She went for his stomach, tickling him until he bolted upright in fits of laughter.
‘Stop it!’
‘Bedtime, Con,’ she said, trying hard to contain her laughter. She picked up the comic and torch and put them in his bookcase.
‘Five more minutes, pleeeease?’ he said, his dark hair falling around his eyes, messy from lying under the covers.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Lights out now. Come on, it’s late.’
Connor flopped back down in the bed. ‘You weren’t here all day.’
Madeleine heard the frustration in his voice and felt the usual twinge of guilt she did most days, wishing she could divide her time between home and work equally.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘It’s Saturday.’
‘I know.’
‘The weekend.’
‘My job’s not a nine-to-five, Con, you know that. I had to work.’
‘You were out most of last night too.’
Madeleine held back on telling him why she had been called out to the wasteland late last night. She wanted to protect her children as much as possible from the horrors that were in the world. They were growing up quickly and, with the internet, smartphones and social media, she knew they wouldn’t be her naïve young boys for long.
‘I had to work, sweetheart.’
His eyes flashed then, realising the significance. ‘You catch any bad guys today?’ he said, smiling at her.
She ruffled his hair. ‘Go to sleep.’
*
After she’d eaten, Madeleine settled on the sofa. She had changed into a pair of jogging bottoms and a loose-fitting T-shirt, dragged her hair up into a scruffy ponytail and opened one of the folders she’d brought home that held copies of the crime-scene photographs.
Nick looked over her shoulder as he handed her a bottle of beer.
He saw the crude grave, the pit and what lay inside it.
‘Bloody hell, Mads,’ he said as she took a swig from the bottle. ‘You can’t leave that here. What if the kids see?’
Madeleine bristled. ‘Since when do I ever leave my work lying around for anyone to look at?’
Nick flopped down on the other end of the sofa and drank from his own bottle of beer. ‘How did they . . .?’ He broke off, unable to say the word. Instead he gestured with his bottle.
‘Die?’ she said.
He nodded.
‘We don’t know yet,’ she said, rubbing her forehead as a headache started to build. She needed sleep. Right now she was running on fumes, at risk of burning out just as the investigation was getting more serious.
Nick watched her face, saw her eyes droop with tiredness.
‘Why do you put yourself through all this?’ When Madeleine looked at him, he gestured towards her. ‘Look at you. You’re tired most of the time, home late, working weekends . . . Kids miss you. I miss you.’
Madeleine looked indignant. ‘It’s just this investigation. It won’t go on for ever.’
‘You’re a DI now. More responsibility, less time for us.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘It’s not silly to the kids, babe. They missed you tonight. And last night . . . all week so far, actually.’
‘That’s not fair. Last night they were already in bed when I got the call.’
‘And today . . . tomorrow?’
Madeleine remained silent but closed the file. She scooted up towards him at the other end of the sofa.
‘Do you think I’m in way over my head?’ she said, lying against him as he wrapped his arm around her.
‘No,’ he said, swallowing a mouthful of beer. ‘I think you’re bloody good at your job and you’re not scared of being out of your depth.’
She arched her head, turned her neck to look at him. ‘No? You don’t think so? There’s a lot hanging over my head with this.’
‘You’re not scared of failing, Mads.’ He paused. ‘You’re scared of doing such a good job, you’ll get given another case like this, then another, until there’s no time – no room left – in your new world for us. That’s the truth of it and that’s why you’re scared.’
Madeleine couldn’t speak.
She watched as Nick eased himself from under her weight and took his empty bottle out to the kitchen.
‘Night,’ he said as she heard him ascend the stairs.
When he flipped the landing light out, and the hall drowned in darkness, she felt cold right down to the bone.
CHAPTER 8
CHARLOTTE
I feel like I’ve been drugged as I open my eyes and struggle to make sense of where I am. I’m lying in bed, I realise, feeling the soft sheets underneath my palms as I reach out and run my hands back down beside me.
The vague shapes of the room slowly begin to come into focus and I can hear Iain in the en suite.
I try to sit up but I feel so groggy. I only had one beer last night despite being sorely tempted to have more. I try to remember if I took any of Iain’s tablets but really can’t be sure. I lean across Iain’s side of the bed and pull open the top drawer of his bedside cabinet. I see the box, pick it up and check inside.
How many were there before? Iain had slowed right down taking these, so he’d never taken the full course prescribed. I look at the date on the box. They were dispensed five months ago.
A month to the day of the accident.
Maybe I did take one and just can’t remember. I know I would’ve needed it last night, but I don’t want to ask Iain because I don’t know how he’ll react.
I shove the box back in the drawer and roll back to my side of the bed as Iain comes out of the en suite.
‘What time did you get in last night?’ I say, massaging my forehead.
Iain stops getting dressed, one leg half in his jeans. His brow is furrowed.
‘You’re joking?’
‘No.’
‘We had a whole conversation when I got in.’
‘We did?’
Did we? I must’ve been much more exhausted than I realised. After Elle went to her room last night, I watched some TV. I must’ve fallen asleep and then come up to bed at some point, still half asleep. I’ve done that many a time.
Iain continues getting dressed.
‘What time is it?’ I say, reaching for my phone on the bedside table.
‘It’s just after six-thirty.’
I pause. ‘It’s Saturday.’
Iain laughs. ‘You sure you didn’t have more to drink last night?’
I screw my face up, and he sees the confusion.
‘Another marble lost, babe?’
I cock my head to one side, confusion really setting in.
‘It’s Sun-day,’ he says, stressing the word like I’m an idiot.
Of course it’s Sunday. A new thought crosses my mind.
‘Hang on, you’re not supposed to be working today,’ I say, finally noticing he’s in his work clothes.
‘I told you last night, I need to go back to the woman in Pirton.’
Did he? ‘Right. I guess you did.’
He turns to me. He leans forward and kisses me on the forehead. ‘I’ll make you a coffee and bring it up. Sounds like you need it.’ He smiles.
I try to sit up and swing my legs out of bed but he stops me. ‘No, stay here. I’ll bring the coffee up.’
‘I should try and call Ruth.’
He frowns and places his hand on my shoulder, not hard but I know he wants me to stay put.
‘No need to get up right now, it’s still early.’
It feels wrong not to have at least tried to contact her. I reach for my phone.
‘She’s probably resting,’ he says.
‘I should at least text her.’
He smooths my hair back from my face and I instantly jerk my head away. It’s become almost a reflex now, to shy away. I don’t want Iain to see my scar bare, stripped of a layer of makeup.
I risk a glance at Iain. He looks hurt, but it’s brief. He pulls a smile.
‘I’ll bring you your drink and then I’ll give Mike a call and see if Ruth’s up for any visitors.’ He looks down at me. ‘You look tired. Why not have a bit more sleep?’
I remember I’m supposed to be taking Elle shopping. ‘I promised Elle we’d go to MK. You know how busy it gets for parking,’ I say, making the effort to sit up in bed again, and I try to ignore the pain drilling through my head.
‘Which reminds me,’ I say. ‘Elle’s party. I think we should postpone it.’
Iain frowns. ‘Why’s that?’
I’m surprised he even has to ask. ‘Those girls . . .’
It takes a moment for it to dawn on him, what I’m saying, a moment of confusion on his face, then realisation registering in his dark eyes.
‘I don’t know, Char. Elle will be really disappointed, plus she’s invited her friends, and my mum and sister are coming down for the weekend.’ He sighs. ‘It’s all been arranged.’
I stare at him. ‘You’re being insensitive.’
‘Insen . . .’ he says, half-speaking the word. ‘You’ve got to be joking?’
His arms flap at his sides in frustration, but I can’t help that.
‘We’re not cancelling, just pushing the date back.’
He looks at me. ‘What’s going on around us, the villages, it’s not going to go away. Our lives can’t just stop.’
‘Ruth’s and Mike’s have.’
He pauses, lowers his gaze to the floor.
‘What life do they have now? Now Caroline’s . . . gone?’
He answers me after what feels like an age.
‘You and Savannah are going ahead with the fete.’ His raises his eyes to meet mine. ‘Don’t you think that’s insensitive?’
I shake my head. ‘No, that’s different. It’ll raise money, it’s showing support.’ The more I think about this, the more I know I’m doing the right thing. ‘The fete is during the day, there’ll be plenty of adults there. Elle’s party would have a different atmosphere.’
‘Yeah, kids her age, having fun. Like they should be doing.’
I glare at him.
‘ . . . Within reason,’ he adds.
I let his words hang in the silence.
‘We’ll be there with Elle,’ he says at length. ‘This isn’t the crisis you think it is. It’s just a party and we should keep the plans as they are.’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘Then we cancel both,’ he snaps.
‘Postponing, not cancelling, Elle’s party . . . and besides,’ I say, ‘Savannah was going to invite the police to the fete.’
Iain laughs then. ‘You don’t think they have enough to do right now? What do you think this is? They’re not going to come to something like that.’
‘A couple of PCSOs might,’ I say, and I try to hide the hurt in my voice.
He shakes his head, still chuckling to himself. ‘I’ll bring you that drink,’ he says, turning to leave the room.
‘Don’t bother.’
He turns to look at me as I get out of bed. I stand and match his stare.
‘Suit yourself,’ he says. ‘But you can break the news to Elle.’
‘I’d like your support in this,’ I say.
He sighs, heavy, gives a small nod of the head, barely noticeable, and leaves the room.
I let out the breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. I pick up my phone and scroll through the calendar app with a mind to looking at possible future dates for Elle, but my eye is drawn to my Facebook icon.
I see Ruby Tate’s face emerge in my head. I click on the icon.
No more messages from Ruby. Thank God.
*
It’s almost seven-fifteen by the time I’ve had a quick shower, dressed and gone into Elle’s room to wake her.
It’s hot and stuffy in the gloom, light barely able to penetrate through her thick dark curtains.
‘Elle,’ I say. I draw back the curtains and open the window a little as I hear her grumble from underneath the covers. I peer over and tentatively pull at the duvet. One eye opens, looks up at me, grunts, then yanks the duvet up and over her head.
‘Go away,’ comes the muffled voice.
‘You wanted to go shopping.’
‘Later.’
‘Later means I won’t get parked.’
There’s a pause, then another reluctant groan, before the duvet is slung back and Elle rubs her eyes as she reaches for her phone. She opens her social media as if it were the daily newspapers.
She sees me roll my eyes and says, ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Downstairs. He’s going to work for a short while.’
Anger crosses her face. ‘It’s Sunday.’
‘It’s only for a short while.’
‘Jesus . . .’
‘Look, we need the extra money, OK? Besides, I’m here. It’ll be nice to spend some quality time together.’
I leave the room and pretend to myself that I haven’t just seen the sceptical look in Elle’s eyes.
*
The TV is on the twenty-four-hour news channel in the kitchen and I’ve got the volume down low. I know Iain doesn’t approve of me constantly watching the news but I’m desperate for updates. We know in our hearts, the community, that those bodies are the missing girls, but I feel like I need to hear it confirmed.
I have the local newspaper on my lap under the table, one eye on that and one eye on the TV, waiting for the news to loop around again.
I glance down at the pages on my lap in between eating my breakfast. I look at the faces of each girl in turn.
I try to draw comparisons between them. Do they look the same? Where were they last seen?
In the vicinity of country lanes, and yes, they look a bit similar in a way.
I look at my mobile beside me on the table. I tap the screen and see Elle’s face, the Lock screen image. I smile at it and unlock the screen. The picture changes to one of us both that I use as the wallpaper for the Home screen.
I linger a moment, taking the photo in before I find Ruth’s number in my contacts list.
I tap her name and wait. The phone seems to ring for some time, no diversion to voicemail, and I’m about to hang up when a strained voice answers at last.
‘Charlotte?’
I hear every measure, every ounce of her pain, the sorrow and helplessness in her voice, simply in the way she utters my name.
I hear her sobs down the phone.
‘Oh, Ruth . . .’ I say.
It takes her a while to fully articulate her words. ‘Why her? Why my baby?’
This crushes me and I find myself biting back tears. I had been going over in my mind what I’d say to her but my mind has gone blank. I’m rendered useless. All I can do is listen. Listen and silently thank God it’s not my daughter.
After a few minutes, Ruth becomes calmer. I think she’s cried herself dry.
‘There’s a press conference this morning,’ she says.
I raise my eyes to look at the TV.
‘It’ll air soon . . . They, the police, said I could come, but I’m not up to it. Mike’s going, though.’
‘You’re on your own?’ I say.
‘Yes. There’s a Family Liaison Officer coming over soon though.’
‘I can come over.’ I think of how I’ll be letting Elle down and I’m torn.
‘No, Charlotte, really. I’m fine.’ She gasps then. ‘Well, not fine, obviously.’
‘Ruth—’
‘I need time alone. Please understand. Thank you, though.’
I wonder if I should mention the fete. Whether she still wants it to go ahead, but I can’t bring myself to ask her, because it feels wrong to talk about something so trivial in the grand scheme of things.
‘Thank you, by the way,’ she says. ‘For what you and Savannah have been doing for us all.’
Inwardly I breathe a sigh of relief she’s mentioned it.
‘You don’t want us to cancel the charity fete?’
‘No. No, it’s so
mething I know Caroline would’ve wanted to go ahead. I’ve spoken to Juliet’s mother . . .’
My next question . . .
‘She’s OK about this, too, at least, but she won’t be there.’ She pauses and I can hear her breath catch in her throat. ‘None of us will be . . .’
‘Ruth, that’s understandable. We can do something in memory of them. Of Caroline.’
She chokes back another sob, and I remember how my own mother had been the same . . . after Miles. The sense of normality one minute, the strength, then the cracks and the seemingly unending tears.
‘Why her, Charlotte?’ she says.
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Nothing, she didn’t do anything,’ I say, but Ruth’s not hearing me over her tearful words.
‘Was it for nothing?’ She pauses, and it’s almost like my own body is swamped by her despair. ‘She was good. She was a good girl, Charlotte.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s senseless. I mean, why? Why didn’t she call me? I’d have come and picked her up from her friend’s house, no matter how late . . . She knew that.’
I let her vent her frustrations, and when I promise to call her tomorrow, she thanks me.
‘It’s what I’m here for,’ I say.
‘Thank you. Both of you.’
I think of Iain and feel ashamed he’s not been as sympathetic as he should be. ‘That’s OK.’
I hear Elle coming down the stairs.
‘Ruth, I’ve got to go.’
‘OK.’
‘Please, call me if you need anything.’
‘Charlotte?’
‘Yeah?’
There’s a long pause, then finally, ‘In her final moments . . . I hope she knew how much we loved her.’
I can’t speak. I hear the call end but my phone stays at my ear.
‘Kenzie’s coming,’ Elle says as she comes breezing into the kitchen.
I quickly drop my phone back on the table and try to close the newspaper still on my lap without drawing too much attention as Elle goes straight to the cupboard and grabs a cereal bowl.
I can’t help but look at the back of her.
She must feel the weight of my stare because her back stiffens. She turns to look over her shoulder at me. ‘That’s OK, right? About Kenzie?’
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