Hunting Shadows

by Bugler, Sheila

  Am I meant to say yes or no? I don’t even know what the stupid Rainbow Parade is.

  I nod my head, praying that’s the right thing to do.

  He smiles and my body goes loose and I can feel the cake sitting in my tummy and I feel a bit sick, but not so bad like the last time. I don’t think I’ll vomit.

  ‘I’ve got some old videos,’ he’s saying. ‘I could bring them out for you to watch. Would you like that?’

  I nod again, knowing now this is what he wants. It helps. Knowing what he wants and what I have to do. If it was like this all the time, then it wouldn’t be so bad, maybe.

  ‘I just want my mum.’ My voice! It’s working again. I can’t believe it. Oh thank you, God. Thank you.

  Brian sighs and my whole body goes cold and now I really think I might be sick. Except when he speaks he sounds sad, not angry.

  ‘I know you miss her, Marion. I miss her myself, love. But you know what Daddy did to her. I told you, remember? You can’t see her. I’m sorry.’

  And now I’m angry because he’s not listening and if he doesn’t understand I’m not this stupid Marion person, he’ll never let me out of here. So I’m shouting at him and my voice sounds horrible and angry, but I can’t help it. And I’m telling him that I’m not stupid Marion and my dad would never hurt Mum so why is he saying that and is he so stupid that he can’t see I’m Jodie not Marion and what’s his problem, anyway?

  And I’m doing all that before I can stop to think that it’s the wrong thing to do because what I need to do is what he wants so that I don’t make him angry because if that happens, he’ll hurt me.

  But then just when I think something bad’s going to happen he walks away from me and I know he’s going to close the door and lock me in again and I really, really can’t bear it if he does that.

  I jump up from the bed and run after him but I’m not fast enough. By the time I get to the door he’s outside, and I can hear the lock turning and the bolts being pulled across and I’m banging at the door, screaming, begging him to come back, even though I can’t bear him, anything is better than being locked in here on my own.

  Except he doesn’t come back.

  I can hear his footsteps and they’re moving away from here and I beg, please, please, please, please, please, but the footsteps keep moving, until I can’t hear them at all.

  15:10

  Ellen was shaking as she walked away from the house. She got as far as the car before she realised she was in no state to drive. Not yet. She remembered the café in Mountsfield Park. Just the business. A cup of tea while she pulled herself together. A quiet moment to indulge in a spot of self-loathing before heading back to the station.

  The café was a prefab building at the top of the park with great views across London. In the distance, if she tilted her head, she could even make out the silvery curve of the London Eye. It was, she thought, as she took her tea to one of the tables outside the café, quite beautiful here. Not as dramatic as Greenwich Park, perhaps, but lovely in a different, more unexpected way.

  She had messed up. The interview with York couldn’t have gone any worse. And she’d learned nothing new. Worst of all, there was something about his grief that reminded her of how she’d been after Vinny died. No wonder Rob York was the way he was. Driven mad with grief.

  She finished her tea and decided she was still too jittery to get back in the car. So she walked along the top of the park, past the two playgrounds and down the hill that wound its way to Catford at the bottom.

  As she walked, her mind turned to that day in Bristol. She remembered Dunston’s warm blood splattered across her face, and the weight of his body as it fell on top of her. And then, as he lay half-dead on top of her, his raggedy breath rasping in her ear, the feeling of jubilation surging through her as she pressed the gun to his face and pulled the trigger a second time. Turning her, in an instant, from a copper to a killer.

  Enough.

  Shivering against the wind, Ellen turned and walked back up the hill, pushing Billy Dunston from her head for now. Her thoughts returned to Rob York. The encounter left her feeling dirty. She wanted to rush home and jump in the shower, letting the hot water wash away every trace of York’s pleading eyes, booze-ruined breath and unfathomable rage.

  At the playgrounds she stopped for a moment, watching the small children running around. Molly York would have come here when she was little. Ellen imagined a different, happier Rob lifting his daughter onto the swings like the little girl in there now, shouting at her father to push her higher and laughing as her feet swung into the air before dropping down again.

  Beside the playground, a group of men in green overalls were throwing bits of broken branches and other park debris into a trailer at the back of their van. One of them caught Ellen’s eye, nodded at the playground and smiled.

  ‘Hard to believe we were all that young once,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t it just?’ she said, smiling back.

  There was a logo in green on the side of the van. Medway Maintenance. Ellen frowned, recalling her encounter in Manor Park the previous day.

  The man turned and waved goodbye to Ellen.

  ‘Maybe see you around again sometime,’ he said, giving her a grin.

  She laughed and waved back. Cheeky bugger was young enough to be her son. Still, at her age a girl had to take whatever she could get, and a handsome young man flirting with her was something to enjoy, no matter how briefly.

  The cold had taken up home in her bones, making her feel she might never be warm again. She hurried away from the park and back to her car, regretting that she had to go straight back to work. All she wanted to do was go home, get warm, and forget for a few hours that the world could be a very ugly place indeed.

  18:04

  Rob opened another can and drank, downing most of it in one go. It was some time since alcohol had gone from being something he needed to block out the pain, to just something he needed. These days, the shakes were so bad he couldn’t get out of bed without a drink first. He kept a can of lager or a bottle by the bed just so that he’d be able to function each morning.

  Not that it mattered. He took another swig from the can and looked at the photos on the mantelpiece. The biggest one, in the middle, was his favourite. Always had been. It showed Molly the summer after her fourth birthday, two years after Sheryl’s death. Two years of sadness mixed with moments of unbearable happiness as he watched his daughter grow, every day becoming more like the mother who’d loved her but never got a chance to know her.

  They’d gone on holiday, him and Molly, just the two of them. Hired a little house on the coast near Broadstairs. Sunny days spent building sandcastles, swimming in the sea, and eating overcooked, overpriced fish and chips from the little chippie down the road from their bungalow.

  The day of the photo, the weather wasn’t that good and they’d gone for a walk in the countryside instead of their usual trip to the beach. They’d walked across meadows sprinkled with all sorts of wild summer flowers – deep blues, bright yellows and startling whites – the colours bursting from the green grass like a celebration.

  Molly loved having her photo taken. Rob had sat her down amongst the flowers and taken ten or twelve shots. In this one, she was staring out at him, her head tilted to one side, holding up a yellow flower and sticking her tongue out. Her wild curls were blowing around her face like they had a life of their own.

  As he took the photo, Rob thought he’d never known something could be so perfect. Molly in her purple summer dress, the yellow flower and her beautiful hair, sitting in a meadow surrounded by yellow and blue and white flowers, full of life and love – her whole wonderful life stretched out in front of her. And he knew, even with the sadness that was always with him, that he was lucky because he still had Molly and she made him happier than he’d ever imagined it was possible to be.

  After she was gone, he’d thought of nothing except finding the person who’d killed her. He sat in this room, day afte
r day, drinking beer, looking at the photos and letting the hatred consume him. He imagined all the different ways he would track down the killer and make him pay. In the darkest parts of his mind he pictured what he would do to the man, how he would hurt him.

  Over time, the hatred burned inside him, growing stronger all the time. Until one day he realised Molly’s killer might never be found. Was that when the drinking became something else? A means to an end – his end – and not just a way of getting through each interminable day. Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was Molly, and she was gone.

  In the corner of the room, the TV flickered and spat sounds out at him. The six o’clock news had just started. A little girl’s face appeared on screen. A pretty little thing with dark hair and a dimple that reminded him of Molly’s. The girl disappeared, replaced by three more faces – a man, a woman and a teenage boy. They all looked as if the blood had been sucked from their bodies. Rob wanted to turn it off, couldn’t bear to keep looking at those lost faces. Except he couldn’t bear to look away, either. He felt a connection with them. Because he knew. Just like he knew there would be worse to come. The hell those poor people were going to endure was only starting. Those early days, there was still hope. And when there’s hope, you can survive anything. It’s later, after the unimaginable has happened, that’s when life ends and this begins.

  He heard her, his Molly, every single minute of every single day. She never left him alone – her screams, her pleading. Not that he wanted her to leave. He owed it to her to endure, just as she had. It’s why he kept going. He had to suffer. How else could it be? It wasn’t enough, of course. No matter how much he suffered, it was only the tiniest fragment of what she had gone through.

  On the TV, the mother was crying and begging for help. Poor cow. Rob felt for her. He really did. But all the begging in the world wasn’t going to do her any good. The camera drew back, panned the rest of the people sitting at the table. Rob jerked when he saw the familiar face sitting beside the father. Ed Baxter. Jesus Christ. Wasn’t it enough Baxter had fucked up the first time? He hadn’t found Molly. Why the hell did anyone think he’d be able to find this child?

  When the doorbell rang, Rob considered not answering it. Then it rang again and he changed his mind, thinking maybe it was that detective back again and if it was, he would give her another piece of his mind.

  Except when he opened the front door, it wasn’t her. Another woman stood in her place. Blonde, this time. With skin the sort of orange you only get from a sunbed. Some sort of spotty scarf tied around a too-thin neck.

  ‘Mr York?’ She flashed a set of white-white teeth in his face. ‘My name is Martine Reynolds. I’m a journalist on the Evening News. I was wondering if you could spare me a few moments?’

  The moment he heard the word journalist, he started to close the door. Muck-raking scumbags the lot of them. The shit they’d said about him after Molly disappeared, even trying to make out it was him who’d taken her.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  But she was quick. Moved forward and stuck her foot in the door. Thickly sweet perfume hit him and he looked down at her foot, thinking if she didn’t move it, he’d slam the door on it. And he would have, too, if it wasn’t for what she said then.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘It’s about Molly. I think I know who took her.’

  Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. And even though a part of him knew she was a dirty, lying, scumbag journalist who was probably making it up just to get inside his house, he had to know for sure. So he pulled open the door and stepped back.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ he said.

  She walked past him, bringing the smell of dead flowers with her into his house. And that’s how it started.

  21:06

  Dai was already there when Ellen arrived at The Dacre. She went to the bar and got the drinks in – another pint for Dai and a half of lager shandy for herself.

  ‘Good health,’ he said, raising his fresh pint.

  ‘Cheers.’ She nodded and took a sip of her drink.

  ‘You’re looking a bit tired,’ Dai said. ‘I don’t remember those dark rings under your eyes when we used to work together. Ed’s working you too hard, I’d say.’

  ‘It’s not him,’ Ellen said. ‘It’s this case. Well, that and trying to do my job properly while being a decent mother at the same time. I’d sort of forgotten how hard it was to keep all those different plates spinning.’

  ‘You’re sure you didn’t come back too early?’ Dai asked.

  Ellen shook her head. ‘No way. The day-to-day grind of running a house and looking after two children – there’s more to life than that. I’m fine, Dai. It’s all fine. Really.’

  He nodded. ‘Must say, I never saw you as the stay-at-home type. Too much going on in that brain of yours. Too sharp for your own good, Ellen Flanagan. Kelly, rather. She won’t be long for uniform, I told Paul. And I was right, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Only because you were so good to me,’ Ellen said. ‘You and Paul, you were both so generous. I learned so much working with you both.’

  ‘Worked both ways,’ Dai said. ‘We were always on the lookout for any bright sparks to work with us. Trouble is, the bright sparks were few and far between. You were the exception, Ellen. It’s why we put so much work your way. Why I supported you when you applied for detective. I knew you could do it. And you proved me right, didn’t you?’

  Ellen’s face grew hot as Dai spoke. He was, she knew only too well, unforthcoming with praise most of the time. She remembered like it was yesterday that first year at Ladywell. She’d been so full of herself back then. So certain she had what it took to make a difference.

  ‘I was such a show-off,’ she said, remembering how hard she’d worked in those first few years. How determined she’d been to prove herself. To be the best.

  ‘No more than any of the blokes,’ Dai said. ‘Difference is you weren’t a bloke. Most women in the Met, they like to keep a low profile. Scared of standing out, I suppose, in case it marks them as being different. That never bothered you, Ellen. I always admired you for that. The way you were always willing to stick your head above the parapet and take whatever was thrown at you. You didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of you. Pity there’s not more like that.’

  ‘You can talk,’ Ellen said. She’d never met anyone who cared less about other people’s opinions than Dai Davies.

  He smiled. ‘You’re not wrong there. A right stroppy pair we make, hey? And speaking of stroppy, how are the lovely Eilish and Pat these days?’

  Ellen took another sip of her drink. Even though the beer was diluted with lemonade it still tasted good. Made her crave a cigarette.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Great, really. When they’re not doing my head in, that is. What about you? You still seeing that Stella?’

  ‘Nah,’ Dai said. ‘Things didn’t work out between the two of us. I wasn’t that bothered, if I’m honest, Ellen. This whole romance business, it’s more trouble than it’s worth. I’m giving up on it.’

  ‘I thought she was nice,’ Ellen said.

  Dai shrugged. ‘Nothing wrong with her, no. But she wasn’t the woman for me.’

  ‘So who is?’ Ellen asked. In all the time she’d known him, he’d never lasted more than a month with any woman. ‘Maybe you should have given things a bit more time with Stella.’

  ‘Listen,’ Dai said. ‘I didn’t come here tonight to get advice on my love life, thank you very much. It’s enough that I have to put up with it every time I go down home and have to listen to my sister going on at me. I expect better things from you, you hear?’

  Ellen rolled her eyes. ‘Fine, then. You tell me what I’m allowed talk about and I promise I’ll behave myself for the rest of the evening.’

  ‘Well, there was something actually,’ Dai said. ‘But first of all, why don’t I pop to the bar and get us both another drink? This pint went down way too quickly.’

  ‘
I’m fine,’ Ellen said. ‘Don’t get me anything.’

  While Dai was at the bar, Ellen sipped her shandy and tried to ignore the growing cigarette craving. A memory pushed its way through the nicotine longing. A night out with Dai seven or eight years ago. Both of them more than a little drunk. Conversation veering from maudlin to pathetic. Dai had been going on about some woman. The love of his life. Unrequited love. Ellen couldn’t remember much about it. What she did remember was trying to speak to him about it the following day. He’d clammed up, claimed he didn’t know what she was on about. She knew he’d do the same if she asked him about it now.

  ‘So,’ she said, once he’d settled back with his fresh pint. ‘What’s the story?’

  Dai ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘I hate it that we can’t smoke inside, anymore. I could really do with a cigar right now.’

  ‘We could go outside if you want?’ Ellen said. She’d already noted where the cigarette machine was. Seeing as she had already caved in this week, she might as well give in and go with it.

  Dai shook his head. ‘Too cold, isn’t it? A man could do his bits some serious damage standing out in that for too long. Especially when those bits aren’t seeing as much action as they once did.’

  ‘You should have hung on to Stella,’ Ellen said. ‘Your bits would be fine.’

  Dai tilted his head, an action she recognised as dismissive.

  She shrugged. ‘So?’

  ‘It’s about Helen actually,’ Dai said.

  Ellen frowned, not understanding.

  ‘Helen Hudson,’ he clarified.

  Ellen still didn’t get it, and told him.

  ‘I know her, you see,’ Dai said. ‘From my early days in Bristol. You know that’s where I worked when I first joined the force?’

  Ellen felt a rush of anger. She wasn’t sure – yet – what caused it.

  ‘We were in the same writing group, you see,’ Dai continued. ‘Creative writing, you know. It’s what I like to do when I’m not working. But I’ve told you that, haven’t I?’