‘Let’s sit outside,’ Shona suggested. ‘I think we need the air.’ Once they were seated, she poured and passed Claire a rattling cup and saucer.
‘Mum—’
‘Biscuit, darling?’ She offered the plate of shortbread. Claire felt nauseous, holding up her hand. A butterfly fluttered between them and, for a moment, she was mesmerised by the flash of colour. Then she had an overwhelming urge to catch it and keep it safe in a jar, screwing the lid on forever and ever – or to grab it and crush it in her fist. She began to cry.
‘Oh, darling.’ Shona leant over and rubbed her shoulder. ‘Everything’s going to turn out fine. They’ll find Rain safe and well, I feel sure of it.’
Claire looked up from behind the curtain of her hair, wiping her face on the back of her hand. ‘But Mum,’ she said, blowing into the tissue her mother gave her. ‘How can this have happened twice to the same group of people? We’re all being so reserved about it, not mentioning the similarities but… oh God, Mum…’
‘What is it?’
‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but someone left me a phone message on Friday.’ She paused. ‘One of those messages. I told Jason, but stupidly I’d deleted it by then. I was so angry and scared, I didn’t think.’
‘What did it say?’
‘It was horrid.’ She took a breath. ‘It was a really bad line and hard to tell if the voice was disguised or not.’ Claire hiccupped a sob, sipping her tea. ‘He said… he said…’ This was the bit Claire would never be able to delete, the words that had been replaying over and over in her mind. ‘He said, “I know where she is.”’ Claire stared at her mother, waiting for reassurance, but Shona was silent, blank-faced. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything to you, Mum. I should have just told the police and let them deal with it.’
Her mother gave a small nod, stilled by the news.
They’d had many such calls over the years, and all turned out to be hoaxes. Lenni’s story was all over the national papers for several months. In the early days, the police took them seriously, followed up as best they could. Once or twice they’d made a token arrest or cautioned the pranksters. Some had called repeatedly, claiming to have news of Lenni, photographs of her in another country, some saying they knew she was dead, that she’d been buried in a shallow grave. The most distressing calls were from those abusing Shona and Patrick for killing her or, at the very least, neglecting her. But over the months and years, as the case grew colder, they’d dwindled almost to nothing.
‘Just don’t tell your dad,’ Shona said, staring into her cup.
Back then, Patrick had been the one to field the calls when they’d come, often at supper time, leaving them with no appetite. Several times the phone had rung in the dead of night and they’d wake, not knowing if it was real or a part of a nightmare.
Then there were the letters and anonymous messages – some from genuine well-wishers, but many from crackpots and despicable people who had no sympathy and too much time on their hands. They received contact from psychics and, on one occasion, someone actually came to the farm claiming to be able to find her with their supernatural powers. Mystical spirit photographs, tarot readings and intricately drawn-up astrological charts arrived in the post, some stating exactly when and where Lenni would be found. One psychic believed that Lenni was being held in a cave. She was so convincing that Shona spent the next three days scouring the coastline for her daughter. Patrick thought she was as mad as the woman herself. But when a letter came saying Lenni’s body had been disposed of in a rubbish dump, they made the decision not to open any more. If any slipped through the net, they were disposed of on the fire.
‘No, let’s not tell Dad,’ Claire agreed quietly.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Nick stood in the cellar. It was lit by a single bulb in a cage hanging from the beam. He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, staring around. Work had begun, but it was far from finished. In fact, it was still just a cellar and he wouldn’t be happy keeping rats down here yet, let alone anything else. But he refused to allow the council or Trevor to scupper his plans. As things stood, he had no choice.
When he’d viewed the property months ago, it was the vaulted underground space that convinced him it was the property for him. It was mostly dry, spacious and had decent head height – a bonus in what was an otherwise run-down building, although he could see the restaurant had potential. The old Portuguese couple Nick had bought it from clearly didn’t anticipate the micro boom about to take place in the area and just wanted a quick sale. No one ate at the grubby place with its grease-stained woodchip paper and maroon-patterned carpet anyway, so Nick made a low offer and the transaction only took three weeks.
Prior to this, life at home had become intolerable. Jess had sunk to a place he didn’t recognise and he knew it was over between them. He’d never felt so alone. She needed help, professional help, but he didn’t know how to make her take it. She’d shut him out of her life completely; shut everything out except alcohol.
That was nearly twelve months ago. Meantime, Nick waited it out while the house they owned together was sold. They’d bought it years ago when Jess fell pregnant with Isobel. They could hardly contain their excitement, everything pointing towards a happy future. But when the house was put up for sale, they lived like strangers. Jess rarely came down from her room, but when she did, she padded about in her dressing gown and bare feet, harvesting leftovers from the fridge, sometimes standing in the garden, her face turned to the sky with a packet of Marlboro in her gown pocket, each cigarette consumed in almost one drag.
‘Jess, we need to talk,’ he’d said countless times when she shuffled past, her hair a tangled knot and her skin dull. ‘Please.’ He took her by the shoulders, tried to look into her eyes. She barely had the energy to shrug him off. Back upstairs she went.
‘You need help, Jess. Proper help.’ Nick sat outside her bedroom. He didn’t know what to do. Their daughter had died. Died in this house. Now it was as if Jess wanted them to die too.
‘It’s your fault she’s gone,’ she spat one time, whipping open the door. ‘You left her alone.’
Nick crumpled from the blow. They’d both agreed it was safe to leave Isobel for a couple of hours after school every afternoon. Other parents did it. The bus dropped her virtually at their front door and she would grab a quick snack before getting on with her homework. Not once did they imagine such a freak accident would occur; not once had Nick imagined that Jess was seeing another man. A married man with a couple of spare afternoons each week.
Nick paced around the cellar, trying to see a future transposed over the past. Basement, he thought, preferring to call it that. In his mind, cellars conjured images of damp and mould, spiders and dead rats, along with forgotten, corked bottles of wine and broken old furniture. Rather, this space would represent a second chance, a place to nurture what he’d lost. As he patted the wodge of cash in his inside pocket, he could already envisage things taking shape in the vaulted chambers. Above in the restaurant, no one would suspect his little secret down below, no one would know what he’d done, what he’d had to do in order to survive. That tragedy had forced his hand.
The drive back to Cornwall was a reflective one. Trevor had come for his cash and reassured Nick that he’d keep the council out of the loop. There would be no repercussions and he was committed to finishing the project on time. Nick glanced at the dashboard display as it lit up, immediately taking the call. He was doing eighty in the fast lane.
‘Claire?’ It was more a question than a greeting. His mouth went dry at the thought of what she might know. She’d always had a knack of reading his thoughts.
‘Are you coming back?’ she asked, sounding as though she’d been crying.
‘On my way now,’ he replied. ‘Is there news?’
‘I’m afraid not. The forensics team have finished and… well, it was weird. They found…’ She trailed off and Nick didn’t want to press her. ‘Maggie went down to the
police station to view some CCTV footage of a girl who might be Rain. Someone thought they’d spotted her. We’re still waiting to hear.’ She cleared her throat. ‘How long will you be?’
‘Maybe another two, two and a half hours?’
‘OK,’ she said, but then the line broke up. When it came back, her words made him grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. ‘Please hurry, Nick.’
* * *
In the police station Maggie stared at the blank computer screen, waiting for the film to play. She gripped the sides of the chair, digging her nails into the plastic.
‘The images we have are very fleeting and the quality isn’t great.’ An officer she didn’t know tweaked some settings, finally clicking the play button to reveal a grainy Newquay street scene on the monitor. Maggie squinted, leaning in to get a better view of all the people going about their business. There was the usual contingent of regular shoppers along with groups of teenagers and families who were clearly on holiday. Cars queued in one direction only, obscuring some of the people.
‘Take a close look here.’ The officer pointed to a blonde girl as she came into view from the right-hand side of the screen. He slowed down the frame rate, but this only made her face harder to see. Maggie squinted. ‘Her arm is being held by the man beside her,’ the officer continued. ‘Do you recognise either of them? Take your time. I can play it as many times as you need.’
It was true, Maggie thought. The girl looked as though she was being frogmarched down the street against her will. She couldn’t decide which was worse – never seeing her daughter again or witnessing her being abducted by some monster. She leant closer to the screen, her heart pounding. It certainly looked like Rain – she was a slim, fair-haired, attractive, teenage girl, but then so were hundreds of other kids in Newquay. Her hair had fallen over her face a little and, normally, Rain would swish it back, constantly running her fingers through it. But this girl wasn’t doing that. Her face seemed taut and blank – perhaps because the man was holding on to her. But it was so difficult to see anything clearly with people and cars getting in the way.
‘Can you go back to the start, please?’ Maggie watched the footage again. She certainly didn’t recognise the man. He was large and looked in his late forties, his belly spilling over his jeans as they passed a gap between two cars.
‘Wait. Go back a bit. To when they were just here. Play it at normal speed.’ She pointed to the space between the cars. It was the only point at which the girl’s entire body came into view. Maggie drew in a breath sharply. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. ‘It’s not my daughter.’
‘Are you certain?’ The detective stopped the tape when the girl was in full view.
‘Look, here,’ Maggie said, pointing at her left ankle. ‘I know the image isn’t totally clear, but there’s no tattoo. Rain has one right there. It would show up even at this range.’ The detective nodded and made some notes. He asked her again if she was sure about what she’d seen.
‘I’ve never been more positive about anything in my life.’
* * *
Maggie was driven back to the farm, where she found Claire sitting outside alone with the remains of a cup of tea on a tray. Some biscuits lay untouched.
‘It wasn’t Rain.’
When she didn’t reply, Maggie sat down beside her in the empty wrought iron chair. ‘Claire?’ Streaks of watery black ran in wavy lines down her friend’s cheeks. ‘Oh, Claire…’ Maggie reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. It felt, for a fleeting moment, good to be the comforter rather than the comforted, even though she felt her friend tense up.
Claire turned slowly, looking at Maggie, her expression suggesting bad news. She held her breath. ‘I’m so sorry the CCTV didn’t show anything helpful.’ She shrugged away from Maggie’s hand. ‘I just need to go and freshen up. Excuse me,’ she said, hurrying back inside.
Maggie didn’t understand. Until now, Claire had been strong, a rock just like her mother, competent and helpful. She’d been exactly what Maggie had needed the last couple of days, helping her through this nightmare. What had changed?
She sat for what seemed like hours. Then, through the heat haze and her thoughts, the summer bugs darting through the air and the birdsong, Maggie became aware of a telephone ringing. Its trill was somehow lost in the expanse of Trevellin’s garden. Then she realised the landline handset was beside her on the table. She answered it.
‘Hello?’ A few moments later, she dropped it onto the grass, unable to move a muscle.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Upside-down
I’ve got a good plan. When the door opens next time, I’m going to watch for that hairy skull and smash it with the kettle. Then I’ll run for my life and everything will be normal again. But it’s not a very good plan. What if I’m no good at killing? What if I die instead? I’m not very strong and this isn’t a made-up adventure story in a book. This is me. My life. My nightmare.
Although I don’t really have the nightmares in my sleeps any more. And I’ve slept a lot of times since I’ve been here; millions of sleeps, it feels like, though it’s probably not that many. No, the nightmares come to me during the day now, when I’m awake – knowing that I’m never going to see my family again or go to school or stroke Goose the dog or splash in the sea or bake a cake with Claire; not being able to choose my own clothes in a shop or ride my bike or play on the farm, even if I was always getting into accidents. Or adventures, as I told Mummy to make her not worry. But this is the worst adventure ever.
They always said that if I stayed good, then nothing bad would ever happen.
I must have been really, really bad, then.
Since then I’ve tried to be good, even better than good, so I can get out. I’ve even eaten the food that’s brought for me though some of it tastes worse than school dinners. I’d really like a school dinner now and I’d even sit still in history lessons and remember all the battle dates. My teacher called me a fidget. I wouldn’t be one of those any more.
I scream and yell for hours, but no one ever hears me.
I fall asleep, and when I wake, I make myself a sandwich. The bread is dry and dusty with green stuff. Before long, I hear familiar sounds – all that clattering and unlocking. Finally, the door swings open. I get ready to pounce, holding the heavy old kettle high above my head. But then those eyes… the way they look at me. I lower the kettle slowly and allow the breeze coming in to wash over my face instead, breathing it in. The hug squeezes the air from me.
‘Why are you eating lunch at night?’
‘Because I didn’t know it was night,’ I say, feeling stupid.
It reminds me of what Claire and Jason and I once did. It was just for fun and we called it our upside-down day. I know they only did it to amuse me because I was the youngest, not because they fancied eating pie and mash for breakfast. Mum didn’t grumble, but Dad kicked up a fuss because Jason was meant to be helping him clean out the barn. We ate our dinner at eight in the morning and then watched telly and went back to bed. But I never really slept and we were all up after a couple of hours. The plan was to eat porridge for supper and then stay awake all night. Jason liked the idea because it meant he could lounge around all day in his pyjamas and not help Dad.
When we got hungry at midday, Mum made us a tray of treats, telling us it was a midnight feast when really we all knew it was lunch. By midnight, I was a bit confused. Claire said we had to go outside to play. When we ventured into the dark yard, we saw a real live owl hooting in the tree beside the log store. We stopped in our tracks – all dressed up for daytime even though it was night – and listened to the bird’s spooky whoo-whoo, all dishy-eyed and wise. He was laughing at us.
‘Come on, Len.’ Claire dragged me by the sleeve. I was scared because it was so dark, even though I knew Mum was watching me through the window. She never let me out of her sight.
‘Do you think there are prowlers about?’ I asked, as Jason picked u
p a big stick.
‘No, silly. You’re such a baby.’
‘Am not. I’m nearly twelve. Practically a teenager.’ Everyone at school called me a baby, and that new girl was mean to me because I wore shoes with Velcro fasteners because I couldn’t do my laces. She laughed that my skirt wasn’t short like theirs. Mum said to ignore them. Dad told me to punch her and taught me how to make a fist. I didn’t do either.
‘Claire,’ I said, as she pushed me on the swing. The night whooshed through my ears. ‘Do you think I could swing by myself?’
‘You won’t be able to,’ she said, stepping aside. ‘You’ll just get your legs tangled again and fall off like last time.’ I kicked out my legs like I’d seen other kids do, but it never worked. I slowed down to a wobbling stop. Then Jason called out, so I leapt off.
‘Look at this,’ he said. I ran to the edge of the pond. ‘It’s having an upside-down day too.’ He was poking a spiky ball with the tip of his stick.
‘It’s a hedgehog,’ Claire said. ‘They always have upside-down days. They’re nocturnal.’ It was all curled up with only its grey-brown spikes showing. Jason rolled it along with the stick.
‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘It’ll be frightened. It’s only a baby.’
A baby, I thought, deciding that’s what I needed to do at school when those kids were mean. Curl up into a ball like the hedgehog. Though I didn’t have any spikes.
Chapter Fifty-Six
‘Do you remember the bonfires we used to have down here?’ Claire said to Nick on the walk she’d pictured taking with him ever since she’d first dreamt up the God-forsaken reunion. She’d needed to get away from the farm for a while.
The Reunion: An utterly gripping psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Page 23