‘Is there?’
‘Maybe.’ He lifted the papers and shuffled through them, pulled one from the pile and handed it to Dee. ‘What do you think?’
It was a grainy photocopied image of Katie’s driving licence. Dee was just able to make out the name and some of the digits from the licence number. The photo was so blurred, it was impossible to make out any of her features clearly.
‘It’s a copy of a copy,’ Ed said. ‘Your mother obviously photocopied a copy of Katie’s licence rather than the licence itself.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ Dee said. ‘Mum liked to do everything properly. Any tenant would have had to provide ID, bank account records, references and so on. It’s standard practice.’
‘You don’t think she’d have accepted a copy of the licence?’ Ed asked.
‘I don’t know. She liked Katie and she probably didn’t want to make things difficult. Especially as she was pregnant.’
She examined the photocopy again. The licence had another seven years before it expired. Nothing stood out as unusual or wrong.
Ed left soon after that. He thanked Dee for the coffee, gathered his photocopied papers and told her he’d be in touch if he had any other questions. After he’d gone, Dee went into her mother’s office and sat in the chair reading through the various pieces of papers in Katie’s file, trying to find something unusual. But everything seemed exactly as it should be, and eventually she gave up.
Putting the file back, she again felt her mother’s presence in the room. She closed her eyes, waited for something to happen – a hand on her shoulder, her mother’s voice telling her how much she loved her, the soft smell of citrus perfume. But there was nothing.
She slammed the drawer shut, the clanging sound pushing the ghosts away, back into the dark corners of her mind.
Seventeen
Katie
Eleven years earlier
It’s three days later, and we haven’t spoken. Three days that seemed to drag out forever while I waited to hear from him. I’ve seen him around college, but he’s always surrounded by his other friends, and there’s no way I’m going to talk to him with all of them listening.
His silence is like torture. I keep thinking about what we did, wondering if I was okay at it. I don’t want to send him too many texts because I know how he feels about needy girls who are so insecure they can’t give a guy some space. But I don’t know what else to do.
I’m walking home from the station, wondering if I should message him again later this evening, when I see him. He’s outside the pub, leaning against the wall like before. He gives a little half-wave as I walk towards him. He’s smoking, the cigarette hanging from his lower lip. My neck aches from the memory of that same lip pressed against it, his breath coming hot and fast.
‘Hey, stranger.’ He throws the cigarette to the ground and pushes himself away from the wall.
‘Hey.’ I’m dying inside, my entire body curling in on itself, waiting for him to tell me it was a terrible mistake and we can’t do anything like that again.
‘I thought you might let me buy you a drink,’ he says.
‘A drink?’ I think I must have misheard him.
‘It’s okay,’ he says, misinterpreting my confusion for refusal. ‘I know it’s Roxanne’s day off. And your dad will be at the golf course for another hour at least, won’t he?’
‘How do you know all this?’ I ask.
‘I make it my business to find out what’s going on,’ he says. He pulls open the door, then steps back and motions for me to go in before him, and it feels good to have a guy smile at me and open a door for me.
Inside, I feel self-conscious at first, but Shane makes it easy, acting the way he always does. As if nothing’s happened between us. That’s what makes this special; everything is so natural, with none of that awkwardness I might have with someone else.
The pub’s quiet. Janet, one of the part-time girls, is behind the bar. I don’t think she even notices me. We sit at a table near the bar, bold as anything now there’s no one here to tell us what we can or can’t do. When our drinks are finished, Shane offers to get us some more, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea.
‘My dad will be back soon,’ I tell him. ‘He’ll go mad if he sees us here. He’s seriously overprotective since Mum left. I know it’s really boring, but I don’t want to upset him.’
The door from the kitchen swings open and Ella comes into the bar, stopping dead when she sees us.
‘Oh God,’ I whisper, reaching out and grabbing Shane’s arm. ‘We have to go, Shane. Please? She’ll tell Dad about us and he’ll kill me. We could go to the park instead if you want.’
A flash of anger crosses his face and I let go of his arm quickly.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
But it’s okay. He’s smiling now.
‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘We’ll have one more drink, then grab a bottle of something and head to the park after that. I don’t think you should let her scare you that easily, K. Let’s stick it out for another few minutes to show her she can’t mess with you, okay?’ He leans in, brushes my cheek with his lips, making my body tingle with desire, and I agree, even though it’s not what I want. I don’t care about Ella. All I want is to be alone with Shane, somewhere we can talk and be ourselves without people watching us.
He insists on getting the drinks, but I have to lend him money as he’s run out. Janet has gone outside for a fag break and it’s only Ella behind the bar now. She’s chatting to some old fella who’s drinking a pint of Guinness. Leaning forward so she can hear whatever rubbish he’s telling her, smiling at him, pretending she gives one shit what he’s talking about.
For a moment, it looks as if she’s going to ignore Shane. But then she straightens up and walks over to him. He says something but I can’t catch the words, even though I’m straining my ears. I can see her face, though, and I recognise the emotion on it. Anger.
I want to know what he said to make her cross, but if I ask, he won’t tell me. Or he’ll make something up and turn it into a joke. I wonder why he hates her, even though I know deep down inside me in that place I won’t look at that it’s not hate that makes him want to keep coming back here.
I think she’ll argue or refuse to serve him or do some other sort of drama-queen thing. But she doesn’t. He’s still speaking, leaning over the bar like he wants to touch her. She doesn’t say a single word back to him. She pours the drinks and slides them across the counter to him, those pink spots on her cheeks beaming at me like warning lights.
When he comes back to me, he’s buzzed. His eyes glowing like polished stones. He’s breathing fast, like he’s been running, and he knocks his Coke back in a single swallow puts the glass down and says: ‘Grab a bottle. I’ll wait outside.’
‘You better not say anything to my dad,’ I tell Ella as I go behind the bar and take two bottles of cider. ‘If you do, I swear to God I’ll make sure you pay.’
‘I don’t care what you do,’ she says. ‘It’s your life.’
Her answer makes me angry, and I realise I wanted her to challenge me. I want a reason to fight her. Pull that perfect hair out of its perfect plait and punch that perfect face until her nose is flattened and bleeding.
‘He’s only using you,’ she says as I start to walk away. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
I stop walking, my hands tightening around the bottles. There’s a buzzing sound inside my head and I know it’s my blood, pumping too fast the way it does when I get angry.
A flash of memory. Standing in this same spot three years earlier. My mother sitting at the bar, drunk. Her words slurring as she shouted at me. Telling me she’d cleared all the chocolate and other treats from the kitchen that morning because I was eating too much and no one ever loved a fat girl.
I can hear Ella walking towards me. Again I picture her, battered and bloodied, and I’m about to do it, I’m getting ready to turn around and smash one of the bottles into her face, when she
puts her hand on my shoulder.
‘Be careful,’ she says. ‘Please?’
Her voice is softer and kinder than it should be. Without warning, my eyes fill with tears and I want to cry.
There’s another reason too for the tears. I know Ella’s right. Shane is using me and there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t care why he’s chosen me. All I care about is knowing it’s me he’ll spend the rest of the day with, me he’ll have sex with, me who’ll do anything he wants me to, all he has to do is ask.
Outside, he takes one of the bottles and links arms with me as we walk to the park. He’s all over me the moment we reach our secret place behind the bushes. Hands clawing at my clothes, his body pressing against mine like he can’t wait a moment longer.
And when it’s like this between us, I know there’s something stronger and deeper connecting us than a few bottles of free cider. I know that right now, in this moment, I’m the only person he needs.
Eighteen
Dee
Wednesday evening, the weather broke. All through the afternoon, thick grey clouds gathered across the sky, blocking out the sun. At 6 p.m. exactly, the heavens opened. It was exhilarating at first. This onslaught of rain after the relentless heat and sunshine. Dee watched a group of children on the beach, still in their swimsuits, screeching and running in and out of the water. She had a sudden memory from her early days with Billy. A boozy afternoon in some hotel in the south of Spain. A torrent of rain like this, both of them dancing naked in the garden of their holiday villa. Drunk, because the only really good times with Billy always involved alcohol.
Such a waste.
She’d known from the beginning that falling for Billy Morrison was like going on a sky dive. Exciting, unpredictable and, if you weren’t careful, extremely dangerous. And Dee had never been careful when it came to her ex-husband.
She spent the morning thinking of ways she could track down Shane Gilbert. She went through the names of people she’d come into contact with during her twenty-plus years working as an investigative journalist. She ended up with a list of five – two former colleagues from the Post; a retired detective who’d worked out of Lewisham; a criminal defence solicitor based in Hither Green; and Emma Walker, a HR manager working for the prison service.
Emma and Dee had become friends after Dee ran a story on the treatment of rape victims during court cases. Initially she had been trying to write a balanced piece on rape trials, including examples of men who’d been wrongly accused and the devastating effects that could have. But when she interviewed Emma and heard about her harrowing experience in court, the focus of her story changed. Working alongside Emma, she ended up running a two-year campaign for the Post on the need to change the way rape victims were treated by the legal system.
The two women had become close friends, seeing each other several times a month and speaking on the phone more frequently. All of that had ended in the messy aftermath of Dee’s divorce. Dee had never returned any of Emma’s emails or phone calls. In the end, Emma had stopped trying to contact her. Dee wasn’t sure how Emma would react if she got in touch now. There was only one way to find out. She opened a new email and typed Emma’s address into the recipient line.
Outside, the rain looked like it would never stop. A ceaseless torrent of water that drummed on the roof of the house and bounced off the sea and the shingle. The noise of it got inside her head, making it impossible to think. She pushed open the door and stepped onto the deck, holding her face up to the sky, letting the water pound down on her. There was something therapeutic about getting wet like this. Almost as if the rain was cleaning away all the anxiety and regret she carried around with her. She would have stayed for longer, but ‘Ring of Fire’ started to play on her phone, telling her she had a call coming through.
She went inside and realised she was too wet to answer it. Letting it go to voicemail, she went to change her clothes and dry her hair. When she was finished, she checked her call log and saw Emma’s name.
‘Dee Doran!’ Emma said when Dee called her back. ‘I nearly fell off my chair when I got your email earlier. How the hell are you? I was starting to worry I’d never hear from you again.’
‘Sorry I disappeared,’ Dee said. ‘A lot’s happened since I saw you last, Em.’
‘I thought as much,’ Emma said. ‘When you stopped replying to my texts and emails, I knew something wasn’t right. But I also knew that if you wanted to tell me, you would. Are you okay?’
Dee gave a potted history of how her life had fallen apart since they’d last spoken. She spoke quickly, wanting to get to the real reason for her call as quickly as she could.
‘Katie and Jake were the only things keeping me going these last few months,’ she said. ‘That’s why I’m so desperate to find out what’s happened to them.’
‘I can understand that,’ Emma said. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Actually,’ Dee said, ‘that’s sort of why I got in touch. Katie’s father was killed. I think the person who did it might be the reason she’s disappeared. I need to find him.’
‘You know I could get fired for giving you information on a prisoner’s whereabouts?’ Emma said.
‘He’s not a prisoner any more,’ Dee said. ‘He was released two or three years ago. I’m just looking for a name. Someone who could tell me where he went after he left prison. Could you do that for me?’
‘Ten years ago,’ Emma said, ‘I felt as if I’d nothing left to live for. I wanted to die, Dee. I’d considered suicide more times than you could imagine. The assault, along with everything that happened afterwards, destroyed me. If it wasn’t for you, those stories you wrote and the way you got people talking, the way you got me talking, I don’t think I’d be here today. So yes, I’ll help you. Tell me exactly what you need and I’ll see what I can do.’
Dee swallowed the lump in her throat and gave Emma the details. Emma promised she’d get back to her as quickly as she could; Dee, in return, promised to be better at staying in touch.
After she hung up, she felt better than she had in days. Emma was another reminder of what she had given up when she’d fled London and her broken marriage, using her mother’s illness as an excuse to hide away from the rest of the world. Speaking to her today, hearing her voice and her affirmation of their friendship, meant so much. She wasn’t about to let that friendship slip through her fingers a second time.
Nineteen
Dee
The following morning, the rain had stopped but the memory of it lingered. There was a freshness in the air that Dee had missed over the last few weeks. The drop in temperature – from scorching to hot – was a relief. She needed to buy some groceries, and she decided to make the most of the cooler weather by walking to the supermarket in the harbour.
Outside, by the spot where the woman had been killed, people had left bunches of flowers. Some of these had messages pinned to them. Pointless things like Taken too young and Our prayers are with you. Dee wondered what sort of person would leave flowers for someone they’d never met. The dead woman still hadn’t been identified. Which meant the people who’d come out here to leave the flowers had no idea who they were leaving them for.
She could have understood if it had been Katie. Many of Katie’s piano students were children. She imagined a parent bringing a child out here to lay flowers as a way of helping them process the tragedy. But no one knew who this woman was, which made the whole thing a bit creepy.
She stepped past the flowers and continued to the harbour. She was almost at the supermarket when Trevor phoned.
‘I wanted to check you got what you needed from Leonard.’
‘He’s been great,’ Dee said. ‘Thanks so much for the contact.’
‘Glad to hear it. He called me after you spoke with him. Seemed a bit put out that I’d given you his number without checking with him first.’
‘He was upset about it?’ Dee asked.
‘I got the feeling he didn’t wa
nt to talk about the trial,’ Trevor said. ‘He said it was all in the past and you were wasting your time digging around for clues that weren’t there. It was weird.’
‘Well he wasn’t weird with me,’ Dee said. ‘He was really helpful, actually. I’ve promised I’ll buy him a pint sometime.’
‘Good idea,’ Trevor said. ‘Listen, Dee, there’s another reason I’m calling. Billy called me last night. Did you know he’s trying to turn this hit and run into a story?’
‘I had an idea he might be.’ Dee remembered the pretty blonde who’d turned up claiming to be a friend of Billy’s. ‘What did he want?’ she asked.
‘Same as you. Wanted to know if I could put him in touch with anyone who covered the trial. He seems to have this idea that it was a miscarriage of justice. Do you know anything about that?’
‘Not a thing,’ Dee said. ‘Did you give him Leonard’s number?’
‘Course not. What do you take me for? Besides, I think Leonard would kill me if I asked him to help someone else out on this. I told you, he’s a bit funny about it all.’
‘Thanks for that,’ Dee said. ‘And for the tip-off about Billy as well. When he was telling you about the miscarriage of justice, did he mention anyone’s name?’
‘I don’t think so. But I got the impression he had a good source.’
Dee thought about calling Billy later and asking him what he knew about the trial. Before she came to her senses and realised that the last thing she needed was to let her husband think he had information she wanted.
She had reached the entrance to the supermarket, and practically collided with Alex, who was on his way out.
‘Time for a coffee?’ he whispered.
‘Okay,’ she mouthed. Then, to Trevor: ‘I’ve got to go. Thanks again for this.’
‘You’ll keep in touch?’ Trevor said.
‘Of course I will. The next time I’m in London, I’ll take you and Leonard out. How does that sound?’
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