I frown and she just nods her head. ‘Do what you have to, OK?’ She gets up now and grabs her coat off the back of the sofa. ‘Let me know how it goes?’
I nod.
She leaves and I finally pull the towel from my head and let my hair fall around my face.
I swear I can still smell blood.
CHAPTER 15
An early morning mist had descended on the city of High Wycombe like a blanket. As Madeleine looked out of the conservatory door, out into the garden, she gripped her coffee mug that bit tighter in both of her hands, drawing the warmth from it.
Although it was early May and the days were slowly getting warmer, the mornings were not immune to cold spells.
Still, the early morning light was always beautiful.
Madeleine usually relished this time alone; quiet and peaceful, before the boys woke, Nick got ready for work and the childminder arrived to cover the school run.
Not today, though. This morning it made her want to go to the boys’ bedroom and hug them that bit tighter, tell the childminder she wasn’t needed.
Madeleine glanced back to her laptop, open on the kitchen table.
The cold of the early morning sent chills through Madeleine’s body.
Either that or it was the results of the first two postmortems the pathologist had sent through during the small hours.
Caroline White and Juliet Edwards.
Cause of death, severing of the trachea, jugular and carotid artery, as expected, but now officially confirmed.
Now it was more real than ever.
It was now that simple, there in black and white. No ceremony, no words to gently ease her in. Bleak, to the point, details of lives taken too soon.
Lives robbed of a future.
She shouldn’t be surprised. What had she expected? It was obvious these girls had suffered violent deaths from the moment she saw their bodies in that pit.
Still, there had been that small glimmer of hope inside Madeleine that the damage she’d seen on the bodies had all been inflicted postmortem, and perhaps they’d died a less traumatic death.
There had been no needle marks on the bodies, at least so far on the first two girls, ruling out any kind of sedative having being administered by injection at least.
Toxicology reports would confirm whether what Madeleine already believed to be true was correct or not. Maybe the others had been drugged by some other means beforehand, or plied with alcohol so they felt little at the very end.
It was a false hope really but still she clung to it.
*
It was around seven when she arrived at the station. When she walked into the incident room it smelt of coffee and sweat.
Alex was already at his desk, eyes red-rimmed, dark circles making his dark-blue eyes appear almost black.
‘Morning,’ he said as she passed his desk.
She stopped, saw his face. ‘Have you even been home?’
He smiled. ‘Certainly doesn’t feel like it.’ He saw the expression on her face. ‘Any news?’
‘Pathologist report on two of the victims was emailed early hours of this morning. Team brief in thirty minutes. You have any luck with CCTV?’
‘I picked up Bryony at that cashpoint in Bronze Mead town centre and I’ve managed to track her as far as Leeman Street, but after that . . .’ He shook his head. ‘She goes off-grid. We’ve had a few calls come in after the press conference. There’s been reports by people of seeing a white van in the area, but no other details.’
Madeleine blew out a deep breath. ‘How many white vans are there on our roads . . .’
‘Up shit creek without a paddle on that front, aren’t we?’
Madeleine remembered a line in the pathologist report about white fragments found under Juliet’s nails, which had appeared to be white paint.
*
By eight o’clock the team were gathered around the meeting table in the centre of the room. ‘Where are we on the social media front?’ Madeleine asked.
‘We have one message from Bryony to a friend of hers saying she’d had enough of David Burrows, Bryony’s mother’s partner, and was going to head down to London.’
Madeleine looked to Charis. ‘We need to look closer at Burrows but we can’t assume the killer of our girls and the abductor of Bryony is known to any of them.’
‘You thinking stranger abduction/killing?’ said DS Hicks, her pen scratching notes in her notebook.
‘I’m thinking this person is local, knows all the roads, towns, villages very well. They must live locally. While they might not be known to the victims, they might be a face in the community.’
Madeleine explained the findings of the PMs for Caroline and Juliet. ‘Aside from likely cause of death, pending tox reports, and wildflower traces, flecks of white paint were found in the nail scrapings taken from Juliet Edwards and flecks in a wound on her forehead.’
‘Would that fit with the reported sightings of a white van, do you think?’ Alex said.
‘I think so.’
‘If it is paint from a vehicle, how’d that get under her nails?’ DS Hicks again.
‘If the vehicle’s rusted, if she’s grabbed the door, for instance, trying to get out,’ Madeleine said. ‘The wound to her head, the report describes it as a cut and bruise consistent with hitting her head on a hard surface. Maybe it was against a car door. With tests we can find out what type of paint it is and what vehicles it’s used on. We can narrow the search down, along with the upholstery fibres.’
Madeleine looked down at her own notes. ‘We’re assuming Bryony either got into a vehicle willingly, hitch-hiked, or was taken by force. Either way, the window to find her alive is . . . I’m conscious it’s now a body we’re looking for. When we look at the photographs of the victims we already have,’ she said as people looked over the photographs from the scene, ‘they look like they’ve been dead for some time, even without factoring in that they were left out in the open. Our killer is taking them and killing them soon afterwards.’
Charis’s face looked bleak. ‘What does that say about the killer?’
‘He’s impulsive?’ Hicks said.
Madeleine shook her head.
‘No, not completely impulsive. These girls were taken in places that were quiet, secluded and with no CCTV and virtually no traffic or human activity. There’s nothing but farms between a lot of these stretches of roads. That’s not the work of an impulsive person. This is planned, but the killer maybe has nowhere to keep them for long periods of time. He could be out looking and taken them at random, because so far, other than the fact they’re similar in age and appearance, we have nothing that links them.’
‘Well, cadaver dogs never found any trace of them,’ Alex said. ‘The killer’s not killing them near where he takes them. It must be further out of the area maybe?’
‘If they’ve gone to such lengths to take them without being caught,’ Charis said, ‘why leave the bodies where anyone can find them?’
‘That waste ground isn’t even a hotspot for dog walkers,’ Madeleine said. ‘The killer put them there to be found but after some time had passed. They want the notoriety of their handiwork being out there for all to see, but on their terms.
‘A search of the area surrounding the wasteland has so far given us nothing. We found some tyre tracks and they’ve been lifted and analysed, but I think we need to widen the search area. Bodies begin to leak and smell. The killer wouldn’t want to travel too far with a body in their vehicle. Certain factors come into play, they can’t take the risk.’
Alex got up and went to the front of the room, studying the map of the area where the girls had lived, disappeared from, and the waste ground where they had been found.
‘We went five miles out from the waste ground,’ he said. ‘How about we go another five?’
‘What’s in that radius?’ Charis said.
‘Farmland, mostly,’ he said.
‘And forestry.’ Eyes were on Madeleine then. Sh
e remembered the flora traces that had been found. ‘Just north of Dunstable Downs, it’s nothing but miles and miles of forest. Where wildflowers often grow.’
CHAPTER 16
CHARLOTTE
I managed to get the morning off work. I rang Harry as early as possible and – surprise, surprise – he’d already heard about what happened.
Dale had already told him all about bloodgate, as Harry had put it.
I’d forgotten Dale had been at the shopping centre too. I thought he’d gone home but he’d obviously been nearby, because he’d managed to get a pretty impressive photo on his phone, according to Harry.
I had flushed red. He found it quite funny and wasn’t too supportive. The only reason he let me have half the day off was because he didn’t want all the gossip in the shop, which would’ve been rife had I come in first thing.
‘Frankly, Charlotte, you’d be a sideshow.’
Yeah, thanks for that.
It’s a sombre, grey day, drizzle in the air. The windscreen wipers on the car swipe back and forth at the drops as they grow bigger by the second until the heavens really open and start hammering on the glass.
I pull out of the surgery car park and have to take the Linkway to get out of the village.
I feel a burning sensation radiate from the centre of my chest, expanding along my shoulders, down my arms. They feel like a dead weight.
My fingers grip the steering wheel that bit tighter.
I try to control my breathing as I approach the exact spot where Paul Selby hit my car.
There are still black tyre marks on the road ahead, tracking the direction my car took when it left the road and entered the farmer’s field to my left. They look like scorch marks.
I shudder at the sight.
A portion of the fencing still hasn’t been replaced. Instead, there is brightly coloured tape strung across, straining against the wind whipped up by the stream of rush-hour traffic I’ve just hit.
As I slow the car, gradually approaching the red taillights of the vehicle in front of me, I’m forced to sit close to where it all happened.
Normally I avoid travelling on this stretch when it’s rush hour. I like to pass this part of the road without having to think too much on the evidence of the crash, still left like a scar on the landscape.
All I have to do now is look over my left shoulder and I’d see the churned-up soil and grass that slopes down the embankment.
Now the cars are at a standstill, my mind is trying to conjure up all kinds of flashes of memory.
I try to shake them from my head.
I close my eyes, and breathe in deeply . . . exhale.
A car horn blasts from behind me and my eyes flick open.
I see the cars in front of me have moved off.
The sooner I’m off this stretch of road the better.
Just a little bit further . . .
I slow as I approach the line of traffic at the junction.
Now I’m at a standstill, I fish the prescription out of my bag.
Diazepam. Four-week course.
I’d dropped into the doctor’s bang on eight-thirty to pick up the prescription, so Elle got a lift into school with Kenzie and their friend Jade. Sixth form starts a bit later than the rest of the school but I know the common room will be open. I didn’t want Elle going on her own after yesterday.
The driver behind me slams their horn again and I jolt, look up and see the car in front of me has moved ahead several feet.
Soon, I take the turning for Rutland Heath, a large town the size of Kennington and Bronze Mead combined. It’s easy to blend in here, to not be seen. I take the next turning a little too quickly in my haste to get to the pharmacy.
I can’t go to the one back home. I know everyone who works there. It’s supposed to be confidential, but, you know, people talk. This is the second lot of meds I’ve had to pick up in the last six months. What some people don’t seem to realise is that something like this affects everyone, the whole family.
After I’ve parked, I go to the pharmacy. When I get the prescription, I keep my head lowered as the woman gives me the once-over as I make a quick exit.
I rip the box from the pharmacy bag to check the details and seriously contemplate taking one right now.
I rein myself in and drop the box of pills in my bag, then rush to the coffee shop on the corner of Maple Street.
The rain is heavier now, and it’s brought a cold wind with it. Inside I’m thankful because, hopefully, there won’t be too many people around, limiting the chances of us being seen.
I push open the door and am hit by the heat and the smell of coffee and the sweetness of freshly iced cakes.
I see him in the corner, at our favourite table, tucked away and sipping his coffee. I see he’s already got me a drink, so I head straight over.
John’s made an effort today and it unnerves me.
He’s usually smart but today he looks like he’s made an extra-special effort. His jeans are a darker shade of denim than usual and he’s wearing a nice shirt, rather than the usual jumper or T-shirt.
John’s just over six feet tall, with sandy-coloured hair that falls across his dark eyes and he’s for ever pushing it back.
He’s five years older than me but he doesn’t look it. Ever since his separation from Beth, he’s been finding his feet. He says I’ve helped him a little in that respect.
‘Hey, you,’ he says, standing up as I approach. ‘Let me take your coat, it can dry off by the radiator here.’
He steps close and pushes the coat off my shoulders and a chill runs through me when his fingers brush the exposed skin at my neck.
I shrug out of my coat and he gives me a fleeting kiss on the cheek. Again I feel like ice and it raises the hairs on the back of my neck, yet still I make myself smile and sit down.
I’m conscious I mustn’t let John believe there could be anything more between us than . . . this – whatever this is. I’m happy to be casual acquaintances, especially while Paul Selby awaits trial, but I confess he can make me feel a little uncomfortable sometimes.
He has an intensity about him and I’m not naïve enough to think he’s just helping me out of the goodness of his heart. I know if I wanted there to be more, there could be.
There’s no attraction on my part though. So long as I keep everything casual, no one gets hurt.
I watch him as he carefully brushes the excess water from the fur trim around the hood of my coat before he hangs it over his own on the back of his chair.
‘I got your usual,’ he says, gesturing to two steaming mugs of coffee. ‘Do you want some cake? Too bad if not. I just ordered some before you came in.’
As if on cue, the waitress brings over two slabs of chocolate cake. I pick at mine with my fork.
My mouth feels too dry to swallow.
I sip a burning mouthful of coffee and it makes my eyes water. John mistakes this for tears and leans forward and grips my hand.
‘I’m so sorry about what happened. It sounds horrific.’
‘It was.’
‘You should’ve come yesterday, I wouldn’t have cared how late it was.’
‘I couldn’t do that. We were at the police station until the early hours.’
‘You should’ve pressed charges, you know.’
‘That’s what Iain said.’
He shifts in his seat at the mention of Iain’s name. ‘Right, of course.’ He smiles, but I can see it’s forced. ‘He’s right.’
‘The police officer I spoke to said they might still fine her, or something like that.’ I shrug. ‘I don’t know. In the end, everything was blurring into one. I was so exhausted and couldn’t think straight. I think it was the shock of it all kicking in.’
He smiles at me, and lets my hand go. ‘You’re amazing, really. Anyone else would’ve gone ahead with the assault charge. You’re a good person, Charlotte.’
‘I don’t know about that. I think it was more that I couldn’t bear any more
stress.’
He nods as he eats his cake. ‘I know this’ll sound bad but sod it. This could be a blessing in disguise.’
I frown. ‘God, why would you say that?’
‘Think about it.’
‘That’s all I’ve done. She attacked me while I was with my daughter and her friend, in front of a restaurant full of people. It got filmed, tweeted, put up on Instagram and Facebook.’ I lower my voice. ‘Elle was dreading school this morning and I took the morning off work and, as it turns out, Harry was happy I wanted to stay away until the morning rush in the shop had passed.’ I swallow a mouthful of cake. ‘Yeah, it’s a blessing.’
I pull a face.
‘Sorry, I know it might sound insensitive but look at it this way; it’s going to be picked up by your solicitor. It’ll be mentioned at Paul Selby’s trial. If they want to call Ruby as a character witness or whatever, she’ll be ripped apart by the prosecution after what she’s done.’
I sip at my coffee. ‘You’ve really given this some thought, haven’t you?’
‘Charlotte,’ he says, leaning across the table again, closing the distance between us. ‘Keep anything that Ruby sends you. I mean anything.’
‘I blocked her on Facebook.’
‘Unblock her.’
‘Erm, no.’
‘Yes, if she contacts you again keep her messages, print them off. Trust me, she’ll soon make enough rope to hang herself with.’
He has a point, I’ll admit.
I shake my head. ‘I have to think of Elle. Facebook’s one thing but she left a message at the house. She knows where I live.’ This time real tears do brim in my eyes.
I reach for my serviette, wipe at my eyes, trying not to ruin the makeup covering the worst of my scar.
When I get angry or sad, it seems to bring out the redness of it even more. ‘Maybe I should’ve pressed charges.’
‘Come here,’ John says, and he moves to the chair immediately next to mine, putting my handbag on the floor at his feet and puts his arm around me. He kisses the side of my head.
I see my bag at the same time he does.
I hadn’t realised I’d left it unzipped when I left the pharmacy. Now we can both see the Diazepam packet on top.
Pretty Little Things Page 12