She still had Brian’s gun. Holding it in front of her with both hands, Ellen moved silently up the wooden staircase, testing each step for creaks before putting any weight on it. At the top, two doors led off the tiny landing. One was already open, revealing a room with a single, unmade bed, a pile of clothes on the floor and not much else.
The other door was shut. Ellen pressed her ear against it, listening. When she didn’t hear anything, she put her hand on the handle and slowly turned it. The door creaked open and she jumped forward, gun out, swinging it from side to side as her eyes swept the room.
Empty. Whatever child Fletcher had been hiding in here was long gone. And there was no doubt this was a child’s room. A girl’s room, at that. Walls painted pink, decorated with some old, tattered posters. Another image from Ellen’s childhood – the fox from The Rainbow Parade, winking out at her from a poster with only one corner still adhered to the wall.
In theory, Fletcher could have been keeping Jodie here, but something about the room made her doubt this. There was no furniture, for starters, and no sign that anyone had been in here for a long time. If he’d kept her here, wouldn’t there at least be a blanket or something for her to sit on? Unless he was a complete animal and didn’t care at all about the comfort of his victim. Which was entirely possible.
The room smelled musty, as well. If a girl had been locked up here for days on end, you’d expect to get some human smell as well, but there was nothing. Ellen examined the door. It looked like there’d been locks on it at one time, you could see the marks in the wood, but they weren’t there now.
On the way out, she took a look in the other room. More smells. This time, an overpowering pong of body odour and feet. Apart from the bed, there was no other furniture in this room, either. Ellen turned to go, keen to get away from the smell, when something by the bed caught her eye.
It was an old photo, unframed and frayed at the edges. Time had faded the image to a point where it was difficult to make out the details of the girl’s face. Ellen stared at it. At a glance, you’d easily think you were looking at a photo of Molly York or Jodie Hudson. Like them, this girl had dark hair and, even though the image was poor, you could just make out the gap between her front teeth. Like the one she’d seen in the photos of Molly and Jodie.
There was something in the girl’s hair. Ellen held the photo closer. It looked like a daisy chain, the sort she made for Eilish from time to time. This girl looked older than Eilish, though. Somewhere between eight and ten, Ellen guessed.
Outside the house, someone was moving around. Footsteps crunching on the uneven concrete. Jumping up, she ran to the window and peered outside. She could see Wilson creeping towards the dirty white van. He was carrying something over his shoulder – it looked like a bundle of clothes at first. But then it moved.
Ellen threw herself from the room, clattering down the stairs and out the back door.
‘Freeze!’ she screamed.
He had the back doors of the van open and was shoving the girl inside.
When he saw Ellen, he dragged the girl back out, holding her in front of him like a shield.
‘Drop the gun,’ he said. ‘If you don’t, I’ll break her neck.’
She was so little. So small in Wilson’s arms, eyes wide and terrified in her white face as Wilson’s arm wrapped around her neck.
‘Let her go,’ Ellen said.
Wilson smiled.
Ellen raised the gun.
She imagined she could smell it – bullet-scorched flesh, bitter and burning and impossible to forget.
She aimed for his head. Later, that’s what she’d remember. She wanted to kill him.
His arm tightened around Jodie’s neck.
Ellen lowered the gun.
Wilson nodded. ‘That’s it. Drop the gun and no one gets hurt.’
She pulled the trigger.
Blood erupted from Wilson’s foot. He screamed, dropping Jodie as he fell to the ground. Ellen aimed the gun at the same spot and fired again.
Wilson’s screams filled her head as she dropped the gun, ran forward and gathered Jodie Hudson into her arms.
ONE WEEK LATER
Ed was waiting for her by the statue of James Wolfe, at the top of Greenwich Park. Ellen stood beside him, looking across the park to London, stretching out in front of her.
‘Shall we grab a coffee?’ Ed asked.
‘I’m not in the mood for coffee,’ Ellen said. ‘Mind if we just walk instead?’
She was vaguely hungover. Probably a good thing. It went some way to numbing her feelings about what she needed to talk to him about.
‘I’ve spoken to Nichols,’ Baxter said. ‘Told him what’s going on. And that’s it. I’m gone. As of today my career in CID is over. Thirty-eight years. All done now. Not that it matters a damn. It’s only a job. Life’s far more important. I just wish I’d worked that out earlier. Don’t make the same mistake, Ellen, you hear me? The funny thing is, if it was just me affected by this, I’m not sure I’d care that much. It’s Andrea and Melissa I can’t stop thinking about. They’re my world. I can’t bear to think of them being hurt by this.’
And what about Abby, Ellen wondered.
‘I know I messed up,’ Baxter said, as if he knew what she was thinking. ‘And that’s something I’ll have to deal with. Somehow. The only thing I’m grateful for is Andrea doesn’t know. About Abby, I mean.’
‘How’s Melissa holding up?’ Ellen asked, keen to change the subject.
Baxter shrugged. ‘Putting on a good face, you know. Underneath, though, she’s suffering. Of course she is. And that’s not easy to watch, either. I mean, she may be thirty-two but she’s still my little girl.’
His daughter was the same age as Abby. Men could be such idiots.
‘How do you do it, Ellen?’ Baxter asked. ‘How do you make sense of something like this?’
‘You don’t,’ she said. ‘Because there is no sense to it. So you keep going. You keep going for Andrea and Melissa and all the people in the world who care about you. And that’s not easy, either. But you’ve got to do it.’
His forehead creased in that way she knew so well.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why bother?’
‘Because you’ve got no choice,’ Ellen said. ‘What else can you do?’
They walked around the edge of the park, down past the tennis courts, along the edge of the Maritime Museum and back up the hill on the east side towards One Tree Hill and the bench dedicated to the first Queen Elizabeth. All the time, Ellen kept wondering when she’d find the courage to ask the question she’d come here to ask.
‘How are you holding up?’ Baxter asked. ‘You’re not looking that great, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘I’m fine,’ Ellen said.
She wasn’t fine. Not at all. It was like her life had rewound, back to those first, early days after Vinny’s death. Getting through each day was a struggle. Some days, she didn’t think she’d make it. The kids were the only thing that kept her going. That, and the promise of a few hefty glasses of wine each night to help her sleep.
She’d tried some dry evenings, but it was pointless. Without the anaesthetising effects of the wine, she’d lie in bed endlessly reliving the moment on the train tracks. Three nights of this were enough to convince her now was not the time to become teetotal.
First, she needed to concentrate on getting her head sorted. Then she’d think about cutting back on the wine. But how was she meant to get past something like that? She could look at it whatever way she wanted, but it always came back to the same thing. If she’d reacted differently, Dai wouldn’t have died.
The wine helped with sleep but did nothing to stop the dreams from coming. She was plagued with variations on the same one – night after night. Standing by the railway, aiming the gun at Fletcher. But when she tried to pull the trigger, her finger froze. She could hear the train coming, see the shadow blocking out the light until all three of them were in total darkness.
And still she couldn’t pull the trigger.
At the moment the train hit, she would wake up, sweating and panting, unable to get back asleep after that, no matter how much wine she’d drunk.
Over the last few days, she thought maybe things were getting easier. Jodie coming out of hospital, that felt like a big step forward. And knowing the girl would be okay, in the long-term, was a huge relief. Helen and Kevin were still together and told Ellen they would stay that way, united in their determination to heal their daughter. Bromley Police had charged a local dealer for Harris’ murder and Kevin was no longer a suspect.
Wilson was in custody. With a bit of luck, he’d never be released to hurt anyone ever again. He was still denying any involvement in the abductions of Jodie and Molly, but the evidence was rapidly stacking up against him.
A search of his home had revealed a number of things, among them a dress that Rob York identified as belonging to his daughter. A claim substantiated by subsequent DNA analysis. Taking apart Wilson’s computer, Forensics also found over two thousand images of child pornography. A contact in the Child Protection Unit told Ellen they were among the worst he’d ever seen.
Three bodies had been found buried in the flat fields behind Fletcher’s place. A woman on her own near the slope leading down to the railway and, closer to the house, a man and a girl. When she heard about the child, Ellen thought immediately of the photo she’d seen on the floor beside Fletcher’s bed. As yet, the police hadn’t identified the bodies. All they were able to tell at this stage was that the woman had died much earlier than the other two unfortunates.
‘Ellen?’
Ed’s voice made her jump.
‘Hey.’ He put his hand on Ellen’s arms. ‘Are you all right? You were miles away, so you were.’
Ellen tried to smile, nearly managed it.
‘I was wrong,’ he said.
‘About what?’
‘Kevin. I couldn’t concentrate. At work, there was so much to do but all the time, when I should have been thinking about Jodie and nothing else, I couldn’t get focus. I’d find myself in briefings, Ellen, and halfway through I’d realise I didn’t have the slightest clue what someone was telling me. I thought if we could just arrest him, get him behind bars, then we’d find Jodie and that would be the end of it.’
Here was her chance.
‘Is that why you went to the press?’ she asked.
Silence.
‘Ed?’
They were at the top of the park again, standing in the spot where they’d met. Down below them, a woman was playing with a young boy, swinging him by his hands, swirling around and around. The sound of the boy’s laughter drifted up the hill to Ellen.
‘I was desperate,’ Ed said. ‘We weren’t moving quickly enough. I know what Martine’s like when she gets the bit between her teeth. I thought a bit of press interest might make Hudson trip up, do something stupid. How did you work it out?’
‘It couldn’t have been anyone else,’ Ellen said. ‘And that day in your office, you were on the phone to her then, weren’t you? That story about your friend’s sixtieth birthday. I knew you were lying, Ed.’
‘Does it really matter now?’ he asked.
Damn right it does, Ellen thought.
‘You blamed me,’ she said. ‘You shouted at me and said it was my fault.’
‘I know,’ Ed said. ‘And I’m sorry. I was wrong. I’ve already said I was wrong. What more do you want?’
‘What would have happened?’ she asked. ‘If I’d suspected someone else, would you have let me go ahead and accuse them of doing it?’
‘Of course not. What sort of person do you think I am, Ellen?’
She wasn’t sure how to answer that. Not anymore.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘It’s done now.’
An awkward silence fell between them.
‘I should go,’ Baxter said eventually. ‘Andrea will be expecting me.’
Ellen walked him to the exit.
‘Take care,’ she said. ‘And keep in touch, won’t you?’
Unexpectedly, he grabbed her and hugged her. She hugged him back, shocked at how frail his body felt under the bulk of his clothes.
And then he was gone. Out the gate, walking down Croom’s Hill, getting further and further away from her. She noticed the slump in his shoulders, the heavy way he walked, as if every step was an effort. At the bottom of the hill, he turned and waved. She waved back, tried to smile. Realised she was crying instead so she moved away quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
When he was gone, she walked back through the park, carrying the image of his face as he’d waved to her. He’d looked so lost. Like a little boy separated from his parents. It made her think of her own children and she hurried forward, keen to get home to them as soon as she could, hoping the sight of them would push away the image of Baxter’s lost face. At least for now.
* * *
Later that night, with just a bottle of wine for company, Ed’s words came back to her.
It’s only a job.
The Merlot was finished. It wasn’t even ten thirty yet. If she went to bed now she’d be awake by three am and would spend the rest of the night thinking, unable to get back asleep.
She went into the kitchen and pulled another bottle from the wine rack. It was a different wine, but that hardly mattered. Blocking out reality was the only thing that concerned her right now.
Don’t make the same mistake.
No chance. She took a mouthful of fresh wine and went back into the sitting room, where she put on Sinatra at the Sands, her favourite CD.
She settled in one of the Art Deco armchairs, listening to Sinatra, Count Basie and the boys having a right old time of it. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the red light of the answer-machine flashing. Two messages. She’d already listened to them. One from Jim O’Dwyer. The other from Abby Roberts. Abby’s message had been there for over a week. Jim’s a bit longer. One day soon, she’d get around to deleting them.
She should call them back. She should do lots of things. She’d get around to all of them. One day soon.
The opening chords to You Make Me Feel So Young started up. Ellen’s eyes closed and she fell asleep holding her empty glass, dreaming of herself and Sean as young children, running through the meadows like the character in Frank’s song. Eilish was there, too. In the dream, she was still alive, racing beside her older brother and sister, laughing as the lush meadow grass tickled her bare legs, young and carefree and happy, her whole life stretched out in front of her, like some wonderful adventure.
About the Author
Sheila Bugler grew up in the west of Ireland. After studying Psychology at University College Galway, she left Ireland and worked in Italy, Spain, Germany, Holland and Argentina before finally settling in London, where she lives with her husband, Sean, and their children, Luke and Ruby.
In 2008 she was one of four writers to be offered a place on the UK Arts Council-funded Apprenticeships in Fiction programme – a mentoring scheme designed to nurture emerging writers in the UK and Ireland. When not writing, Sheila works as an online editor and writer and is also a regular contributor to the writing magazine Words With Jam.
Hunting Shadows is her first novel. She is currently finishing a sequel.
Copyright
This eBook edition first published 2013 by Brandon,
an imprint of The O’Brien Press Ltd,
12 Terenure Road East, Rathgar, Dublin 6, Ireland.
Tel: +353 1 4923333; Fax: +353 1 4922777
E-mail: [email protected]
Website: www.obrien.ie
First published 2013
eBook ISBN: 978–1–84717–628–8
Copyright for text © Sheila Bugler 2013
Edited by Rachel Pierce at Verba Editing House
Copyright for typesetting, layout, design ©
The O’Brien Press Ltd.
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