by Rachael Blok
He thinks of Katie Miller, feeling that everything she had in the world had vanished. That the grief she held in her heart was too big to carry. Much too heavy a load. A father who’d left them, a teacher who’d abused his position and abandoned her, miscarriage and only sixteen.
His own heart, ripped down the centre and, even now, scarred over. His parents’ car had veered and plunged off the road: ‘sudden impact’, ‘fatal injuries’. He had sat upright on the edge of the sofa at his grandparents’ house. His opa had held his hand and his oma had wept.
It hadn’t seemed real. He’d tried to imagine their last thoughts, as he tried to imagine Katie Miller’s now. He wonders if his parents’ last thoughts had been of him, as Katie’s had been of the baby she’d lost.
Maarten had chased down the father, the teacher – he was already serving time in the same prison Ben Fenton had been in.
He thinks of how she must have walked into the forest once the sun had sunk and the moon had risen. She had found a branch she could reach. The report said that there had been a tree stump nearby. That she must have climbed on the tree stump and jumped.
The smell of the forest in the dark of a summer’s night. The sound of the chorus of creatures. The clicking, the creaking. The humming alive all around her.
The funeral of his parents, stark in his head, with blankets of mist lying across the flat land of Holland. They had gone back to his family home in Rotterdam afterwards. There had been dishes still in the drying rack that hung above the sink. Clothes sat in the basket at the foot of the stairs to be taken up and placed in drawers. And they had packed up his things to move to his grandparents’ farm.
The dry voice of the priest echoing in the church. The sobs of his oma. His own throat aching.
And then Andy Miller, running to the forest, searching for his sister. Finding her.
So much death. So much loss.
He closes the letter. It had been much read. It had been treasured, as it should. Andy Miller had sought vengeance where he should not. He had allowed his grief to twist him. But he had remembered his sister. He had kept her alive.
He sometimes wonders if in trying to close the wound of his parents’ death, he had closed off a part of himself. Maybe Liv’s crash had opened the part he’d kept locked for years.
The sun is back in the sky as he glances outside. The street, the trees, the tips of the park he can see in the distance – it all blurs.
Blurs beneath the tears that fall for all of them.
About the author
RACHAEL BLOK grew up in Durham and studied Literature at Warwick University. She taught English at a London Comprehensive and is now a full-time writer living in Hertfordshire with her husband and children. Her first novel, Under The Ice was published in 2018 by Head of Zeus.
Acknowledgments
Huge thanks are owed to people without whom the book would not exist. Firstly, to Eve White, my brilliant agent, and her assistant Ludo Cinelli. They’re the perfect team and I’d be nowhere without them. Also, to all those at Head of Zeus, in particular to Laura Palmer, the best editor in town, and Chrissy Ryan, Florence Hare, Christian Duck, Nikky Ward, Victoria Joss, Leah Jacobs-Gordon and Jenni Davis.
Many people have generously donated their time and professional expertise, including Rachel Barnes, of Three Raymond Buildings, and David Bently QC, who provided the legal advice which allowed me the necessary scope for the plot. Ben’s storyline could not have been written without Supervising Officer Kevin James’ invaluable tour of a prison in County Durham. Thanks to him also for the coffee, and the chat with Christine Foster, the inspiring librarian at the prison.
Emma Game’s expertise in medical trials is enormously appreciated, as is Cathy Leahy’s insight into the soil map research. Also, thanks to Matthew Quinney for his insider knowledge of New York bars.
Also, a huge thanks to Richard Johnson, an officer in the Hertfordshire police service, for his time; I am indebted to him. And not forgetting Pieter Blok, for all his support and photographic services.
For all of this advice, I may have twisted procedure and the information received a little at times for the sake of the novel, but this is all me.
I could not write a single word without the support of the best of friends, including Rachael Mason, Imogen Pitt, Rima Nixon, Zoe Latimer, Rachel Mason, Lucy Higgs, Simone Isaacs, Ben Jones, Matthew and Jane Beniston, Helen and Liam O’Connor, Victoria Quinney, Marielle Sutherland, Emma Leahy, Rachael Oomen, Louise Batty, Tara Abelaira, Shelagh O’Connell, Aine Magee, Hilary McKie, Nicola James, Vicki Atkinson, Pamela Flowers, Geraldine Gardener, Anna Davies, Rebecca Fox, Emma Betteridge, Serena Pattison, Hannah Hope and Megan Foxcroft.
Always thanks to the inspiring Curtis Brown Creative course, and all I learnt from Louise Wener and Anna Davis, as well as a hugely supportive writing community, including Erin Kelly, Angela Clarke, Roz Watkins, Clare Empson, Victoria Selman, Melanie Golding, Alex Dahl, J.S. Monroe, Lesley Thomson,Tania Steere, Ella Berman, Louise McCreesh, Jodie Chapman, Ailsa Caine, Claire McVey, Neil Canetty-Clarke and Christine Evans. Also, thanks to my Bookclub who choose books I’d never think of and I’m all the better for reading: Kelly Irwin, George Cooper, Naomi Love, Sarah Milton, Clare Sayce, Sarah Shaw, Fay McNaught, Kathryn Crowdell.
DCI Jansen wouldn’t be the same without the stunning locations of St Albans and Blakeney, both the real and the slightly blurred that appear in the novel. And whilst I have blended the villages of Ayot and their geography a touch, I have in no way exaggerated the beauty of the Palladian Church in Ayot St Lawrence, the background to novel.
And finally, my family. The best of parents, my sister Dawnie, and my first reader, Rob, who listens to all my ideas even when he’s far too tired. And my two children, who are unfailingly the best parts of my day.
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