I smiled at him and squeezed his hand gently, uncertain if he could even feel it properly. ‘I’m so pleased.’ He tried to return my smile but his lips contorted so that it was more of a grimace. ‘I’m taking a few days off work. I’m going back to Oldcliffe. Can you believe it? It’s been nearly eighteen years. But Sophie’s remains have been found, Dad. Her brother … do you remember him? Daniel. He wants me to go back and help find out—’
I was interrupted by a guttural sound coming from my father’s throat. He was blinking furiously and I realised he was trying to speak.
My mother rushed over, nearly up-ending my chair, forcing me to stand up. ‘It’s OK, Alistair, darling. You’re OK.’
I felt close to tears. ‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ I soothed, over my mother’s shoulder. ‘I’m only going for a few days, the hotels will be in Stuart’s capable hands. You know how brilliant he is at running things.’
Dad was still continuing to make that awful sound, which echoed around the room and made the skin on the back of my neck prickle.
‘I think you should go,’ Mum said without looking at me. ‘You’re upsetting your father.’
But now, sitting here in this apartment by myself, I have the horrifying feeling that my dad, ever my protector, wasn’t worried about the hotels. He was trying to warn me not to come back here.
The thought of the desperation in his eyes scares me and to distract myself I try to start up the Internet. Typically, there is no Wi-Fi. My heart sinks when I realise that I won’t be able to go online. At least I’ve got 4G on my phone. I fumble in my handbag for my mobile, but I have no signal. I’m unsure whether it’s down to the bad weather or the location. I throw the laptop and phone onto the sofa in frustration.
I try not to think about the fact that I’ve got no reception, no Internet access, that I’m completely cut off from the outside world, from London, from my old life. I find the screams of the baby downstairs a strange comfort. To know that I’m not the only one awake during this storm, unable to sleep, makes me feel more normal. Even after all these years I haven’t given up hope that one day it will be my baby crying in the next room. Deep down I know it’s impossible, but I can dream.
With nothing else to do I pull on my nightdress and fall into bed, my mind filled with Leon, Jason and you. The ghosts of my past. The baby is still screaming, its cries becoming shriller and shriller. When I do eventually fall asleep I dream of you, standing on the edge of the pier, one foot bare, the other trainer-clad. You’re wearing a floaty, white dress that skims your ankles, which makes no sense because you had jeans on that last night. As I approach you tentatively, you turn to me and emit an ear-piercing scream so that I wake up with a start and sit bolt upright in bed, trembling all over, my nightdress soaked in sweat.
The baby in the apartment downstairs continues to wail as if its heart is breaking.
My stomach is churning the next morning and the incessant beep of a car horn does nothing to allay my aching head. I thrust the living-room curtains aside in annoyance, surprised to see Daniel’s rust bucket blocking the driveway. He looks up, noticing my nose pressed against the window and gestures for me to come down.
I smooth down my hair in the mirror over the fireplace and add a bit more lipstick, before grabbing my bag and darting out of the apartment. The hallway is quiet, the baby obviously finally asleep after keeping me awake most of the night. There must be a family staying in No. 1, enjoying an out-of-season break, although it doesn’t sound much of a break from what I could hear last night.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs I hear the door to the downstairs apartment click shut and I wish I’d been a few seconds earlier to catch my neighbour and introduce myself. Knowing there is a family staying in the place below mine makes me feel less alone, even if I don’t know them.
I’m just about to head out the front door when I notice a brown A4 envelope on the mat. It is crumpled, slightly damp. The name on the front catches my eye. It’s been typewritten neatly across the envelope: FRANCESCA HOWE. I pick it up, puzzled. There is no stamp. Who would be writing to me here?
I rip it open, intrigued as I pull out a single sheet of paper. My eyes scan the page, horror dawning. Five words are typed in bold letters. The envelope and the page slip from my grasp and float to the floor face up so that those ominous words are still visible.
I KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE.
SATURDAY
* * *
6
Frankie
I stand in the hallway, staring down at the letter. The words swim before my eyes. How can anyone know I’m staying here? I only arrived yesterday afternoon, yet someone has gone to great pains to type this vile note up and hand-deliver it to me. It hadn’t arrived when Daniel left around six last night because I came down with him and stood in the open doorway as he made a run for his car, the rain pelting the back of his dark wool coat. Had someone been out there, in the dark, in the storm, watching me? The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
The words can only mean one thing. Somebody must know. We promised never to talk of it, Soph. But someone must know what happened the night Jason died.
A sudden knock on the front door makes me jump and I scoop up the letter and envelope and shove them into my bag before answering. Daniel is standing on the doorstep in the same black coat as yesterday, his chin hidden behind the stripy scarf, exasperation in his eyes. ‘In your own time, Franks,’ he muffles grumpily. ‘I’ve been sat in the car waiting for you for ages. What are you doing?’
I hesitate, debating whether I should show him the letter. But he’s the only person who knows I’m staying here, isn’t he? What if he returned last night to post it? Or posted it this morning then fled back to the car and pretended he’d just turned up? Although logic tells me Daniel would never do this, that he’s on my side, has always been on my side, I decide to keep it to myself for now. Instead I mumble an apology and follow him across the drive to where he’s parked on the road and fold myself into the passenger seat. It’s bad enough that I have to face Leon again after all these years, without this added worry. My head pounds and I feel tired and overwrought.
‘You know,’ says Daniel as he manoeuvres his car along the rain-soaked streets to the coastal road, oblivious to my distress, ‘I never really liked Leon.’
I make a concerted effort to push thoughts of the letter and Jason to the back of my mind. Daniel stares at the road ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel so that I can see blue veins raised beneath his pale skin. ‘The girls always mooned over him. I asked Sophie once why she liked him so much and she said he was deep.’ He gives a snort of laughter. ‘Deep my arse! That’s just a euphemism for moody. Or quiet. Or weird.’
I smile at his words. ‘You know what she was like. She was a bit of a dreamer. A romantic. She said Leon was like the male hero in her favourite novels, brooding and morose. A Heathcliff or a Mr Darcy.’ I never really understood what you meant. I wasn’t interested in reading novels, particularly the classics that you and my dad devoured. You always had your nose in a book. It used to irritate me on sleepovers when you would rather read than gossip.
You droned on about how artistic Leon was with his taste in books, not to mention his dire poetry that you found so attractive. I read one once. I’d found it on your bedside table, wedged between the pages of Anna Karenina or it could have been Jane Eyre, not that I was snooping or anything but when you were in the bathroom I couldn’t resist taking a peek. It was intense, dark and a bit twisted, in my opinion. All this talk of being together until you died. It gave me the creeps.
I glance at Daniel. There is definitely nothing deep about your brother. He’s always been outgoing and friendly, wearing his emotions like an advertising tabard for everyone to see.
It couldn’t be your brother, could it, Sophie? He’d never write an anonymous letter; that’s for cowards. Daniel’s one of the bravest, most honest people I know. I remember you telling me once how, at the age of eight, he’d tak
en a punch in the stomach trying to protect your mum from your bully of a father. How, despite your worries that he didn’t work hard at school and was directionless, he never bunked off or lied to your mum because he’d seen your dad do that too many times.
I close my eyes and pinch the top of my nose. Daniel is still talking about Leon.
‘He was so intense. So possessive. They rowed the night she died. They split up. And then just a few weeks after she went missing he fucked off abroad to work. Anyway, I’m sure he’d talk to you.’
I wouldn’t be so sure, I’m tempted to say, but I don’t. Then a new thought strikes me: could Leon have written the letter?
My phone beeps. I rummage in the bag at my feet. It’s a text from Mike. I open it and then baulk at the words. I’m glad I know what a heartless cow you really are, Fran. Thanks for the heads-up. The animosity emanating from my phone is such a shock I exhale sharply.
Daniel turns to me with a frown. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Oh, just a text from an ex-boyfriend,’ I say, trying to keep my voice even as I slip the phone back in my bag. I lean against the seat, closing my eyes and massaging my temples, inwardly groaning as it comes back to me exactly what I did last night; the drunken phone call and, when there was no answer, the angry message I left on Mike’s voicemail, informing him that our relationship was over, that I want him to move out of my house by the time I get back. I didn’t think he’d get it, the reception was so poor last night, but by the sound of his text message he obviously did. It’s true I’ve been wanting to end our relationship for a while, but after everything with Dad I didn’t have the emotional strength to go through with it. It was selfish of me, keeping him hanging on when I could see the relationship was going nowhere. You would have advised me to end things with him months ago, Soph. Being here has given me the perfect opportunity to make that break. But, even so, to do it by voicemail, while drunk, is inexcusable.
‘I finished with my boyfriend last night, by phone,’ I say, my eyes still closed. ‘I was drunk, it was impulsive. He hasn’t taken it very well.’
‘Ah,’ says Daniel knowingly. But he doesn’t say any more.
‘It’s been on the rocks for a while.’ I’m annoyed at the judgemental inflection I detect in his ‘Ah’ and I feel the need to explain myself. I continue to massage my temples. ‘But I shouldn’t have done it over the phone, and while I was a bit tipsy. I didn’t handle it very well.’
I open my eyes just in time to see Daniel smirking.
I sit up. ‘What?’
He chuckles. ‘You haven’t changed, have you, Lady Frankie? Still breaking hearts wherever you go.’
‘I’m not … I didn’t mean to …’
‘You never do,’ he says wryly. I study his profile, his angular jaw, his long nose, the flop of dark hair contrasting with his pale skin. Did I break his heart all those years ago?
‘Anyway, Leon doesn’t know we’re coming so …’
‘What!’ My head pounds. ‘What do you mean, he doesn’t know we’re coming? I thought you’d arranged it?’
He looks shamefaced. ‘I know, but I haven’t seen him in years, Franks. We’re not exactly mates. Don’t you remember what happened?’ At my puzzled expression he elaborates. ‘We got into that fight, I gave him a black eye.’ He sounds proud of himself.
I remember the fight. It wasn’t long after you went missing but I never did get to the bottom of what it was about. Tensions were running high, especially with that detective sniffing around. Everybody was so worried about you. A few days later, some kids came forward. They were at a beach party by the Grand Pier and saw you walking along the promenade, alone. Then your trainer was found on the old pier next to a broken section of balustrade and the police assumed you’d had too much to drink, decided to walk home and fallen over the side.
‘He gave you a split lip if I remember rightly.’
Daniel flashes me an ‘I told you so’ smile. ‘Exactly. Violent tendencies.’
I shake my head, exasperated. ‘How do you know he’s back? You could be wrong?’
‘I’m not. His brother, Lorcan, mentioned it to Sid. Apparently he came home a few days ago. And of course, I did some digging. He’s staying with Lorcan on the old estate, can you believe?’
‘I don’t like the thought of just turning up. I mean, it’s been years.’ I remember the last time I saw Leon. It was the summer after you’d disappeared and we had just moved to London. Daniel and your mum had left Oldcliffe by then. A new start, they said. Away from the sad memories. I didn’t blame them. They were no longer viewed as just Daniel and Anne. They had become the grief-stricken family of ‘tragic Sophie Collier’. Everywhere they went they were eyed with pity or fear – after all, bad luck can be contagious. People crossed the street to avoid them because they didn’t know what to say, they were gossiped about in shops and at the local pub. I know how they felt because it was that way for me too. ‘There she goes, Sophie Collier’s best friend.’ Don’t get me wrong, Soph, it wasn’t that I didn’t like being synonymous with you – I loved being your best friend. It was just that Oldcliffe wasn’t the same without you. And we all found that we couldn’t stay in the place where you had been so alive, so vibrant. We couldn’t pretend that everything was as it had been because your death had changed our world.
Leon must have felt the same because just weeks after you disappeared he upped and left. There were rumours that he’d gone travelling. I bumped into him in a bar in Soho nine months later and we’d talked about you. It was all about you, Soph, I promise. We didn’t mean to sleep together; we were drunk and morose, reminiscing about the past. He couldn’t leave my bed fast enough the next morning. He left me a note propped up on my bedside table, saying it had been a mistake and that he was sorry. I haven’t seen him since.
I’m sorry, Soph. It felt like the ultimate betrayal.
Daniel doesn’t understand anything. Especially about Leon. And how am I going to explain it all to him without it sounding so … sordid. So wrong.
I stare out the window to avoid talking to him. The old pier is shrouded in fog so that just a faint outline is visible. The sea in the bay is greyer than further down the coast. The Victorian houses slowly disappear to be replaced by more modern, semi-detached homes. And then there it is, the Birds Estate. We turn into Starling Way with the row of shops on the corner – a hairdresser’s, a pet shop and a small Co-op in an ugly concrete grey block, a group of youths hanging around the dustbins. It’s only their clothes that differentiate them from the youths of our past.
I frown. The estate is even worse than I remember. Or maybe it’s just degenerated even further over the years. Despite everything, I wanted better for Leon. A sudden thought hits me. ‘You don’t live here any more, do you, Dan?’
He turns to me, an expression of scorn written all over his face. ‘No, I don’t actually. But even if I did, so what? Don’t be a snob, Frankie.’
His words make my cheeks grow hot. Is that what I’m being? A snob?
Daniel makes a left turn into Dove Way. I remember it well, only a few streets from where you grew up.
He pulls up outside No. 59, the end house in a terrace of three. Next to the garage is a rusty green Renault on bricks. I notice the missing wheels. In our day it was a clapped-out Ford Cortina. How you hated it.
‘Let’s just hope Leon’s still staying here,’ he says. He goes to open the door and, in a panic, I swing my arm out to stop him, grabbing the sleeve of his coat.
‘Daniel … there’s something you should know …’
He pauses, his fingers on the door handle. ‘What is it, Franks?’ His voice is gentle and I long to tell him everything in that moment but I can’t bear shattering his illusion of me when he hears the truth. He notices me hesitating and takes his hand away from the door. ‘You know you can tell me anything, don’t you? I’d understand.’
I bite my lip. I’m not ready to tell him yet and I just have to hope that Leon keeps quiet.
&
nbsp; ‘Frankie?’
‘It doesn’t matter, it can wait.’ I notice a flash of disappointment cross his face before he wordlessly climbs out of the Astra. I have no choice but to get out of the car as well, despite every instinct screaming at me to stay where I am.
I stand on the pavement in front of the house. A fine rain has started to fall. The red paint is flaking off the garage, revealing a tin colour underneath. It’s all much greyer, bleaker, smaller than in my memories, as though everything around me has shrunk.
The estate has been built so that you have to walk past the garages and through the rear gardens to reach the houses. I follow Daniel through a large wooden gate, feeling like I’m trespassing as I enter the garden tentatively, that I’m being watched. A child’s swing has been left to rust in the overgrown grass along with a discarded bicycle wheel. A thick Leylandii hedge separates the garden from its neighbour on one side and a fence runs along the road on the other. A low wall divides the postage stamp of a patio from the wild grass. I shadow Daniel down the concrete pathway and hover behind him as he raps his knuckles on the glass of the back door. I realise I’m holding my breath.
I count. One, two, three, four … The door swings open.
And he’s standing there. His hair is still dark and wavy, threaded with a few grey streaks, his skin tanned. Would you still fancy him if you could see him now? I think you probably would.
For years, living in London, I dated bankers and lawyers, doctors and businessmen, glossy metrosexual men. Until Mike came along. I liked him because he exuded that same raw sex appeal as Leon and Daniel. It comes naturally to them, they don’t have to spend hours in the bathroom waxing and shaving, pruning and gelling.
He fills the door-frame with his height, assessing Daniel with those familiar piercing blue eyes. ‘What do you want?’ he says.
‘To talk.’
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