The Next Girl: A gripping thriller with a heart-stopping twist

by Carla Kovach

  ‘When they find her, Luke, it may not be that easy. God knows what she’s been through. But she has a good family. The best.’ The baby turned her face away from the bottle and began to wail. ‘Wind, maybe?’

  Luke smiled and nodded. He grabbed a tea towel off the side and threw it over Cathy’s shoulder.

  ‘What I think I’m trying to say is, we can’t expect too much too soon,’ Cathy said as the baby cried into her ear.

  Luke began fiddling with the buckle on the car seat. ‘I know. It’s weird, isn’t it? We’re talking like she’s coming home. We still don’t know where she is. All the police seem to have done is taken my DNA and that’s it.’ He paused and looked down. ‘What if we never find her?’

  Isobel burped and stopped crying. Cathy kept bouncing her gently. ‘I’ll never lose hope. All this is happening for a reason. I don’t believe in all that luck stuff, but I feel it, Luke. I know something good is going to happen. We have this beautiful little girl and I know our Debbie will put up the fight of her life to be reunited with her.’

  Luke looked away. He knew Cathy was right. Debbie wouldn’t give up on her children, in any circumstances. Wherever she was, he knew she was thinking about home. She would be thinking about her little ones.

  ‘I know that too, Cathy. Thank you so much for just being you.’ He stood and placed his arm around his mother-in-law, inhaling the milky scent of Isobel. He needed Debbie. Isobel needed her. They all needed her. The thought of doing this without her filled him with dread. His heart raced and he gasped for air. What if she was dead?

  Devina walked in, just as the kettle switched itself off. ‘I’ll make the drinks,’ she said as she observed the family taking a moment. Luke took a few deep breaths, finally managing to control himself. He hoped his overwhelmed state wouldn’t go against them having Isobel released into their care.

  Thirty-Two

  He wiped the crumbs from around her face. To her non-surprise, it had been honey on toast again. He placed the tissue on the floor and walked over towards the slop bucket. He lifted it and left the room. She listened as he walked to the other side of the barn, poured the contents down the loo and pulled the old chain. She dragged the blanket towards her chin, covering the patch on her nightie where her breasts had leaked. The sour smell filled her nostrils.

  In the background, she heard the television. The Christmas Coca Cola advert came on. It was almost Christmas, again. Another Christmas would pass without seeing her children. Her eyes began to well up as she remembered past Christmases. She remembered the excitement Luke and she shared when they placed the presents under the tree in the middle of the night, their happiness when they saw their children’s surprised expressions. She wondered if they’d be writing their letters to Father Christmas. Then the television was switched off and the sound of Christmas disappeared.

  ‘Right. Shower time,’ he said, dropping the bucket back at the foot of her bed. ‘You need to get clean.’ She continued to look beyond him, knowing it was time to remove her nightie so that he could watch her shower. Her legs trembled as she stood. He looked down at the sheets. ‘You’ve dirtied them. How could you? I only gave you new bedding the other day,’ he said, as he rubbed his head and began to pace. She glanced back and noticed the blood-soaked sheet that she’d been lying on. ‘For heaven’s sake. You dirty bitch.’ He stared into her eyes and held his clenched fist in front of her face.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She began to weep and tremble. ‘It’s because I had our baby. It’s normal, really it is,’ she said, pleading with him. He opened his fist and moved his hand from in front of her face.

  ‘You should’ve said something. You’ve just been lying there in filth, all this time. This is not the Debbie I know,’ he muttered as he continued pacing. She stepped back as he turned towards her. ‘I understand. I know what you’re going through and I’m trying to support you wholeheartedly.’ He leaned in towards her. She closed her eyes as he kissed her on the cheek. ‘But it can never happen again.’ He drew back and slapped her across the face. She wanted to flinch, she wanted to yell, she wanted to cry – but there was no point.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. I’ll say something next time. I promise,’ she said, holding back the sobs that were sticking in her throat. She placed her hand over her cheek and tried to soothe the burning pain. He broke his stare and hurried towards the chain ring. He unlocked it and linked it to a carabiner that was looped around his belt.

  ‘Leave your dirty clothes there,’ he said as he gripped the padlock.

  She pulled her nightie over her head and dropped it to the floor, revealing everything.

  ‘You need to cut down. Your belly is still swollen,’ he said as he prodded at her stomach. She flinched and let out a small groan.

  She remembered when she’d given birth to Max. It had taken her the best part of ten months to even fit into her larger pre-Max clothes. She’d been so disappointed that she hadn’t been able to lose that last half a stone, almost to the point of obsession. She’d have done anything to be rid of it, anything. She remembered the photo that Luke had taken of them and their two little ones, soon after giving birth to their son. She’d given him a hard time when he’d framed it and put it on display in their family home. Now she knew why Luke had wanted that photo. He loved her and he hadn’t cared about her chubby arms and tummy. That photo represented the love he had for her and their family. She remembered how disappointed he’d been when she said she thought the photo was hideous and that he should get rid of it because she looked like a whale. He’d refused, of course, reassuring her that he loved all of her, even the chubby bits.

  She looked down at her postpartum belly. She still looked slightly pregnant, but things were different from when she’d given birth to Heidi and Max. Now, her belly was swollen but her legs were like sticks. Every action took effort. Using her arms in any way that put strain on them made them feel like they would snap. Back then she’d been dissatisfied with her weight, but now she’d do anything to be back at home, worrying about how she was going to shift her measly half a stone. Dark pigment ran in a line from her belly button to her groin, which would surely fade away soon, along with the post-birth swelling and any memories of her little girl.

  He began to walk, dragging her chain as he did so. She followed until they reached the small shower room. She stared at the old toilet with its cistern up high on the wall. She remembered visiting one of her mother’s old relatives as a child; she’d had a similar toilet in a lean-to room, off the kitchen. He turned the shower on and it trickled. The last time she’d had a shower, it had taken her several hours to get warm again.

  ‘In you go. Squeaky clean, you’ll be.’ He smiled and gave her a nudge. She stepped in and shivered as the icy water hit her body. She rubbed the soap over her goose-bumped skin and allowed the water to soak her hair. As on previous occasions, she’d use the soap to wash her hair too. Brownish-red water gathered in the tray below, reminding her that she was still bleeding. She turned and saw that he was watching her. ‘Don’t forget the underarms,’ he said, staring at her breasts. She hugged herself and he looked away. Under the scummy water, she noticed that her hair was blocking the plughole. She remembered losing a fair bit of hair in the past after giving birth. Perfectly normal, her midwife had said to her. She stared at the hair tangled in her wet fingers. Since when had she started going grey?

  Through chattering teeth, she gasped for air. ‘I need to get out now,’ she said as she stepped aside.

  ‘Turn off the shower,’ he said.

  She did as she was told. He went to grab a towel off the rail. The door below banged and the dog barked. ‘Shut up, Rosie,’ he yelled. The door banged again. She watched nervously as he ran his fingers through his hair, looking agitated.

  ‘We’ve run out of bread,’ a frail voice shouted.

  He unlocked the chain and transferred it to the towel rail, securing it with the padlock. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. She’s fragile, so don’t
scare her. I’ll never forgive you if you scare Mother.’ She looked away as he left the room. Shaking, she began to pull at the rail. It was embedded into some old damp plasterboard, which moved a little more with each tug.

  ‘Rosie, get out,’ he shouted from the bottom of the steps. A gust of cold air bellowed upwards into the tiny bathroom. The dog ignored him and ran up to her. It began to bark. She pulled at the rail again. One of the screws loosened. He burst in and grabbed the dog, directing it out of the room. ‘Bad girl, Rosie. Get out,’ he said as he kicked the tiny black spaniel up the rear. The little dog yelped and ran back down the stairs.

  ‘I’m going to the shop,’ the old woman yelled.

  ‘Mother, no. Wait.’ Her heart pounded as she stood in front of him, naked and shivering. She noticed a small pile of plaster dust on the floor, beneath where she’d been tugging at the rail.

  ‘Come on, Rosie, we can go to the shop together,’ the old woman called to the yelping dog.

  ‘Hang on!’ he shouted, running back down the stairs.

  This was her chance. She yanked the towel rail and watched as a chink of plaster came away. Nearly there. When she yanked again, one side of the rail dropped. She pulled the whole thing away from the wall and grabbed the loose chain. Downstairs, she could hear him arguing with his mother while trying to round up the dog. The dog barked and yelped. She grabbed the towel and wrapped it around her shivering body. He’d be back any moment. She needed to take him by surprise and get out. She needed something to attack him with. She slid around on the floor until she managed to dry her feet on a small mat.

  Running to the kitchenette, she grabbed the old metal kettle. With trembling hands, she opened a couple of drawers. Maybe there was a knife or fork. The drawers were empty.

  She heard the door slam shut. He was coming back. The dog and the old lady had gone. It was just him and her. She waited at the top of the steps, her back to the wall. As he neared she held the kettle high. He stopped halfway up, not making a sound. She held her breath. The kettle quivered in her weak arms. She shuffled away from the wall, scared she would tap it. He took another step and stopped. The water falling from her hair threatened to expose her whereabouts. Drip, drip, drip.

  ‘Come out, Debbie,’ he called.

  Her heart hammered as the sobs burst out from her chest. The chain rattled as she ran from behind the door straight into him on the stairs. She whacked him with the kettle. They both tumbled in a heap down the steps, landing on the oily floor below. She pushed up on her hands and grabbed at the towel around her chest. As he went to stand, she kicked him in the stomach and pushed him hard. She screamed as she scurried past him and darted towards the door. ‘Help!’ she called, knowing that the old woman couldn’t be too far away. She’d surprised him with her attack. All she had were moments in which to get away. ‘Help!’ she cried again, as she reached for the main door.

  Thirty-Three

  Gina stepped out of the car, closely followed by Jacob. As the cold air hit his throat, he began to cough. She passed him a pack of lozenges. ‘Thanks,’ he said, as they reached the door and Gina pressed the buzzer. The grey industrial unit stood at the top end of the estate. It was surrounded by leafless trees that were crowned by the heavy grey winter sky.

  A crow squawked as it landed on a branch. ‘They’re taking their time to answer,’ Gina said as she checked her watch and rubbed her cold arms. As she pressed the buzzer again a woman opened the door. ‘DI Harte,’ Gina said, holding up her identification. ‘We called earlier.’

  ‘Please come in. I’m Lynne Hastings, we spoke on the phone.’

  Gina had originally interviewed Lynne when Debbie had disappeared. The woman was now hobbling along and looking frailer than expected, considering she was only in her mid-forties.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me; osteoporosis is a destructive condition. Some days good, some days not so good. Today, not so good – but less about my problems. You’ve come about Debbie, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’ The two detectives followed the woman past the workshop, up some metal stairs and along a mezzanine. The main office of Avant Conservatories was in front of them. Lynne opened the door to the left and led them into a small boardroom. The tired furniture filled the middle of the room. A picture of one of the conservatories they made had been left at a wonky angle. Gina felt her fingers twitching as her desire to realign the picture built up. Jacob pulled a tissue out of his pocket and blew his nose.

  ‘I’m glad. Debbie’s disappearance has haunted us all. We talk about her often.’ The woman grabbed a walking stick that was leaning against the wall and used it as she headed to the door. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Jacob shook his head. ‘Coffee, please,’ Gina replied.

  ‘How do you want to do this? Shall I gather up the staff you previously interviewed and bring them all in or do you want them in turn?’ Lynne asked.

  Gina opened her file. ‘I’d like to speak to a couple of them separately. Are they all still here?’

  Lynne pulled open the door to the main office and the corridor and boardroom were momentarily filled with the hum of ringing phones and people talking. ‘Ah, Gabby, can you please get DI Harte a coffee?’ Gina remembered speaking to Gabby before. Deborah had worked with her in the office, handling the administration.

  ‘Will do,’ the woman replied as she walked away.

  Lynne hobbled back towards them and sat at the head of the conference table. Gina and Jacob took out their notebooks and pens.

  ‘We are currently going over statements made in relation to the disappearance of Deborah Jenkins on the twentieth of December 2013. The last people to see her were her work colleagues.’ Gina glanced at her notes. ‘She’d been working late, making up time as she’d watched her children’s school play earlier that day—’

  ‘We told her she didn’t need to make the time up,’ Lynne said. Gina remained silent, listening for what was to come next. ‘I’ve lived with this for a long time. If only I’d been more insistent that she went home, but Debbie was headstrong. She always paid her dues, as she described it. She wasn’t one for having something for nothing, which is why she insisted on making up the time. We left her on her own. Not one of us wanted to stay that night. If I could change things, I’d stay, maybe even drive her home. I can’t believe—’

  ‘Mrs Hastings, it’s not your fault. Can you remember anything else about that day, any small thing?’ Gina asked.

  Lynne stared at the table before shaking her head. ‘From what I remember, it was just a typical day. Production was going at its regular pace for the time of year. There were no absences. I think we told you all that at the time. No one looked out of place or troubled. I’ve wracked my brain since, trying to make sense of it. Keeping an eye on things in case anything or anyone seems out of place, but nothing stands out at all.’ Lynne began rubbing her wrist as she looked up.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Hastings. Can we just ask about your current staff? Has anyone left since?’

  The woman glanced aside and looked back as she recalled the information. ‘Oliver Stain in production sadly passed away six months after Debbie’s disappearance. Leukaemia.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Gina said.

  ‘It was a sad time for all of us here. What with Debbie too. In production, we still have Callum Nelson and Lukas Bosko. As you can appreciate, many have come and gone, but I think the rest were eliminated from your enquiries at the time.’

  Gina glanced at her notes. The rest of the production team had alibis for the evening in question. One had stopped at a petrol station, a group of four had gone to the pub together straight after work and the others had arrived home on time, long before Deborah had left. The time of her leaving had been confirmed by the setting of the company security alarm and the CCTV that showed her walking away, across the car park and down the path. Lukas had been picked up by his girlfriend and she’d provided his alibi. He’d been home by five thirty and had been Skyping his mother
in Poland at the time Deborah left work. She’d placed a question mark next to Callum’s name. ‘Can we speak to Callum Nelson first?’

  ‘Of course.’ Lynne lifted the receiver on the phone and pressed a single number. She requested that they send Callum up. ‘He’s on his way.’

  ‘Could we ask you to leave while we speak to Mr Nelson?’ Jacob asked.

  ‘Is he in trouble?’ Lynne asked as she stood.

  ‘We just need to speak to him,’ Jacob said, giving her a reassuring smile. The woman seemed more at ease and returned his smile as she left the room.

  Jacob grabbed another tissue out of his pocket and proceeded to hack up phlegm. He pulled out a lozenge from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. ‘Nice one Gov. I wish you’d be more like O’Connor and share some cake instead of your diseased bacteria.’ Gina smirked as Gabby entered with a coffee. She worked in accounts administration; Gina had interviewed her the first time around.

  ‘I’ll just pop it here,’ Gabby said as she placed the chipped and stained mug in front of Gina and hurried out of the room.

  ‘I think I’m about to be infused with more dodgy bacteria from this cup,’ she said as she reluctantly took a sip. ‘Good coffee though.’

  The door knocked again. Callum entered and sat opposite the two detectives. ‘I never did anything, you can’t still be trying to pin this on me,’ he said as he stared at Jacob.

  ‘We were never trying to pin anything on you, Mr Nelson, just trying to get to the truth of what happened to your colleague and friend Deborah Jenkins,’ Jacob replied as he sucked on the sweet. The scent of cherry menthol filled the air.

  ‘Sorry. Most people who know me know I’d never harm anyone. I mean, I can’t even run a spider down the plughole.’ He rubbed his stubbly chin and looked away.