I skip past a couple of unimportant marketing mails and click onto one from the editor of the food magazine for which I write a monthly piece. Steady, regular work is a glorious bonus when freelancing – and this is the publication for which I’ve been working the longest.
There’s a trick to reading emails from editors and commissioners. They all start off with a general ‘Hope you’re okay’-vibe. After that, there are either two or three lines of fluff that means next to nothing – and then it gets to the point.
Which is why the fourth line is so galling.
It’s probably best if we put everything on hold for now. Hope you understand. Perhaps we can assess once things have quietened down?
I read the entire email back three times, without completely understanding what she’s talking about. It’s only then that I realise the obvious. Local news is never local news in the age of the internet.
She doesn’t live anywhere near Leavensfield and yet she’ll have read about Richard being linked to what happened with Alice. She doesn’t mention that in her email because she assumes I’ll know what she’s talking about.
I hammer out an angry reply, insisting that I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve been loyal to her and her readers like what I write. This is grossly unfair… and so on. Then I delete the lot without sending. Then I rewrite most of it, because I really am furious. Then I delete it a second time.
She doesn’t want her publication to be linked to a woman whose husband might have kidnapped and then left a young girl for dead. It’s hard to blame her for that – but it’s the three lines of fluff that particularly grate. I would have preferred the honesty.
I’m attempting a more conciliatory reply when there’s a hefty thump from the letter box. I assume it’s the postman at first… except that we never get mail in the morning. I head into the hallway, where the temporary fix of the cardboard I’ve taped to the front door seems particularly abhorrent.
Sitting on the doormat, from where I swept and vacuumed the glass just hours ago, sits a padded envelope. When I pick it up and turn it over, my name has been written on the front in thick capital letters. There’s no stamp or postmark – this has been hand-delivered.
I open the front door and head onto the drive, though there’s nobody in sight. There’s no one on the road, either. The parcel is not particularly heavy or bulky, though I can feel something small and rectangular on the inside.
Back in the house, I take the parcel through to the kitchen and cut open the top with a pair of scissors. I reach inside and remove an old-fashioned mobile; the type of basic model I had before phones came with internet access, email, apps, and all the other modern things. The sort that’s used for calling, texting and little else.
There’s no box and no note. Nothing except the phone. With no other clues, I twist it around and remove the battery cover before putting it back on. When I press the buttons on the front, the screen remains blank and it takes me a few seconds to realise that the power button is on top.
When I turn it on, nothing happens for a moment until the maker’s logo appears. It’s a crude animation compared to the high-definition, colour images of now – though it swirls and blurs until fading away to reveal a home screen with no access code required. There are four bars of signal in the top right corner and a notification telling me there is one text message outstanding.
It takes me a couple of attempts to figure out which button does what, largely because I’m so used to touchscreens. Anything else feels alien. When I do finally manage to click on the message, it takes a second to load.
Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this.
Don’t tell anyone about this phone. I love you and I’m so sorry.
*
TWELVE YEARS OLD
I never realised what chaos a school playground can be until I sat up on the steps above it and watched. There are the boys over on one side who are playing football. There seems to be some sort of instinct about who’s on what team because, despite the fact they’re all wearing the exact same uniform, they all seem to know who’s on what side. It’s amazing.
The ball keeps shooting off sideways and cannoning in to random people who’ve got nothing to do with the game. Each time it happens, there’s a big cheer from the players, while the victim clutches whichever part of their body has been walloped and then heads off to a hopefully safer area.
Away from the footballers, there are the girls in cliques of five or six who are standing around while seemingly doing very little. I know from experience that they are, of course, criticising everyone in sight.
There are some lads in the corner opposite the footballers playing on their Game Boys, while two others are trying to climb the tree from which students are strictly banned. Some of the younger girls are hopscotching under the contemptuous gaze of older students who were doing the exact same thing when they were that age.
I continue watching for a while, before looking back to the exercise book that I stole from the shelf behind Mr Garrett’s desk a few months ago. It was fresh and empty then – but now it’s full of letters to Dad that I know will never be posted.
I’m not sure what to write today. Sometimes it feels easier than others – and today is one of those times where I’m stuck. I don’t know what he’d like to hear. School is what it is – and, even if it wasn’t, he’d only want to know about the subjects in which I’m excelling. He keeps telling me in his letters that education is the most important thing.
I’m still thinking of what to write when a shadow passes across me. I look up and one of the groups of girls have stopped eyeing the footballing boys and instead climbed the steps to stand in front of me.
‘What are you writing?’
It’s Jen who does the asking. She’s the tallest girl in my year and always the first pick at sports. This is the one thing above everything else that seemingly makes her popular, even though almost all the girls I know claim to hate sport. It’s quite the anomaly, though I suspect her popularity is more down to the fact that other girls are scared of her.
I stuff the book and my pen into my bag.
‘Get lost, Jen.’
‘Oooh… whatcha gonna do? Kill me?’ The girls laugh as Jen sneers down towards me. ‘What’s it like in prison?’
I stand and, even though I’m on the step above her, Jen is still a little taller than me.
‘Leave me alone.’
She reaches forward and taps me on the shoulder. ‘Whatcha gonna do? Get your dad on me?’
She half-turns to make sure the other girls are still laughing – which they are.
I know there’s a choice to make here: to walk away and let this continue over and over, or…
Her nose actually crunches when I punch her in the face. I expected it to be hard but it’s a lot squishier than I thought.
Jen barely moves as her face explodes, not at first anyway. She stands still, with her eyes wide, like a pig that’s seen something it can’t quite believe. And then, as the red streams across her lips and down her front, Jen screams.
I look down to my knuckles and they’re drenched with blood as well. It’s darker than I would’ve guessed. Perhaps more black than red. I flick much of it away onto the ground but I’m going to need to wash my hands.
Jen screams a second time and then turns so quickly that the blood sprays across two of her friends’ clean white shirts.
It’s only when she screams a third time that the nearest dinner lady notices. She looks up from the playground below and takes in the abnormally tall twelve-year-old drenched with blood before her eyes go wide.
I sit back down, avoiding the blood spatters and wondering whether the dinner lady will let me wash my hands before she marches me off to my head of year.
It’s going to be a very long afternoon – and I suppose this is one more thing I’ll be leaving out of my letters to Dad.
Twenty-Two
In more than one way, I’m not sure what to do with the phone. In a p
ractical sense, I am struggling to figure out what all the buttons do and how to open anything. Secondly, I don’t know what to make of the message: Don’t tell anyone about this phone. I love you and I’m so sorry.
It can only be Richard. He’s not great with phones but, if anything, this type of device suits him far more than any newer smartphone. I’ve never seen the device before but I could easily picture him having it hidden away in a box under the bed, or something similar. He’s never been one to have a big clear-out.
Should I text back? Or call? Or contact Detective Inspector Dini and tell him what’s happened?
There’s an unexpected noise from the stairs, which reminds me that Kylie’s home. I stuff the phone and the envelope down the back of the sofa and then, a moment later, Kylie yawns her way into the living room.
‘What did you do about the front door?’ she asks.
‘Cleaned it up.’
‘I mean what else did you do?’
‘I called the non-emergency line – and I’m going to get the glass fixed.’
She stands with her hands on her hips before her features soften.
‘I’m going to make breakfast,’ she says. ‘Do you want something?’
‘No, thank you.’
She gives me a slightly disapproving look – which is more striking in the fact that our roles were reversed a year ago when I thought she wasn’t eating enough. Unlike me, Kylie says nothing and heads through to the kitchen, leaving me alone in the living room.
I’m about to retrieve the phone from the back of the sofa, when there’s a knock on the door. I’m not sure what it is at first, largely because there’s a doorbell that visitors would use.
When a second knock comes, I get up and peep through the front window, to see DI Dini standing on the front step looking at his phone. It’s as if he has eyes in his ears as he immediately glances sideways and takes me in.
With little other choice, I move into the hall and then open the front door. Dini eyes the cardboard and then turns towards me.
‘I didn’t know you were investigating thrown bricks,’ I say.
He gives a half-smile but nothing more. ‘Can I come in?’
I hold the door wider and he edges in, before taking off his shoes. With Kylie in the kitchen, I almost motion him through to the living room, before deciding against it. Not with the phone down the back of the sofa.
When we get into the kitchen, Kylie is standing next to the toaster, doing a little jig to the appalling music that’s playing from her phone. I know all parents think music was better in their day – but that is especially true now.
I cough with Globe-level theatrics and Kylie stops and spins. She steps backwards when she spots Dini standing tall in his smart suit.
‘This is Detective Inspector Dini,’ I say, nodding towards him. ‘And this is my daughter, Kylie.’
Dini stretches out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he says.
Kylie eyes his hand and then promptly reaches for the cancel button on the toaster to eject her breakfast. His hand hangs unshaken as she pops the bread onto a plate and then goes to the fridge for the margarine. He only lowers it when she starts smearing the spread. I don’t know if I’m proud of, or annoyed, at her.
When she’s done with that, she eyes him from bottom to top. She’s in her fleecy cow pyjamas that I know are her most comfortable pair, even though she refused to pack them for university. ‘What are you going to do about whoever threw that brick?’
Her tone is scornful and deliciously suspicious of authority.
Dini glances sideways to me but I’m not going to help him.
‘Someone will be by shortly to check on the damage.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘We’ll look for footprints or any other signs of—’
‘Isn’t it a bit late for that?’
Dini straightens himself – and this is the most rumbled I’ve seen him since we met. I can’t pretend I’m not enjoying it, even though the adult in me is screaming that I should step in.
He doesn’t need me to look after him, however. ‘When was the last time you saw Richard?’
Kylie’s neck cranes at the abrupt change of direction to the conversation. There’s a part of me that’s glad I’m not the only one who feels this way about Dini.
‘Are you kidding?’ she says.
‘I have to ask.’
‘So arrest me and do it down the station.’
‘Kylie…’ I do step in this time and my daughter glares between me and the inspector, not sure at whom she should be most annoyed.
‘Richard and Mum dropped me off at university in September – and I’ve not seen him since. Happy? Why don’t you ask Mum why her cheek’s red?’
Dini turns to take me in and I’m too slow in looking away. I’ve not checked myself in the mirror this morning, though it still stings slightly, so I can imagine how it appears.
‘What happened to your cheek?’
I glare at Kylie, though it won’t make the question go away.
‘It’s nothing,’ I say.
‘Gemma Pritchard slapped her.’
‘Kylie!’
I try to shut her up but my daughter has that chaotic streak about her that sometimes wants to make things worse, if only to see what will happen. We glare at one another and it’s Dini who breaks the mood.
‘Is that true?’
‘It’s nothing,’ I repeat.
The three of us stand in a triangular stalemate until Dini speaks up.
‘I only wanted to check in,’ he says. ‘I saw the report about your door this morning and thought I’d drop round to make sure you were okay.’
Kylie fires him a suspicious look but I take him at his word. ‘I’m fine,’ I say.
‘If you want that glass refitting, my brother-in-law does that sort of thing. I can leave you his number. Tell him I gave you it and he’ll do it for cost.’
‘Do you push your family businesses for all your jobs?’
He shrugs dismissively, although there’s something in his eyes that might be a tinge of hurt. Either that, or I’m far too soft.
‘I’ll take his number,’ I say.
Dini removes his phone from his jacket and then reads me the promised details before returning it to his pocket.
‘Have you thought about the appeal?’ he asks.
I’m silent for a moment and it’s Kylie who answers: ‘The what?’
He looks between us and I know that he’s taken this opportunity on purpose.
It’s Kylie to whom he replies: ‘I asked your mother about doing a public appeal for Richard to come home. I’m obviously aware of all the rumours circulating but, for the moment, he’s a missing person.’
I think of the phone that’s jammed down the back of the sofa and the message I’ve read over and over. If I was fully cooperating with police, I’d hand it over… except that I already know what I think of the police because of what happened to my dad. If I’m not strictly cooperating, then I at least have to give the impression that I am.
‘When?’ I ask.
‘Later today? We can set it up and help you with what to say. It doesn’t have to be a huge thing. We’d live-stream it on our website and it will probably get written up by some news organisations. Our media relations officer will put together something, plus we’d release a photograph of Richard to try to jog the memories of anyone who might have seen him on Sunday.’
I picture those people at The Willow Tree pub, where the manager saw Richard sitting outside. I’d certainly like to know what he was doing there – and if any of the other patrons remember him.
‘I’ll do it.’
Dini nods, though he doesn’t smile. ‘It will be after lunch, so I’ll be back in contact with you shortly.’ He half-turns back to the hall. ‘I should probably be on my way.’
I escort him back and he puts on his shoes before eyeing the cardboard once more on his way out. He hesitates for a moment on the step. Though, just as
I think he’s going to say something, he turns and heads for his car.
Back in the house and Kylie is waiting for me in the hall. ‘Why are you doing the appeal?’ she asks.
‘Because I want him to come home.’
‘But—’
‘We don’t know that he’s done anything wrong.’
‘Alice got into his car.’
‘He might’ve been giving her a lift home!’
Kylie stares back at me, making her views clear without even saying a word. Richard is not her dad, after all. Never has been and never will be. He was my choice, not hers. It’s not as if they don’t get on, more that there’s little overlap in their lives.
When she realises she’s not going to get any more from me she takes her plate upstairs and heads for her room. That’s perfect for me, because I head into the living room and retrieve the phone.
Don’t tell anyone about this phone. I love you and I’m so sorry.
When I think about it, this is a perfect way to contact me. I check the number that sent the text against the one I have stored in my own phone for Richard. It’s different – but then I’ve seen that police can trace the location of a phone against the mast that’s used to transmit data. If he wanted to contact me illicitly, this is probably the most sensible way.
I press to call the number and then listen as the phone starts to ring… and ring… until it goes silent without connecting to a voicemail. It’s only a couple of seconds later that a new text arrives.
Can’t talk. I’m sorry.
If he can’t talk, then he can seemingly text.
Me: Where are you?
I wait for around a minute until the next reply comes.
I can’t say. Will explain why one day. I’m safe.
Me: What happened with Alice?
It’s a longer wait this time. I want an instant denial: something that restores my faith in my own decisions. Something that would make me right and everybody else wrong. Something that gives me hope that my life will not be defined by this.
What My Husband Did: A gripping psychological thriller with an amazing twist Page 16