‘Hi Carla, Belle speaking, how can I help?’
The warmth in Belle’s voice took Carla by surprise.
‘Hi. I’m just hoping to get some info about a girl who was looked after about thirty-five years ago.’ Carla gave the details of the Waites case. ‘Anything you have would be really helpful. Especially the names of the child who was murdered and the second girl? The one who was with her when she was murdered.’
When Belle spoke again, her tone was serious. ‘I wasn’t old enough to have worked on that case but we all know about it. It’s the one we have training on the minute we start work.’
‘It’s particularly the second girl we are interested in. A name if possible.’
Belle paused before replying. ‘It’s going to take us hours to dig out the file and then every one will need a signed authority to release it, which could take us into next year. So I wonder whether you’d find it more helpful to speak to the social worker in charge at that time?
‘She’s still with you?’
Belle laughed. ‘God, no. Harriet left years ago. But she’s the one who does the training on the Waites case.’
Carla noted down the address and thanked her.
‘Any luck?’ Nell called over.
‘Got an address of the social worker. Retired, but moved to Princes Risborough.’
Nell looked impressed. ‘I’m having a nightmare with Hampshire. Seems they don’t know their arse from their elbow, let alone who ran the Waites case.’
‘Maybe the social worker would remember?’
Nell glanced at the clock. ‘How far away is that?’
‘Forty minutes.’
‘Fancy a trip out? I’ll drop you home after.’
Carla thought about her empty flat, the phone call she wished she hadn’t seen from Gerry. ‘Sure. Why not.’
Forty-two
Then
The beach is cold and I shiver. I look down at Aoife and want to curl up with her. Is she dead yet? I daren’t check. The waves crash behind me and I wish they would scoop me up and take me back out with them.
Alf has brought the container of petrol he uses to fire up his generator. It’s blue, like Aoife’s eyes. I can see the liquid in the moonlight settling now the container is still. At least she will be warm, I think, and then I feel a surge of laughter rise in me. I am not really here, I tell myself, this is not really happening. If I say it long enough maybe it will be true.
‘What about the baby?’ I have no idea how to save it and I feel hope turn to panic. I scramble to order my thoughts but they jump around my head like ping-pong balls.
Alf leans over and pulls the knife from my skirt. ‘Cut it out, of course.’
I stand there, speechless. Shocked he knew it was there, panic-stricken at what he is about to do.
‘Then we take it away from here and bury it somewhere different,’ he says, ‘so the two bodies can’t be linked.’
I want to say ‘I’m not doing that,’ but my mouth won’t form the words. I feel as if Aoife’s stomach is watching me, waiting for me to act in its defence, but the only defence I can offer it seems to be inaction and that’s no help at all.
When Alf kneels next to Aoife’s stomach, I turn my back. Please be dead, please don’t feel pain when he cuts you. Please be dead. I repeat this in my head until I hear the smallest of noises from behind me.
I turn and scream. The blood has stained the sand red and there’s so much of it I feel it could drown me. My head swims and I sit down hard against the dunes.
Then I see it. This red little bit of life trying to cry out into the world, trying to wriggle free of Alf’s arms, and I think, You’ve got Aoife’s spirit, my little thing.
Alf is staring at it, its cries getting stronger as it learns to breathe. I stand. ‘Give it to me.’
Alf doesn’t respond so I push myself up and run to him, pulling my cardigan off as I stumble towards them. I take the baby from his hands, wrapping it as I pull her away from him. He just watches me. I clutch it to me, trying to make sure it’s warm, and then I see she’s a girl. Her eyes open a little, deep blue stones staring up at me, and I pull her closer. She is bigger than I thought she would be, strong, healthy. She mews in my arms.
‘Take it back to the café and I’ll deal with it later.’ His tone is distant.
‘Her,’ I say. Alf pauses, his eyes flittering unwillingly over the baby I’m holding. I hold my breath. Maybe he’s changed his mind and he’ll let her live; maybe there’s a father in him after all. But the thought of him touching this baby makes my blood run cold.
‘Take it and make sure you’re not seen.’
This is my chance. I hug the baby close to me, fearful of dropping her, then I turn my back on Aoife and hurry our baby away.
Forty-three
Harriet Arnold’s house was simultaneously neat and chaotic. Everything seemed to have a place, but those places extended to the whole house, which was covered in a blanket of books, candles and hanging objects that provided a tinkling background hum. Harriet herself mirrored the house: neatly dressed in an array of purples, blues and reds, she was adorned with a variety of heavy silver jewellery ranging from chunky rings to a statement necklace. After asking them to sit on the frayed brown sofa, she fiddled absent-mindedly with a clutch of silver bangles on her wrists.
‘So you want to know about the Waites case?’ she began. ‘Not our finest moment. We all knew, you see, what was going on. But what can you do when teenage girls insist on avoiding all forms of help?’ She continued without waiting for an answer. ‘We contacted the police and they did their bit, but the truth of the matter was these girls “loved” the man who was abusing them, because they had no other experience of love to compare it to.
‘Quite a striking pair they were,’ she continued. ‘All long legs and big eyes, but with an awful haunted look, making you want to take care of them even more than you usually did with that sort of girl.’
‘That sort of girl?’
Harriet gave a heavy sigh, which felt weighed down with the memories of all the struggling teenagers she’d dealt with over the years.
‘Sometimes a girl came to us from a family that was functioning, to a certain extent anyway, but which had reached a crisis and needed short-term help, or maybe long-term, but either way the building blocks, though flimsy, had been stable. For the most part,’ she added. ‘Those girls were easier to help because they had things we could work with, an understanding of social norms, of consequences. But some girls came to us with none of this. They had no blocks on which to build a life. They were, to risk using a tabloid trope, feral.’
‘Which types were these two girls?’
‘Well, Aoife was a girl who’d had no foundations whatsoever. Her family – and I use that in the loosest sense of the word – had been chaotic and in crisis more often than not. She’d been in and out of care since she was one, but she also had a sensitivity which hadn’t been beaten out of her, despite all attempts. In contrast, the other child was one we thought would only be with us for a few weeks, but as the months went on and her mum didn’t want to have anything to do with her, we lost her. I don’t think she could ever get over her mum choosing her dad over her, and she kept expecting her to turn up any day, which of course she never did.’
‘Aoife was the murdered child, yes?’
Harriet nodded. ‘Yes. So very tragic. Aoife was one of those girls who pretends they don’t care about anything because that way no one can hurt them. But with Mary she was different, maternal even, so it was especially lovely to watch the two of them form such a bond.’ She gave a short laugh and settled back in her seat, teacup in hand.
‘Mary?’ Nell looked at Carla, who was clearly as stunned as she was.
‘The second child on the beach was called Mary?’
‘I will never forget those two children as long as I live. So yes, I’m quite certain she was called Mary. Mary Balcombe.’ She smiled. ‘From the moment the girls met they were insep
arable. We used to joke in the office. “Who’s seen the duo today?” we’d ask, and one of us would always have seen them – on the beach, at McDonald’s, in town.’ She looked down at the floor and shook her head.
‘What happened to Mary, after Aoife died?’
‘Well, naturally we all thought she’d fall apart. But she seemed to gain some inner strength and after the initial grief, she pulled through quite well, all things considered. Worked hard at school – turned out she was as bright as a button when she put her mind to it – and scored almost the highest in her year in her end of school exams.’
‘Was Mary ever implicated in the death of Aoife?’
‘Good Lord, no, the pair wouldn’t have harmed each other for all the money in the world. No, Mary stayed around in Portsmouth to do her exams then left.’
‘She left? Did you look for her? Put out a missing persons?’
Harriet’s face was deliberately calm. ‘She was sixteen when she left – the day of her birthday was the last day we saw her. In those days, sixteen was the legal age to leave the care home, so she did.’ She paused. ‘We know we failed her, I don’t need you both here to tell me that. We failed both of them. But all I can say is, we tried. Sometimes that’s all you can do.’
‘And you never heard any more from Mary after she left?’ Carla asked.
‘No. Sadly not. I thought a lot about her over the years, wondering what she’d grown up to be, trying not to wonder too hard in case I was right.’
‘But you said she had good grades?’
‘Grades mean nothing when you’re as lost as she was. She’d lost the one person she loved and who loved her, so if I were to hazard a guess I’d say that was pretty much the end of any chance she had of a normal life. I can’t even bear to picture where she ended up.’
‘We’d like to find out about a girl who may have known Aoife and Mary,’ Nell asked. ‘She’d have been the same age as them – called Eve?’
Harriet narrowed her eyes, thinking, before shaking her head. ‘No, I’m sorry, that name doesn’t ring a bell. And really, no one hung out with Mary and Aoife.’
‘Are you sure you can’t remember a child called Eve? Surname Wilkes?’ Nell gave Eve’s maiden name, hoping to jog Harriet’s memory, but she shook her head again.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. Although,’ Harriet gave a short laugh, ‘are you sure you’re not looking for Aoife?’
Nell glanced at Carla, but she just shrugged.
Clearly amused by their confusion, Harriet said, ‘Aoife is the Irish for Eve.’
Nell stared at the woman. Aoife. Eve. They couldn’t be the same person – one was dead and the other wasn’t. But if there was no record of Eve at the care home, then who the hell was she and where had she come from?
Forty-four
Then
I feel my heart beating against the baby. I look to the wall where Aoife and I had sat just hours before and wonder, should I run? But he told me to go. He was giving me a way out without me needing to find one.
‘Stop!’
I freeze. Alf’s voice is right behind me. I clutch Aoife’s baby closer to me.
‘There’s a bloody cop.’
I follow his finger and see a uniformed officer walk slowly past the café. An orange street light catches the metal on his hat and it glints sharply.
‘We’ll have to wait until he’s gone. I can’t set the fire or he’ll see it and I need her to be good and crisp before they find her. And you can’t be seen with a newborn or they’ll haul you in.’
I feel my heart thud faster. This is my chance. The copper will help me and if I can get to him maybe I can also save the little bit of Aoife I have left.
I hear Alf’s heavy breathing as we crouch in the grass growing tall out of the sand. I could outrun him. I am younger and fitter than him. I look down at the baby to see her nuzzling for food, her mouth turned sideways as she tries to suck milk from the wool of my cardigan.
I suddenly panic. Do they need food straight away? I have no idea what a newborn baby needs only minutes after birth. Am I killing her now by not feeding her, causing her to die in my arms?
The thought makes me stand.
‘Get down,’ Alf hisses.
But I’m done with his demands.
I start to run, trying not to slip or drop the baby, who cries in protest at the sudden movement. I can hear Alf start out behind me so I run faster, slipping slightly on the seaweed as it clings to the rocks.
I reach the steps, taking them two at a time before I slip. The cardigan slides off the baby’s head and she looks at me, surprised.
‘Sorry,’ I whisper, picking myself up. ‘Not long now.’
I glance back to see Alf bent over, hands on his knees, dragging in breaths. I turn again; the copper has almost disappeared behind the café wall.
‘Come on,’ I pull the baby close, ‘let’s go.’
I reach the copper. He looks down at me, at once confused and horrified, and I realise how awful I must look with my face covered in blood – both Aoife’s and mine.
‘Jesus.’
‘Take the baby.’ I can barely speak as the air slices my throat. I look over my shoulder to see Alf climbing the steps; the man follows my stare.
‘Take it,’ I say, shoving her into his arms, arms that instinctively receive her.
‘Make it safe.’
‘Hold on,’ he says as I start to run off. ‘Hold on, you’re safe now.’ He is reaching for his radio, struggling to hold the baby and call for help.
But I will never be safe. Not now, not ever.
The copper catches up with me. Alf is standing by the sea wall, watching us. The policeman puts a hand on my arm. ‘I’ve called for help.’ His voice is the kindest voice I’ve ever heard and suddenly I want to cry. But if I start I don’t think I’ll ever stop.
Alf takes a step forward and then we see it – the glint from his knife in the orange glow.
‘Run and hide.’ The policeman’s voice is urgent now. ‘There’s a bin behind the shop – climb in it and I’ll be back with help.’
‘But don’t tell anyone about the baby,’ I beg.
He shakes his head, dragging me by the arm towards the bin.
‘Hurry,’ he says, his body shielding me from Alf.
I scramble to lift the lid but it’s so heavy I can barely manage. The copper is walking towards Alf with one hand out, offering reassurance if he will just put the knife down.
I shove my foot into the gap I’ve created and heave my body over into the rotting food below. I bury myself as deep as I can go and then shut my eyes and listen.
I hear sirens getting louder, multiple ones, all competing to be heard. I hear the copper’s voice as he yells for Alf to stop and from his tone I think it’s Alf running away, not running towards him and the baby. I let myself feel the smallest stab of hope, which grows as I hear the baby cry.
The sirens are deafening now and they drown out her wailing. I hear voices shout, directions being given. Then I sense the bin lid being lifted and despite knowing it can’t be Alf, I freeze in fear.
‘Hello?’ It isn’t the copper’s voice, but neither is it Alf’s. I don’t move.
‘Hello?’ the voice repeats and when I still don’t move, he calls out, ‘There’s no one in here – are you sure it was this bin?’
‘Yes.’
This time it’s the man from the beach, the one with Aoife’s child. His voice is distant, but I hear it as clearly as if it was being whispered in my ear. I start to push my way out; a light shines down on me, through the gaps in the rotting food and broken plastic.
When I reach my hand up to feel the air, he grabs it. ‘I’m here, you’re safe now.’
I emerge into the evening air much as Aoife’s baby did, screaming and yelling, terrified of what I will find. But what I find are the man’s strong arms around me; he is whispering words I can’t discern, but I feel comforted and it makes me never want to leave him.
‘
The baby,’ I say, my breath on his cheek.
‘She’s safe,’ he whispers back.
Forty-five
Carla looked up at the windows of her flat. They were depressingly dark, which meant Baz wasn’t home. The car engine was still running and she knew Nell was waiting for her to get out, but her legs weren’t playing ball.
‘Would you like to come up for a beer?’ she said, before her brain had time to question it. ‘Or wine.’ She suddenly realised she had no idea what Nell drank.
Nell hesitated, then took the key from the ignition. ‘Sure, why not.’
Despite the darkness of the flat, Carla immediately knew Baz had gone for good. She spent ten minutes scouring every inch of the place for a sign he’d once lived there, but his shaver was gone from the bathroom, clothes from the bedroom, even his morning mug from the kitchen, until it felt like the only thing left to prove he’d ever lived there was the faintest smell of his aftershave.
Carla sat on the small sofa. Nell had opened a bottle of wine and was standing by the kitchen door.
‘There’s a letter,’ she said.
Carla looked at the envelope on the coffee table, the familiar writing scrawled across the paper in black. Pulling her feet under herself, she dragged a blanket around her shoulders, using it to cover her face too. That couldn’t be it. Surely he wouldn’t leave her after everything they’d been through, all the history they shared?
Nell walked over and sat cross-legged on the floor, cradling the wine and two glasses.
‘What’s going on?’ She poured Carla a glass and then one for herself.
‘He’s left me,’ Carla said, having downed half the glass in one before explaining.
‘Look, this is just a blip, OK?’ Nell said. ‘He’s making a grand gesture to show how upset he is before coming back with his tail between his legs to beg for forgiveness.’
‘You don’t know Baz. He’s as stubborn as they come.’
When I Lost You Page 18