

  The only other chairs in the room are the two hard-backed ones tucked under the table, so we each pull out a chair and sit. The room isn’t big, and there’s no sign of a television or radio. There is a chess board standing on a small table in one corner of the room, a couple of wooden units with drawers, and more hooks in the wall with missing frames. The paint on the walls
looks old and faded, and in fact the carpet is threadbare in places; now that I’m looking at the windows, I can see that they’re probably the original single panes that came with the property. The bungalow is in dire need of renovation, much like its owner.

  ‘I was sorry to learn of your mother’s passing,’ Ken says to me, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.

  He’s probably wondering who Anna is, though he hasn’t asked. I’m tempted to introduce her, but I don’t want to make him feel bad that he never managed to find her. He has a full head of hair, despite his age, which juts out at all manner of angles, like I’d expect to see if someone had just been electrocuted. Despite that, he has a kindly way about him, and in some way I’m reminded of my grandfather, my memories of whom are limited. Maybe that was what first attracted Mum to seek his help.

  ‘You said on the phone she hired you about a year after my sister’s disappearance?’ I ask encouragingly.

  ‘Aye, that’s right. That was back when I rented a room in an office in the town centre. I was still newly qualified, and your mother was only my second ever client. I’ve never met a woman so heartbroken, and as soon as she told me her story, I made a promise to her that I’d never stop looking for her missing daughter. She said she couldn’t afford much, but I told her just to pay what little she could whenever she could, and that I would give her updates as and when I had any to give. It was an unconventional arrangement, but that’s how it was for a long time.

  ‘At the start we’d meet once a month, but most of that time was spent with her sharing background information about your sister, and family life, to help me paint a picture of who I was looking for. As I said, she was only my second client, so I had plenty of time I could dedicate to the search in those early months, but as leads dried up and I became busier, unfortunately I wasn’t able to give the case as much time as it deserved. Still, every now and again I’d come across a rumour or fragment of information and I’d let her know. I know also that she never stopped looking for evidence, that is until she moved into the nursing home. That was the last time I spoke to her, just before. She came here to this house, and she told me what the doctor had diagnosed, and she asked me to keep a few bits and pieces for her. That was why I called you, you see, now that she’s gone; I thought you might want her things back.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bruce. Yes, if you’re happy to give them to me, I can make sure they’re dealt with.’

  He stands with a strain and crosses the room, disappearing through the door and promising he’ll return in a few moments.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask Anna, who hasn’t spoken a word since we parked the campervan.

  She nods, but it is so hard to make out her face beneath the shadow of the peak. Maybe it wasn’t fair for me to drag her along today. At least she’s heard for herself how hard Mum kept looking.

  I can hear Ken shuffling about in the room next door, but then he appears in the doorway carrying an old and fairly large cardboard box, with a crisp manufacturer’s name prominently in the middle. He stumbles into the room, practically dropping the box onto the table, pausing to wipe the sweat from his forehead before shuffling back out.

  ‘Do you need any help?’ I call after him, but if he does answer, I don’t hear it.

  I can’t see Anna now over the top of the box, and so I stand and check whether she wants to look inside, but she leans back in her chair and nods for me to do it. The box isn’t taped up, but the worn panels have been woven shut, and easily come apart as I pull at one of the ends.

  ‘It contains books,’ I say, reaching in and extracting one of the notebooks. ‘This one says 1995 on the spine.’ I flick it open and rummage through the pages, gasping when I realise what I’m staring at. ‘This… These are diaries.’ I close the notebook and rest it on the table, before reaching for another. ‘This one is from 1992,’ I continue, ‘and this one’s from 1993. I never knew Mum kept a diary, did you?’

  Anna has picked up the first notebook and is skimming the pages. ‘I had no idea.’

  I flick through the spines until I come across the year 2000 and pull it out. It feels heavier than the others, as if it contains a world of secrets, or maybe it’s just that I know how significant a year it was for her. I don’t want to open it, knowing that it must contain her deepest and darkest thoughts. I’m concerned that if I see that version of her, my memories will somehow become tainted.

  Ken lugs a second crisp box onto the table, and Anna moves out of his way, allowing him to rest his hands on the table to catch his breath. ‘There’s one more box,’ he pants, ‘but it’s smaller. I won’t be a second.’

  I return the 2000 diary to its box and open the new one. There are a handful of diaries in this one too, but also a dust-covered shoebox. Gripping my fingers around the edge of it, I take it out and place it on the table, lifting the lid. My heart brightens when I see a photograph of Mum, me, and Anna staring back up at me. I extract it and pass it to Anna, and I swear there is the briefest glimpse of a smile. She must also recognise the old house the three of us are standing in front of – a house that looked just the same when we were there a couple of days ago.

  ‘I remember this,’ I hear Anna say, but I can hear the strain in her voice.

  I return my attention to the box, extracting a child-sized gold bracelet and a matchbox, which makes me gag when I open it.

  ‘What is it?’ Anna asks, and she bursts out laughing when she sees inside. ‘My teeth? I can’t believe she kept all my baby teeth!’ She takes the gold bracelet from me and holds it up to the light. ‘I was given this the day I made my First Holy Communion. I remember being told it was very precious and that I wasn’t allowed to wear it at school in case it got broken or lost. I was to save it only for special occasions. But look at it now; it isn’t even real gold.’

  Ken huffs and wheezes as he carries another shoebox into the room, but I sense it is the strain of walking, rather than what’s contained in the box, that is causing his breathlessness.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I check. ‘Do you want me to get you a glass of water or something?’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replies. ‘The kitchen is at the end of the hallway, and you should find a glass on the draining board.’

  I follow his instructions, trying to ignore the pungent smell of rotting meat emanating from the dustbin. I return with the glass of water. Ken is back in his chair and smiles gratefully when I hand him the glass.

  ‘Feel free to take as long as you need looking through those bits and pieces. I’m not entirely sure what’s in there. She just asked me to look after it for her.’

  I turn and see Anna has now opened the final box, but she’s staring at the contents with a puzzled expression.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask as I move next to her so I too can look inside, but I gasp as I realise what I’m looking at. And then I hear my dad’s voice: I left something in the garage. It’s a box of sorts, a green case but small. It contains something very important and I need you to get it for me.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Then

  Portland, Dorset

  The day before John Hunter’s death

  ‘John? What are you doing here?’ Bronwyn asked, opening the door to her ex-husband, racking her brain for a forgotten meeting or appointment.

  His shirt was soaked through, despite the relatively clement forecast, and his red cheeks puffed as he looked to the left and right and then met her questioning gaze.

  ‘I’m sorry to just turn up unannounced like this, but I need to speak to you, Winnie.’

  She pulled the door closer to her body. ‘Oh no, John, whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. If you have anything you want to say, put it in a letter. I have to go and collect Emma from school soon, so I don’t have time to hear about your latest error of judgement.’

  ‘Please, Winnie,’ he said pushing himself closer to the gap in the doorway.

  She grimaced at the smell of stale beer on his breath, but didn’t have the heart
to close the door on him, promising herself no matter what he said to her, she wouldn’t give him any money.

  ‘You have five minutes,’ she said, stepping back from the door holding her breath as he bustled in past her.

  He strode to the sofas before turning and looking at her awkwardly, as if he didn’t know if he was allowed to sit. Although he’d once lived in this house, it was no longer his. Most traces of him had been removed after the divorce.

  ‘Sit,’ she said, closing the door and crossing to the armchair and making a point of looking at her watch so she’d know when his time was up.

  ‘No chance of a drink then?’ he asked, as he dropped into the sofa, but her raised eyebrow told him all he needed to know.

  Pulling out a cigarette, his fingers trembled as he pushed it between his lips and lit it. He knew she hated him smoking, but he needed something to settle his nerves. To his surprise, she didn’t instantly evict him, just slid a saucer across the table for him to drop his ash into.

  She looked at her watch for a second time, but for his benefit rather than her own. ‘I do have to collect Emma shortly.’

  He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and tried to recall the speech he’d spent all morning rehearsing. ‘Before I begin, I want you to know how sorry I am. For everything. If I could have my time again, I’d do everything differently, I swear. I never meant to be the cause of so much pain.’

  Bronwyn rolled her eyes. How many times had she heard this speech before? Every time he’d accidentally bet the housekeeping money on a sure thing that had failed. Or when he’d missed an appointment at the marriage guidance counsellor’s office because he’d forgotten. He was always so sorry, but if he truly meant the words, he wouldn’t keep screwing up. The day he moved out had felt like lifting a stock from around her neck.