by Emma Rowley
That this is the way it’s going to end, for me.
PART 3
CHAPTER 42
Kate
Here she was. Here they were. And I’m too late.
I’ve lost her. I’ve failed her. And I’ve now lost her again, forever. The thoughts loop ceaselessly through my brain, as I wander back downstairs. Through the outside door, it’s raining properly now; the raindrops falling with the pent-up force of a summer storm. I stay in the hall, sheltered. The picture’s still in my hand, Sophie’s drawing, the child’s coloring in. My face is numb. Dimly, I wonder if I’m in shock. But I’ve got to keep going. I pull out my phone to call. Who? Dad. No, Charlotte. No, the police, I’ve got to . . . Evidence. I shouldn’t have touched this, should I? But then I see I’ve got a text.
Hello! Have you got it? Tell me what you think. What a find!
Vicky x
It takes me a second, and then I place her. Vicky, the librarian’s sister. What’s she talking about? On autopilot, I pull open my email and scroll down; I don’t see it. So I check my junk folder, wait for it to load—and there it is: an email sent last night.
Hiya Kate
You’ll never guess. After we spoke, you got me thinking: maybe I still have it. So I went round to Mum’s and, guess what, I found it. It was to mark the centenary, they got all of us out on the playing field. Back row, right on the end—next to Nancy. Told you he was a bit of a hunk! Vx
Jay. It feels like an age ago: she was going to try to find his surname somehow. I feel like I’m a swimmer, coming up from the bottom of a pool—rising back to reality. But a part of me’s still in that room. It was so small. Just that tiny skylight, set into the roof.
I click on the attachment. My phone freezes, the digital egg-timer telling me it’s slow to load: blurry black and white shapes. Vicky must have taken a picture of this on her phone—it’s loading sideways, I think—rows hinting at . . . what? I turn my phone around to understand what I’m looking at.
Yes, it goes this way, the detail now appearing. It’s part of a school photo. She hasn’t bothered to try to get the whole thing in, she’s just got the end of the student body; three dozen or so little figures, stacked in four rows, a green stretch of lawn behind them.
The faces are tiny, just smudges above the blue of their uniforms. I pull at the photo to zoom in on the back row. I misjudge it and go too far—a face fills the screen.
Nancy. Smiling, her shoulders back.
I wonder if it was the same day they took the portrait that ended up in the paper, her fair hair’s pulled back the same way. I pore over it for clues, traces of what happened to her, but of course there’s no sign—nothing to say, “This is the girl”—that marks her out. She’s a pretty teenager, nothing more, nothing less, and oh, so young....
Carefully, I nudge the photo to the right again, just one place, and wait for my phone to catch up with the boy on the end.
A shock of dark hair, pale skin, sleepy eyes. He looks younger than I imagined.
I suppose I’d always pictured him as just a little older than me, aging in the same way. But he was, of course, a teenager then, just sixteen.
Here he is. Jay. No, this isn’t right.
I scroll down to where the names are listed in tiny print along the bottom. It’s almost impossible to read—out of focus and the camera’s captured the shine of the photographic paper, a pale streak wiping out the lettering in places. I read across to find the right name, scanning the row . . . Billingsley, E—I squint—Elisabeth. Curran, Helena. I skip across: Corrigan, Nancy; there she is. And next to her, Nicholls—I scroll in closer, trying to make out the blurred lettering. Nicholls, Benjamin.
That’s him, to Nancy’s right, at the end of the line. Benjamin Nicholls.
I think: she’s got confused. Vicky’s got this wrong. Because this isn’t Jay.
Then: it’s been a long time, no wonder she’s got mixed up after all these years. And I knew Nicholls grew up round here, I knew that already, didn’t I? DI Ben Nicholls, alumnus, who still comes back to the school, like Maureen the secretary told me so proudly.
And at the same time another part of my brain is running over the sums. Jay would be what, sixteen back then, add twenty-six years, so, early forties now? Like me. Like Nicholls. So yes, they could well have been in the same year. Friends, even.
I scroll back up again, my sweating fingers leaving faint smears against the glass. I pull at the image to expand it, so the whole face fills the screens, the picture grainy this close up.
Chin up, confident, staring across the decades. I can see the likeness to the man he’d become so clearly now. Those curtains of hair, all the boys had that style then. Now he’s got that short, professional crop. And he’s filled out—his face is weathered, of course. What is it again, more than twenty-five years? That will do that to someone.
And then finally, I know, my thoughts coalescing into some kind of sense.
I’ve no doubt now, no doubt at all.
DI Nicholls. Benjamin Nicholls. Benji.
Jay, for short.
OK. Don’t panic. Think.
It can’t be. Not a policeman.
Someone touched by an old tragedy, they might well choose to start afresh, to drop an old name. And there’s no reason he’d tell me about his past, about a missing girl from nearly three decades ago.
But now images start to flash through my mind, disjointed scenes. Maureen, at the school. “He gives talks to the students.... He’s very popular with the teenage girls in particular. . . .” Nicholls, when I first encountered him: “I’m up to speed on the case, I’ve read through the files.” Yet from the start, somehow . . . off. Reluctant for me to get too involved.
And then telling me about those strange calls, from near my house, that made me look crazy. Did anyone else even know about them? Did they even happen?
Say he saw Sophie, at school. Did seeing her, the spit of Nancy, dislodge something in him, an old obsession reigniting? He saw a chance, to what—repeat the past?
And that phone call when I told him what Holly said about the pregnancy test. “I would suggest, Mrs. Harlow, that you don’t take investigations into your own hands. That’s rarely—helpful.” He was warning me off.
And I saw him here. That black silhouette against the sunshine when I saw him here, right here at the house. “I wouldn’t suggest you start trying to find any trespassers yourself.” And me wondering why I hadn’t seen his car. “You can park in the lane, that way”—gesturing to behind Parklands. “There’s a little path that cuts through.”
My stomach is churning. I wonder, distantly, if I actually will be sick. I was so focused on being caught here, I felt guilty. He said he was checking up on the house. Was he? Or was it him the night before in my garden, checking on me? Curious, maybe. Before he went back—back to Parklands. Back to Sophie. A policeman wouldn’t struggle to find a reason to look around an empty house. And he’d know how to get in.
I’m absorbed in my thoughts, riveted to the spot. So maybe that’s why I don’t hear the sound, so faint, just a soft footstep on the tiles of the porch. It must be just the light that changes, the pale slice into the hallway dimming as I stare at the phone screen in my hand.
Something, anyway, makes me look up.
The figure in the doorway is blocking out the light.
CHAPTER 43
My mind goes blank. I take a step back, looking around for somewhere to run.
And then my eyes adjust and I realize: it’s only Dr. Heath—Nick—looking around curiously.
“Oh thank God, I thought . . .” My knees feel weak, watery. He looks a little embarrassed, the scribbled Post-it that I’d left on my front door still in his hand. “Uh, sorry to intrude. I found the note at your house—we can do this another time, if this is a bad moment. . . .”
Incongruously, I feel the urge to laugh, a relief reflex after the scare he gave me.
“I left that note for my sister”—I didn’t want h
er to freak out even more if I didn’t answer immediately—“I forgot you said you were coming round too—but never mind that now.” I take a breath, trying to make sense. “You’ve got to help me. She was here, right in this house, in the attic, all this time. I’ve realized now, I saw the pictures that she drew. Do you see? This is where she’s been, all this time. This is where he was keeping her.”
His expression is wary, like I’m really losing it now. “OK, slow down. Who was keeping who here?”
“It’s Jay. Nancy’s boyfriend, the boyfriend of the girl who used to live here, DI Nicholls—it’s the same person, he’s the detective on the case. I saw it. I’ve got a photo! Do you understand?”
He looks baffled. “Kate. I just came by to check on you, to check everything’s OK, and I find you here, inside this derelict house. This is trespassing. . . .” Like that’s the worst thing you could do.
I clutch at his arm. “I know it looks bad, but you have to listen. She was right here—my daughter, Sophie—”
“Sophie was here?” He looks around me, like he might see her behind me. “What do you mean—have you called the police?”
“No, I—I can’t. There is something really weird going on, and I think it’s him. The policeman, he’s behind it all.” I thrust my phone at him blindly. “Look, this is him, I’m sure of it, he looks just the same.”
He looks down at the screen, then back at me, frowning, like he’s trying to put the pieces together.
“And this is the detective who’s looking into your daughter?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“But he was just here.”
“What?”
“I saw him, as I was turning into your drive—he was coming out of here, in his car. I passed him just a few minutes ago.”
We take Dr. Heath’s car. His was behind mine in my drive, blocking me in. “It’ll be quicker,” he said. He seems bemused, treating this like an unusual episode in his working day, but he’s humoring me, he’s coming with me. He didn’t have much choice, me half dragging him over the threshold and pulling him away from Parklands. “Please, if I’m wrong I’m wrong, but if I’m right—please trust me, just for now. I can explain later but please . . .” There was no point trying; I let go, went to brush past him—
“Fine, I’ll go on my own.”
“No, it’s OK, I’ll help you. Just—Just slow down.”
Now he pulls out of the drive carefully, looking both ways. I want to scream; hurry up, hurry up, my right knee is jiggling with anxiety. “So he was definitely going this way?” I ask again.
He’s turning left out of the drive onto the road, thoughtful. “Yes, this way, along to the park.”
“Maybe he’s gone there? There’s places you can go in the deer park, it’s so big. . . .” What did Lily say? They used to go to the park, the young people.
“It’s a straight road,” he says, “no turn-offs, so we’ll just see him parked up, if that’s where he’s gone. Or if he’s coming back this way, we’ll see him too. Keep your eyes peeled.”
He sounds so reassuring. But my mind’s racing. The door to the house was left open, I walked in. Does that mean Nicholls was just here? Moving her, rushing maybe, so he didn’t lock up? Should I just call 999 now, try to tell them their detective on my case has been deliberately muddying the truth?
“If I call the police, will Nicholls hear it on his radio?” I don’t know how it works. “I don’t know what to do,” I say, my voice half a sob.
“Tell me what you know.” His calmness calms me. Now I try to explain, as quickly as I can, what I know. It’s a relief to unburden myself of the load of my knowledge, what led me to that empty attic, where I found the drawings on the back of the door. “And it’s all connected, this Jay, I mean Nicholls, I think he did something to Nancy and then hid Sophie away, persuaded her somehow to do what he wanted. He grew up here, it’s all tied into that.”
I keep my eyes ahead, not wanting to catch a look of disbelief. “Do you believe me?” I turn my head, at last.
His face is grim. “Yes. Yes, I do. I shouldn’t, but I do. At least—something’s not right, at the very least.”
I lean back in my seat. “The police—I don’t know, I don’t know how he’s got so involved in this, in the investigation, but he’s everywhere. I can’t wait for them to wake up. If he’s moved her—it can’t have been far. . . .” If he’s done something else—if I’ve scared him into doing something stupid—no, don’t think like that. “If we catch him up—if he’s gone to the park—then we’ll know what he’s up to.”
“Yes,” he says. “I think that would be wise. We’ll just see where he’s gone, for now, to make sure. Then we can call the police.” I’m so relieved that someone is taking me seriously—no exclamations, no incredulous questions, just acceptance.
For a moment I’m spent; exhausted. We fall silent. The rain’s coming heavier now, lashing down against the windscreen, the wipers going. It’s almost cozy in the car, and I’m struck by the scene’s complete normality. We could be a couple on the way to the supermarket, were it not for the speed he’s going at; the hedges brush against my side of the car. He’s concentrating as we bomb along on the winding country road. My pocket’s buzzing against my thigh—I slip out my phone and glance down: a voicemail. Automatically, I click to listen and put it to my ear, my arm against the window.
“Hello,” says the woman’s friendly voice. “This is Valerie from Amberton Surgery. With regard to your inquiry about Mrs. Green’s prescription.” Lily. I hear papers shuffled. “Now, her records all appear to be absolutely fine”—so it’s nothing urgent, I’m about to hang up—“but the surgery manager does ask could you give us a call when you’ve a mo. Dr. Heath shouldn’t really have her on his register, if he’s next of kin, so she just wants to check—oh”—a little laugh—“that’s a note for me, not for you, sorry. But do give us a call when you can. Bye!”
I click to hang up—and catch his eyes darting to mine. “Who’re you on the phone to? I thought you wanted to wait to call the police, together?”
“I do, it was just a voicemail.” I drop the phone back to my lap. So she’s fine, her records are fine, well they would say that, that doesn’t answer anything at all, typical. But next of kin. With Dr. Heath? What relationship could they have? She’s an aunt maybe, a cousin? They’re so cautious, doctors, all this confidentiality about records and the most mundane of things. Don’t get distracted.
“So when we get there,” I start. “So when we get there . . .” and I can’t finish my thought.
There’s no reason Lily would know he’s my doctor. But he’s had every chance to tell me that he was hers, I asked him outright. I told him about Lily’s pills, that I was worried, and he said he’d look into it.
I glance at him, intent on the road. In profile his face loses its open friendliness.
I don’t really know him. The thought crosses my mind, out of nowhere.
But I don’t. All his concern for my family, solicitous inquiries after my well-being, my health, have helped create a sense of intimacy, of history, since we moved here. And yet. He knows a lot about me. I don’t know him, only that he came here after time away, abroad. But where was he before that?
I stare at the wet road ahead.
Dr. Nick is related to Lily. And so he’s the person who has been giving her medicine that is making her confused. Forgetful. Unsure of what’s going on near her. In the house she once looked after.
And Lily knew Nancy. She’s been looking after that house, much longer than I first thought. So did Dr. Heath know Nancy too? He’s about Jay’s—I mean Nicholls’s—age, too.
And then there is Sophie’s older man, picking her up from school. Someone who she’d trust. Someone we all trusted, maybe. The dark car, that Danny saw Sophie getting into. The bonnet in front of me is blue, navy blue, and we’re slowing now, so we don’t miss the entrance to the deer park—it’s a sharp turn into the car park. And I’m thinking, D
r. Heath must be what, early forties? So he’s about Nancy’s age too.
It’s too incredible.
And now we’re here, turning into the car park to the entrance to the deer park, it’s nearly empty now, just the odd car at the far end.
My phone’s still in my lap.
I keep my head up, like I’m still watching the road, and cast down my eyes. And I start tapping in numbers, not moving; surreptitiously. Like I don’t know; like there’s no reason I can’t make a call, I’m not entertaining this ridiculous idea—
“Who are you calling?” His voice is flat.
“I just want to let my sister know where I’ve gone; she’ll be looking for me, you know, and you took the note I left—”
“Give it to me.”
“Just one second—”
“I said, give it to me,” and my fingers are shaking now, I can’t get the buttons right, it’s him it’s him it’s him—
The blow throws my skull against the side window, the glass smacking against the side of my head. I slump forward over my seatbelt, black spots jumping before my eyes. I can hear myself wheezing. The phone’s slipping out of my hands, now slack, my eyes closing, so I feel, not see him, scrabble at my lap to grab it. And then too quickly it all recedes, the world going dark.
CHAPTER 44
My head hurts. I open my eyes. The floor is flat and brown. A dirt floor, gritty against my cheek, covered in a slurry of gray and white. Bird droppings, years and years of them. They must have been nesting in here. There is something wet on my bottom lip, warm and metallic.
Nausea wells up from my stomach. Should I shut my eyes, pretend that I am still out? But then I wouldn’t see him coming. No, keep them slitted, like I can hardly open them.
There are feet in front of me now—shiny leather shoes. I can just focus on the tips.