by Dawson, H A
'You're not angry?'
'I couldn't be angry with you. You're too soft-hearted.'
'I'll make it up to you.'
She grinned. 'No need. I did that research you asked me to do. I'll just pull up what I found. It's quite interesting although I'm not sure it's of any use. I won't be a minute.'
The computer was whirring and her fingers hovered over the keyboard. After the regression, he had asked her to search for other murders or disappearances occurring at the same time and in the same area. It was routine rather than a hunch, but it sounded like she had found something out. He tapped on his desk as she pummelled the keys.
'I looked at murders within fifty miles of Rodley between 1975 and 1985 and I found a few, but all the cases had been resolved. I then did the same for missing persons, during the same period. There were quite a few. A couple of teenage boys, a thirty-four-year-old woman, a sixty-two-year-old man, and a girl aged eight. There were others as well, but the rest were accounted for at a later date.'
'So these people remain missing?'
'Yes.'
'Did any occur around about 1979, when Saskia disappeared?
'The man disappeared in March of 1979. The others were either much earlier or much later.'
'What about the girl?'
'She was reported missing in 1985.'
Not relevant, he thought.
'I widened the area,' she continued, 'and I came up with many more, but the most interesting was a girl aged seven. She was staying with her auntie in Rodley at the time and went to the shops for some bread. She never came back. It seemed as though the ground had swallowed her up. It was the middle of the day, a Wednesday afternoon when it would have been busy. No one saw anything.'
Curious, he leaned back into his chair. 'Is there a description?'
'She had ginger hair with beautiful loose curls. She was a pretty little thing.'
'I remember something about her. When was this?'
'1978.'
He strode around to her desk and looked at the image on the screen, reminding himself of her beautiful innocent face.
'Do you think there is a connection?' she asked.
'I don't know.'
'Her auntie lives a few streets from Megan. Rachel Harrison, the girl, walked from the house, along the main road and to a shop near the market. She wasn't sighted again.'
'Bizarre.'
'It was. Both her parents and her auntie were devastated as you can imagine. Even now, they run campaigns in Rodley to try to find her.'
He shuffled back to his chair and dropped his gaze. 'Losing someone always is upsetting.'
The lights turned off, the alarm set, and the office door closed. Luke turned the key, stepped away from the building, and strode alongside Imogen towards his car a little distance away.
Vehicles congested the road, with drivers and passengers peering through open windows, searching for a reason for the holdup. He looked at the adjoining streets. Every direction was the same, with cars waiting, bumper to bumper.
He disconnected the car alarm and stepped onto the road towards the door. A fat man with coarse black curled hair was sitting inside his car close by, daydreaming given the glazed look in his eyes.
He leaned across and knocked on the passenger window. 'What's going on?'
The window opened. 'There’s been an accident. It'll be a while before it's cleared. I wouldn't bother going west if I were you.'
'Thanks.'
He eased himself into his car. 'I think we should go the other way. It'll be quicker.'
'Through town?'
'Yes. We can go south and then join the dual carriageway further along.'
After a few minutes, they managed to exit the parking spot and crept closer to the end of the road, moving metre by metre. They turned right and headed along another street making slow progress through the town centre. Queues had formed in every direction and his irritation mounted. They waited a little distance away from the red traffic lights.
'Isn't that Sarah?' Imogen asked.
He spun around, following her gaze along a pavement. Even though she was walking away from them, he recognised her slim figure and tight gait. She entered a building.
'Where's she going?' he asked.
'It's a clinic.'
'Clinic? What type of clinic?'
She looked at her lap and examined her fingernails.
'Imogen?'
'It's an abortion clinic.'
Was Sarah pregnant? What was she thinking? She was having his child. She had no right to do such a thing. His pulse raced and his breathing intensified. He had to stop her.
The lights turned green. Panicking, and seeing no gap between the parked cars, he stopped on double-yellow lines. He had no choice; this could not wait. It was worth a fine, or whatever other trouble he may have to endure.
Breathless, he arrived at the clinic and stared at a woman at a reception desk. There was silence and a smell of sterility, but no sign of Sarah.
He thrust his hands onto the desk. 'A woman just came in. I have to see her.'
'Have you an appointment sir?'
'Where is Sarah McKinley?'
She looked at the computer. 'Is she expecting you?'
His voice grew louder and grittier. 'No, she isn't.' He paced the floor. He looked through a glass panel in a door. There was no sign of Sarah. 'She's making a mistake. I have to see her. Where is she?'
'Please sir, calm down.'
He looked up at the overhead signs, but they gave no indication of where she would be. He would have to find out for himself, and scampered to the glass door and reached for the handle.
The receptionist blocked his way. 'Please sit down.'
'I need to see her . . . now!'
'What's your name?'
'Luke Adams.'
A nurse entered the room. The receptionist spoke to her in little more than a whisper and then scurried back through the door. Moments later, Sarah arrived in the reception area. She had an aura about her, maintaining her sophistication, despite facing what should be a difficult decision.
'What are you doing here?' she hissed.
'What am I doing here? What about you? Don't I have a say in this?'
'This has nothing to do with you.'
'It has everything to do with me. It's my child.'
'I'm sorry Luke. This has nothing to do with you. Please go.' She started away.
He grabbed her arm, forcing her back. 'You've no right to do this.'
'I don't want a baby. I have a career. It's wrong for me.'
'What about me? I could look after it.'
She clutched a pendant on her gold chain. 'It's not yours. I'm sorry.'
She turned and walked away. He slumped onto a padded seat, ran his fingers through his fine strands of hair, and released great breaths of bitterness. His world had collapsed. It was not his child. Sarah had been sleeping with someone else.
The receptionist's eyes fell onto him. 'Can I get you anything sir . . . a drink perhaps?'
Now, she was full of sympathy. It was demeaning. He jumped to his feet and stormed out of the clinic and into the warm air and the noisy rumble of car engines. He would be a laughing stock and a worthy one. He was such an idiot. Why had he ever believed it was his child? Why had he ever thought she cared?
Imogen was waiting in the car, occupying herself with her phone. She did not look at him, no doubt embarrassed, and who could blame her? He bit his lip, took a gulp of air, and urged his turbulence to calm.
'We had better get moving,’ he said. ‘Mrs Fox will be expecting us.'
'Cool. I wonder what she'll be able to tell us about Saskia and Verity. Maybe she knows something about Ron too. This is so exciting.'
Her voice sounded dulled and her enthusiasm feigned. Grateful for her discretion, and determined to display professionalism, he focused upon the journey to Rodley. He had to forget Sarah. Megan was relying on him.
The house was a third of the way down a row. T
hey were made of stone, had small rectangular windows and doors of the same design, and were without gardens. Most maintained their privacy from pedestrians with net curtains; others exhibited their wares.
Luke parked his car a couple of doors away and strode alongside Imogen to number sixteen. Her presence was comforting and it alleviated his inner turmoil. He breathed in her perfume, an adorable sweet scent that made him think of summer days in the sun with his friends, and he listened to the musical sounds of her heels tapping the pavement. She was a calming influence, a necessity.
He pressed his finger to the bell and listened to the elongated drilling sound. Within seconds, a rounded woman with grey curled hair and slumped breasts opened the door. She had a natural scowl and a harsh manner, and he felt unwelcome. He apologised for encroaching on her time, and he complimented her on her choice of painting on the wall, but she remained aloof and guided them into the sitting room.
'You won't find anything out,' Jane said. 'You'll be as useless as the rest.'
'I'm sorry you feel that way, but we have new evidence.'
'What's that then?'
'I'm afraid I can't talk about it right now, but I do feel it will give you the answers you need.'
'Now look here. I've waited thirty years to find out what happened to my girl. It ruined my life. It's a bit late to put things right now.'
'I understand it must have been difficult for you.'
'You understand nothing. Have you kids? Have you lost any?'
He swallowed. 'No, I haven't.'
'Then don't give me any bull. I've had a lifetime of crap. I told them years ago she was killed. No one would listen.'
'Who do you think killed her?'
'How would I know? I didn't know even who she hung out with . . . except for her sister.'
'What was their relationship like?'
'They were always together . . . couldn't separate the two of them. They caused me lots of trouble, but it was Verity's doing. Saskia was a good girl. Sweet natured . . . always willing to help around the house. Good job too, I wasn't up to much back then.'
He tilted his head.
'I enjoyed a drink. Still do. I always thought I'd drink myself to an early grave. I even tried to once.'
'I heard that Saskia left the country. Do you-'
Jane scowled. 'She never did that. They had done some stuff, stuff to be ashamed of, but I know my Saskia. No matter what, she would have returned. Deep down, she loved her family, especially the kids.' She stood up. 'Wait there. I need a piss.' She hobbled past him. 'And don't touch anything.'
He raised his eyebrows and caught Imogen's eye. Jane was quite a character. He wondered if she had ever had another man in her life after the death of her husband and scanned the living room for signs. There were no family photos and nothing to indicate a male presence.
The room was old fashioned with a faded-green fabric sofa, two high-backed chairs, and a box television. Floral wallpaper covered the walls, and the floor was a grim brown colour. There was nothing ornamental or personal in the room and there was a distinctive stale odour about the place. In the corner, resting on the floor by the wall was a long-haired tabby cat. It had fawn coloured fur and big eyes and had the same permanent scowl upon its face as Jane had.
Jane trudged back into the room and slumped onto the sofa. 'What else do you want? I haven't much time.'
'I have heard Verity was dating Ron before he dated Saskia. How did Saskia end up with him?'
'Verity was courting him, you're right. It was a messy business. Verity loved him, but somehow Saskia caught his attention. From what I remember of the arguments, she saw him behind her back. Ron, from all accounts, was besotted with her. I don't think he cared much for Verity.'
'Verity must have been angry.'
Jane cackled. 'That's an understatement. All hell broke loose. Eventually, I kicked her out. She was a piece of work back then. I did her a favour.'
'Why did you kick her out?'
'None of your business! It wasn't an easy decision. I wanted her to take over Saskia's chores around the place as punishment, but I just couldn't face her. Frank had just died, see?'
'Frank was your husband.'
'He was, God bless his soul.'
'Would you say Verity had a temper?'
'You're kidding right?'
Silence.
'Course she had. Still does.'
'Did she ever resort to violence?'
Her eyes narrowed. 'If you're thinking she killed Saskia, forget it. She didn't.'
'How can you be so sure?'
'I named her Verity, didn't I? It means truth. People take after their names.'
Strange alibi. He pursed his notes. 'What do you think of Ron?'
'He loved my girl, that's for sure. He was a cad . . . with a different woman every night. But I have to give him his due. He stopped all that for my Saskia.' She cackled. 'Saskia dyed her hair once. She was a sight!'
'What did she change it to?'
'Ron loved redheads.'
His interest rose. 'Ginger?'
'Ginger, red. All the same to me. Anyhow, he wasn't impressed and Saskia was beside herself. She had to wait weeks for the colour to go.' She repositioned herself in her seat. 'I'll never know how he changed. He was a right randy little sod. Everyone expected him to go back to his ways after Saskia died, but he never did. She changed him forever.'
'Mrs Fox,' he said. 'Do you think Ron could have been involved with her murder?'
She shuffled and then scratched between her legs. 'Unlikely. He was a womaniser, but apart from that, he was a decent chap . . . kind and gentle. And don't forget he cherished my girl.'
'Do you know if they had any problems?'
'What kind of problems?'
'Anything . . . arguments? Did she ever move back to your home after she married?'
'No, nothing like that. I hardly saw her, but when I did, they seemed happy and settled.'
'Do you know if Saskia remained faithful?'
'Course she did. I brought her up to know the difference between right and wrong.'
'So there was no talk of her having an affair?'
'No. If she had, she kept it quiet. Back then, it was a small community and I spent a lot of time in the middle of it. I would have heard, for sure.'
He flipped through his notes, scanning the scrawl.
'Are you done then?'
'Almost. Do you think her murderer had a motive?'
'No. Everyone loved my girl. It was random. Absolutely no doubt.'
'So you don't think she had enemies, or that anyone had a hold over her?'
Jane shook her head. 'Everyone loved her . . . never a bad word was said.'
'Okay.' He held a pensive stare. 'I think that's all. Oh, did you find anything with Saskia's handwriting on?'
She levered herself from the chair. 'Funnily enough, I did. I don't remember ever seeing it before. I found it in an old box of Frank's.' She reached into a drawer for a notebook. 'Here. Take care of it. I'll want it back.'
Luke scanned the writing and his heart flip-flopped. 'Are you certain this is Saskia's writing?'
'That it is.'
He snapped it shut and smiled. 'Thanks for your time Mrs Fox.'
She followed them to the door.
Once in the car, he glanced back at the old woman hovering at the doorway of her house and then turned to Imogen. 'This writing is different to the letter.'
Her eyes widened.
'Whoever wrote the letter was forging it. I don't think Saskia ever went to Spain.'
'Cool.'
'I'll have to have it confirmed of course.'
Buzzing with excitement, he watched Mrs Fox close the door. 'We must stay calm. This next regression session could bring us the answers we need. With any luck, Megan will see the murderer.'
'I'm not sure I want this to end.'
'I know exactly what you mean.'
He turned the ignition key.
'I'm sorry about Sar
ah.'
Sorrow melted his face. 'Thank you.'
Chapter 22
1978
Bending over the sink with her hands resting on the edge, Saskia felt washed out, drained of colour, her head was spinning and her stomach cramping. She raised her head and peered into the mirror. Her eyes had red rims and her complexion was ashen. She felt dirty and contaminated and looked dreadful; she was not the beautiful bride that she was supposed to be.
The door opened and an orchestrated mumble of voices drifted in, the chitchat of the emcee mixing with the coordinated laughter and cheers. She should get back and at least try to present herself as the happy bride, even if she preferred a darkened room with a soft warm bed.
The day had not progressed as expected, and even though she knew she would not be floating through dreamy clouds, she had at least hoped for a little happiness. Her first disappointment was her uncle turning up at their house drunk. He stank of beer, oozed sweat, and had made no effort whatsoever with his appearance. His jacket had a small cigarette burn near the side, and his shirt, presumably white, was grey with dark lines along the creases near the collar. He hadn't even bothered to shave, the effort, it seemed, was too great.
Her parents had greeted him with open arms. She grumbled her displeasure at his lack of decorum, only for them to tell her to discard her pomposity. Their poverty should not affect how they presented themselves to others, but it did, and they displayed no self-respect. Her father argued that they had plenty, and he saw nothing wrong with his brother's appearance. Who cared if Ron's family looked down on them? It was their loss; they would never be best friends. To add to her irritation, Verity had rushed straight over, wrapped her arm around her uncle, and told him how pleased she was to see him. She added that he looked fantastic, and there was satisfaction in her sister's eyes.
The second disappointment of the day was at the altar, although this was more of a humiliation. Her abdomen had, without warning, gone into a spasm, and her bowels lurched. She felt a trickle of dampness at her rear and her temperature surged. Everyone stared as she fled to the toilets at the rear of the church; there was a harmonic gasp, hands at mouths, and a united whisper of disbelief. She was adamant that a dark stain had appeared on her white satin dress and felt degraded and mortified. Thankfully, there was no evidence of her dilemma. Of course, Verity being the sister she was, she came to her aid and offered her fresh underwear. She would not have been suspicious if she had not also retrieved an anti-diarrhoea tablet from her bag and presented it with a wide smile.