I squint at the monitor. ‘Yes.’
‘That’s what we call the yolk sac.’
‘It’s not the baby?’
‘No, but your baby is in that sac.’ She looks from the monitor directly at me. ‘It is very, very small at the moment. I would say you are only about nine to ten weeks pregnant.’
My mind replays diaries and calendars, dates and times and places, who I was with and when.
I shut my eyes.
Terrible thoughts of reluctant, obligatory, marital sex fill my mind.
I’m divorcing Danny. Divorcing him right at the moment I might be having his child. This will make breaking up even harder.
He will never agree now.
If he knows I’m pregnant he will fight tooth and nail to keep us together. He will remind me about our secret. About our pledge. About what binds us.
I open my eyes.
‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ beams the nurse with the not so magic wand. ‘Have you thought of any names yet?’
35
Annie
My mobile rings as I’m leaving the prison and walking across a wind-blown car park back to the pool Mondeo. The number on screen is Charlie York’s. ‘Are you ringing to say you’re missing me?’ I tease. ‘Or just to find out what Kieran Crewe had to say for himself?’
‘You’re psychic, Annie. On both counts.’
‘Course I am. Before I update you, tell me, did you have any luck finding Richardson or Ronnie Croft?’
‘None at all. Complete waste of time. All I got from Nottingham was three speed cameras flashing at me. Christ knows how drivers manage to keep their licences in this city.’
‘Well, my journey was more fruitful.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Let’s say, Kieran Crewe didn’t have what you could call a close relationship with his brother. He barely knew him. I told him we’d seen the photo of Ashley in his football kit and I deliberately said it was a Man City kit and he didn’t correct me.’
‘So what?’
‘So what? C’mon, Charlie; you know as well as I do that kids who support United hate City. It’s a tribal thing. If Kieran had been close to Ash, or he’d had any shared interest in football, he would have corrected me. He didn’t.’
‘Maybe he’s like me, maybe he doesn’t give a toss about football and follows rugby instead.’
‘Maybe. Anyway, even more damning than that was the fact that Kieran couldn’t give me one single happy memory of a time he and Ashley had spent together. And most importantly, right at the start of the interview he never asked about him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I had the governor tell him I had news on Ashley, without saying what it was. So when we met, he should have asked what was new, had we found his brother alive, or was he dead as the family had feared? He didn’t. Not once did he ask. And the reason he didn’t ask was that he walked into that room on the defensive. He was concentrating on not being caught out. Which means he knows something about Ashley’s disappearance, something he doesn’t want us to find out.’
For a moment, I hear only crackle on the line, then Charlie adds thoughtfully, ‘From what you saw of Kieran this morning, do you think he killed his brother?’
Dozens of thoughts fly through my mind before I answer. ‘I wouldn’t rule it out. I mean, he is inside for killing someone else, but for some reason I don’t think so.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, there was one thing he said that showed at least some brotherly loyalty.’
‘What was that?’
‘I asked whether anyone might have been picking on Ashley and he dismissed it out of hand. Said there was no chance of that, he wouldn’t have let his brother be bullied.’
‘That’s family pride talking. Protecting the family name. You can’t show the world any weakness in the clan.’
‘That’s an interesting thought, and it fits with your Cain and Abel theory. Do you think Ashley could have been killed because he was the weak link? That maybe he’d done something that shamed the Crewe family?’
‘Possible. But then anything’s possible in a case so old. Perhaps he was a troubled teenager and he killed himself? Perhaps he just went away and jumped in a river, canal or quarry pit. Thousands of depressed kids have done exactly that.’ There’s a loud beep of a car horn and then Charlie shouts. ‘Idiot cyclist! Sorry, Annie, a lunatic kid just rode straight off the pavement out in front of me. Did you ask Crewe about Ellison?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
‘He denied any knowledge of him. Then, when I said I knew they’d once shared a cell together, he wrote off the lie, saying he was a no-mark and they hadn’t kept in touch.’
‘I hate to say this,’ muses Charlie, ‘but there is a chance Ellison has just been playing games with us.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, Kieran may have told him about Ashley’s death when they were in prison, and knowing there was a missing-person-cum-unsolved-murder on our books, he saw it as an opportunity to fit someone up to get a deal with us.’
‘But fit who up? Kieran? That doesn’t make sense. He’s already doing life, so he could have said his name straight at the start, and there’s nothing to fear from him as he’s already behind bars.’
‘You’re right. I’m just shooting in the dark. Hey, do you fancy knocking some theories around later?’
‘Sure. When will you be back?’
‘Not until late. I thought we could do it over the dinner that you skipped last night.’
I laugh it off. ‘I’ll see you in the office, DI York. Right after I’ve interviewed Raurie Crewe.’
‘Raurie?’ He sounds shocked. ‘Don’t go anywhere near Raurie, Annie.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s under NCA surveillance. His phones are tapped. His mail intercepted. Don’t you dare go spooking him.’
36
Paula
Danny picks me up at the hospital. He brought clothes and a stock of apologies that he doles out all the way home. And I say little in return. The one thing I certainly don’t even think about saying is, ‘I am pregnant.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he declares as soon as we get in the house.
I settle on the sofa and feel numb. Everything around the room is intimately familiar but because of the distance between Danny and me it feels alien. Out of kilter. This isn’t my home any more. I don’t belong here.
I put a hand on my stomach and feel.
Nothing.
I wait patiently. You have to be patient. I’ve heard other women – pregnant women – say that. You have to be patient.
Still nothing.
‘Are you hungry?’ asks Danny, walking in with the tea.
‘No.’ I whip my hand away from the midriff. ‘No, thanks. I don’t feel too good.’
‘Are you all right?’
It’s obvious he saw me holding my tummy.
He kneels alongside me. Takes my hand. ‘Did you break a rib when you fell? Hurt your stomach as well?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that. I’m just a little bruised,’ I lie. ‘I guess I fell awkwardly.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ He rests his head on my lap. I know he wants me to stroke his hair. To run my fingers through it and say everything’s fine.
But it’s not.
‘Danny. I shouldn’t be here. I need to go.’ I start to stand up.
He holds me down. Not viciously. But in a concerned way. ‘You need to go straight to bed and rest up. That’s what you need to do.’
I feel trapped. Physically and emotionally. I guess there’s nothing new in that. I’ve felt trapped for years. Only now the sensation is sharper. ‘Danny, when I came here… before the fall, I mean… it was to say goodbye. You remember that’s why I came, don’t you?’
He rubs a hand gently up my leg. ‘Yeah, course I do. But we talked, didn’t we? In hospital, we talked about Gretna and how we—’
I i
nterrupt. ‘You talked about Gretna.’
‘But, if we go back there, we can rewind time. Start again. Wipe the slate clean.’
I laugh. ‘Our slate will never be clean. We both know that. We’re as bad for each other these days as we used to be good for each other when we first got together.’
‘Which is why we need to start again.’
I manage to stand up. ‘We’re getting divorced, Danny. Nothing’s changed. You have to accept that.’
‘I don’t.’ He shakes his head as I creak painfully away from him.
‘Who is he? Who are you leaving me for, Paula?’
This is old ground. Ancient enough to prompt a weary sigh as I tell him what I’ve told him many times. ‘There’s no one else. I just can’t live with you any longer.’
‘And I can’t live without you,’ he grabs my arm. ‘You hold me together, Paula. You know that. Without you, I’ll fall apart. I’ll drink and I’ll drink, then I’ll fall apart.’
‘Then don’t.’ I feel angry. Danny always does this. Pulls me back from leaving him with emotional blackmail. Well. Not this time. I’ve made a decision. I’m sticking to it. ‘You have the papers,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve had time to come to terms with it. So make this easy, Danny. Please. I’m hurting and I don’t want to fight. Please make this easy.’
He lets go and steps away. Seems to accept things. ‘So, what now?’ He flaps his hands uselessly. ‘What happens now?’
‘We’ll get a court ruling that we’re no longer married. And we’ll come to a settlement. I’m going to be generous, very generous, but you probably need a lawyer.’
‘A lawyer?’ He snorts out the repetition.
‘It’s procedure. The right thing to do. That’s all.’
‘Nothing is right about this, Paula. You know that.’
‘I’m going to call for a taxi.’
‘And what do you want me to tell this lawyer?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean.’
I’m hoping I don’t.
‘I mean, if this is all going to be about money, Paula, how much are you going to pay me for keeping quiet? For keeping your secret? Your dirty, dirty secret.’
‘You’re bluffing, Danny. You’re not going to say anything to anyone. If you do, you’ll ruin your life as much as mine.’
‘It sounds like mine’s already ruined. Can’t you see how ruined I am? How you’ve trashed my life? Can’t you see that?’
‘I’m going.’ I pick my phone up and punch in John the driver’s number.
‘You leave and I’ll ruin you,’ he says. ‘I’ll pull the sky down on you, Paula. I’ll pull the fuckin’ sky down on you.’
37
Annie
I return to the makeshift incident room and find that Nisha, Charlie and Jo Matthews are still out. On my desk is a printed photo image that Tech support have made up of what a forty-year-old Ashley Crewe would most probably look like.
I place it alongside the shot of the sixteen-year-old in his footy kit.
The long nose and narrow mouth have remained proportionately the same. The floppy brown hair is short and shows the first traces of male pattern baldness to the front hairline. The bright youthful eyes are dimmed and skin around them crinkled and dark.
I send Nisha a note telling her to make sure the aged photo is always sent out with the teenage picture, then I go to make myself a cuppa.
There’s no milk in the small kitchen, so the tea comes black, but it’s better than nothing.
It’s also too hot to drink, so I dial Dee and try to sound upbeat. ‘Hiya, just thought I’d check in and see how you are.’
‘I’m fine, Annie.’ She sounds tired, or bored, maybe both.
‘Only, dear sister, you were in the shower when I went out this morning, so we didn’t have time to chat.’
‘I know. I was avoiding chatting. To be honest, I was avoiding you.’
‘That’s not very nice. Why?’
‘Oh, because I didn’t want to go through this kind of routine. All this, “How are you? How are you feeling?” stuff, five times a day. I hate fussing and mithering.’
‘Well, please forgive me for caring.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Fussing and mithering could also be called sisterly love, you know?’
‘Yes, I know.’
I decide to start again. Be more positive. ‘I heard on the radio, that cancer patients can benefit from a kind of detox diet of fruit and wholegrain food.’
‘Annie,’ she snaps, ‘you can’t kill breast cancer with bananas and porridge.’
‘Can’t do any harm though. I mean, we all eat too much meat and—’
She cuts me off. ‘I went to the hospital this morning.’
Her comment is like a slap in the face. It stops all my small talk. Focuses me. ‘You said your appointment wasn’t until next week.’
‘I know. For a copper, you should be better at telling when people are lying to you.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘It was with my oncologist, Mr Lester. It was to decide on my treatment.’
‘And have you?’
‘Yes, I have.’ There’s a pause. ‘I’ve decided to have a double mastectomy.’
Oh, God.
I have to replay what she’s just said to even start to take it in, to begin to understand all the implications and emotions connected to such a thing. ‘Are you sure? I mean, isn’t that… a bit radical?’
‘That’s exactly what they call it. Radical surgery. Radical is the whole point.’
I glance at the clock. ‘Look, there’s a chance I can finish early. When I get back, we can talk about this, talk everything through.’
‘No, Annie. No, thank you. I realise that you mean well, but I don’t want to talk everything through. I’ve done that until I thought I’d used up my lifetime supply of words. And with respect, I’ve done it with people who’ve been through what I’m going through and with doctors and nurses. Not with my lovely sister – who is not in my position but, despite that, still thinks she might know what’s best for me.’
That’s me put in my place. She’s right. On all of those counts. It’s just the way I am. ‘I get the message, Devavarnini. I promise I won’t question your decision.’
‘Thank you. And don’t call me Devavarnini. You have no reason to be mad or snotty with me.’
I bite my tongue. ‘Also understood.’ An awkward silence follows, before I break it with an even more awkward question. ‘Do you have a date in mind?’
‘Honey, it’s years and years since I had a date in mind,’ she jokes. ‘That’s why I’m surrendering my tits.’
I laugh. So does she. Then she gets serious, ‘I’ve been told that if I have it all done at a weekend, I can be admitted on Saturday. Otherwise, Mr Lester, my hatchet man, says it’s going to be the end of the month, or at short notice if there’s a cancellation. I’ve gone with the Saturday.’
‘Okay. I’ll come with you. Take you in and everything.’
‘Thanks. I’d like that.’
‘And I’ll look after you when you come out.’
‘You make it sound like prison.’
‘Chicken soup in bed, chick-lit books, the whole works.’
‘You plan to nurse me?’ She giggles.
‘Well, your choice is either me doing it, or Tom and Polly.’
‘Okay, okay, I choose you. Now piss off and catch some bad people, so I can go back to watching Scandal on Catch Up.’
‘All right, but do some ironing while you’re dossing around. We’re sinking in laundry.’ I put the phone down with her still swearing at me.
And then I sit in a stunned stupor. Double mastectomy.
I look it up.
Then wish I hadn’t.
To my horror, surgery is not the end of double mastectomy cancer trauma. There’s follow-up radiotherapy, further pathology and cancer tests, plus a whole range of questions about reconstructive surgery
and mental care.
The phone goes. I’m glad to be distracted.
‘Parker.’
‘It’s Nisha. You in the mood for good news?’
‘Oh my, you’ve no idea how much.’
‘Alice Ross, she’s one of the DCs that Goodwin gave us to bash phones, she’s spoken to Derek Palmer. He’s retired now, but he was the SIO who investigated Ashley Crewe’s disappearance twenty-odd years ago. He says Crewe was disliked by a lot of children at the school. Several of them had run-ins, even fights with him. He interviewed them and cleared them all at the time.’
‘He remembered their names?’
‘Like it was only yesterday. Palmer’s still very sharp. Alice has a list of them all, along with their last known addresses.’
‘Good — but not as good as you built it up, Nisha. Get your little helper to work through the list as fast as she can. Anything else?’
‘Yes, there is. Palmer also knew about Kieran Crewe’s drug connections. Says he was small time back then. Ran around with little bags of weed and pills acting all big, but no one took him seriously. Palmer thinks Ashley might have stolen the gear from his brother.’
‘Why did he think that?’
‘Well, although the school said they’d had no drug problems, one of the governors apparently remembers rumours about Ashley having cannabis and selling it. They raised it with his parents and soon after Ashley had to have time off school. He needed treatment in hospital for injuries. A broken nose. Dislocated jaw. Stitches to his head.’
‘Quite a beating. And Palmer says the family did that?’
‘He thinks it,’ says Nisha, ‘but he stresses that he had no proof.’
‘Was Freddy Crewe a violent man?’
‘He might have been. I don’t know.’
‘Well, take a guess,’ I say impatiently. ‘You interviewed him today, didn’t you?’
‘No. I didn’t. Well, I did, but it wasn’t really an interview.’
‘Now I’m confused. What do you mean?’
‘I went to his old folks’ home,’ says Nisha, ‘and it turns out he has Stage Six Dementia. He’s frail as a bird and when I spoke to him he didn’t have a clue who he is, never mind who I was.’
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