by Maggie James
From Lightfoot’s expression, Lori deduces that teenagers spinning stories to their parents is an event with which she’s all too familiar. Her own suspicion that Jessie lied about her plans for the evening resurfaces with a vengeance.
‘I think she may have a secret boyfriend.’ She clocks the amazement that registers on her mother’s face.
‘What makes you say that?’ Lori has Lightfoot’s full attention now, and she squirms inside, unsure whether she’s making a mountain out of a molehill.
‘I read something she’d written. A poem. About a guy she liked.’ Even to her own ears, the link seems tenuous.
‘Any indication of who it might be?’ Lightfoot asks.
‘No. I suppose she could have been referring to somebody on television, or in the movies.’
‘Ridiculous.’ Dana Golden’s voice is sharp. ‘Of course she doesn’t have a boyfriend. OK, so Jessie is sixteen, and kids mature earlier these days, but even so. She attends an all-girls’ school, and if she goes out in the evenings or at weekends, it’s to Emma’s or Marcie’s houses. There’s no way she was dating anyone.’
Lightfoot addresses Dana. ‘You’ve been out of the house all evening, from what you’ve said?’
‘Yes. I have membranous nephritis, coupled with nephrotic syndrome.’ When Lightfoot’s expression registers a question, Dana explains. ‘It’s a kidney disease, requiring several sessions of dialysis a week. It’s a thirty-minute drive to the hospital, and I’m there for four hours at a time. When I left home at half past five, Jessie was in her bedroom. She didn’t mention going out.’
‘What about Jessie’s father? Where’s he?’
Dana’s lips tighten, as does her expression. Lori, fearing a tirade is imminent, clears her throat before replying for her mother. ‘Dad’s in New York on a business trip,’ she tells Lightfoot. As he so often is, she adds silently. Fraser Golden’s career as a corporate lawyer means he’s frequently absent from her life. ‘I’ve called him; told him she’s missing. He’s catching the next available flight.’
‘And you were at home all evening, Mr Hamilton? Did Jessie say anything to you before leaving?’
Jake Hamilton shakes his head. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse, his eyes not meeting Lightfoot’s. ‘I was here all night, watching television.’
Lori recalls his hasty retrieval of his car keys. Has Jake been out somewhere? If so, why lie?
‘And you didn’t see or hear her leave?’ Lightfoot asks.
Jake shakes his head again. ‘No.’
‘She went out about seven o’clock,’ Lori interjects. ‘Going to a friend’s house, from what she said. She didn’t tell me whether she meant Emma or Marcie, and I didn’t ask.’ Why hadn’t she, though? Given she had been sure she’d caught Jessie in a lie. Had she done so, perhaps they wouldn’t be sitting here with the police, the atmosphere tighter than catgut in a violin.
‘Your son, Spencer, lives here as well, Mr Hamilton, is that correct? Do you know where he’s been this evening?’
‘He didn’t say where he was going. Out pubbing and clubbing, I’d guess.’
‘What time did he leave?’
Jake shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure. Around seven thirty, I think. Like I said, I was watching television, didn’t pay much attention.’
Lightfoot gives him a thin smile. ‘I’ll need a description of Jessie. Along with a recent photograph.’ She clicks the top of her pen, preparing to write.
Mindful of Dana’s distraught state, Lori reels off the salient points about her sister. Full name Jessica Marie Golden, aged sixteen. Slim yet curvy, her hair long, straight and mid-blonde. Eyes blue, flecked with hazel. Height five seven. Last seen wearing pink jeans and a white sleeveless V-necked top, her outfit teamed with cerise shoes and a matching bag.
‘She had several bangles on her right wrist,’ Lori finishes. ‘Those thin ones, silver with tiny beads.’
‘Any distinguishing marks or features?’
‘She was born with a cleft lip,’ Dana says. ‘They repaired it, but she still has a tiny scar. So pretty, she is, and it’s hardly noticeable anyway. Dear God.’ Her face is pale as chalk. ‘They don’t realise, not at that age, how vulnerable they are. You’ll find her, won’t you?’ She grasps the policewoman’s arm in a death grip. ‘Bring my baby girl back to me.’
Chapter 2
IDENTIFICATION
An hour before Dana’s panicked phone call to her daughter, Spencer Hamilton cracks open an eye, slamming it shut as pain knifes through his head. Something bristly, possibly carpet, nestles against his cheek. His exact location eludes him, although he’s aware that alcohol has been involved in his evening. No other explanation for the pneumatic drill inside his skull or the sand dune in his mouth.
Why can’t he remember anything? He’s been drunk plenty of times before, but his head has never pounded as hard as it does now, nor has he ever blacked out through alcohol in the past. If he’s taken pills or snorted something, and he hopes to God he hasn’t, it’s left one hell of a calling card. Think, he urges himself. Through the pain in his head, his mind reels back to earlier that evening.
Jessie teasing him about going to Murray’s. His uncharacteristic sharpness, leading to heated words. All because he was nervous about whether he’d score tonight. Spencer’s twenty-three, single and horny; his aim tonight was to get laid, and he wasn’t fussy about his choice of partner.
Before going out, he’d selected his clothes with care, picking tight black jeans teamed with a white button-down shirt. Plain and simple, nothing to signal to his father where he was going. If Jake Hamilton knew Spencer was planning a night at Murray’s, a lecture would be sure to follow; he has proved very vocal about such places. More specifically, the pills and powders for sale in the toilets, ones that have twisted his son’s head into knots in the past. None more so than ketamine, freely available at Murray’s if you know who to ask. Although Spencer’s days of dabbling with Special K are done, thank you very much. Tonight he wanted a pick-up, pure and simple. When he came downstairs, though, his father barely glanced up as he headed towards the front door. Not unusual, that.
Spencer runs his tongue over his chapped lips, his face still pressed against the carpet. Murray’s, that’s definitely where he went earlier. He remembers part of the evening, although his recollection remains fuzzy. Walking into the stuffy space, sweat dampening his palms. Pushing his way through the crowd. Then ordering a beer. His doubts as the minutes ticked by, his self-consciousness growing as he lounged against the bar, keen to give the impression he was used to Bristol’s gay scene. Except he wasn’t. The last thing he remembers was praying his unease didn’t show.
After that, things get hazy. Everything fades away, to be replaced by the pneumatic drill in his brain. Which concerns him. Not uncommon for memory lapses to occur with Special K. Did he partake of a little extra pharmaceutical fun this evening? Shit. The last thing he needs is to get hooked on that crap again.
He opens his eyes once more, despite the overhead light that tortures his optic nerves. From his prone position, he surveys the room. To his surprise, he’s not lying on carpet as he first thought. Instead, his face is pressed against the bristles of a mat. Above him stretches a flight of stairs. In front of him is laminate flooring, continuing under the rack of metal shelving occupying the middle of the room. Stacked on the shelves and at their base are large cardboard boxes, preventing him from seeing further. Where the hell is he? No clues, nothing that looks familiar. At the top of the stairs he spots a door, about a foot ajar, light from an overhead bulb filtering through the gap.
Spencer’s craving for water is becoming overpowering. He stretches out both arms, ready to brace himself as he stands up. His progress up the stairs is wobbly, uncertain; he’s grateful for the support the handrail offers. Once at the top, he sees a kitchen ahead. He stumbles over to the sink, twisting the tap on, sticking his mouth under the flow, not caring that water is drenching his shirt. God, that feels be
tter, although his head is still killing him. Once he has a cigarette, he’ll feel more human. Spencer surveys the rest of the kitchen, recognition now sparking in his brain. He’s in one of Dana Golden’s rental properties, the place currently awaiting new tenants. Where he’d intended to bring any pick-up he might score at Murray’s. Does this mean he succeeded? If so, where’s the guy?
From somewhere in the house, an odour floats into his nostrils. It’s faint, but reminds him of something. There’s a strange crackling sound that, like the smell, he recognises on some level. Is it his imagination or is the noise getting louder, the whiff more pronounced?
As fast as his shaky legs allow him, he moves into the hallway, only to have his worst fears confirmed. From beneath a doorway soft wisps of smoke are curling, delicate as morning mist. On the other side flames must be blazing, producing the crackling noise that’s much louder now he’s closer. Oh, God. The house is on fire. Time to call the emergency services, then leave, and quickly. No, wait. If he came here with someone, the guy might still be in the house. He calls up the stairwell, his voice hoarse.
‘Hey! Anyone up there?’ Silence greets his words. The smoke is no longer emerging in wisps but in plumes, the stink of burning stronger now. Spencer runs up the stairs, stumbling with the effort, checking each room for the man he’s been with tonight. They’re all empty. Seems he’s here alone, not that he has time to speculate on that. Odds are the fire downstairs will turn into an inferno, and soon.
He needs his jacket, though, along with his wallet and keys; his mobile, too, if he’s to alert the emergency services. The only place it can be is in the basement. Spencer hurries back down the steps to where he regained consciousness. In a corner, he notices his jacket; he grabs it, sliding his arms through the sleeves and shrugging it over his shoulders before turning to exit the basement. As he does, something intrudes on his peripheral vision. An arm, lying across the laminate flooring, visible from behind the shelves of boxes. His partner from tonight, obviously, still unconscious from the drugs and booze he presumes they shared. He moves closer, and more of the body to which the arm is connected becomes apparent. Spencer Hamilton freezes, his horror so intense that for a second his brain refuses to acknowledge what he’s seeing.
The arm is attached to a female lying on her back. Her right wrist, encircled with thin beaded bracelets, is draped across her stomach. From the waist down, she’s naked, her white V-necked top pushed up under her breasts. No sign of her knickers. Beside her is a pair of pink jeans, matching pumps, a handbag. Her eyes are open yet sightless, their whites streaked with burst blood vessels; her skin is an unnatural greyish shade. Around her neck is a length of electrical cord, wound tightly. Beneath it, livid purple welts stripe the flesh.
At first he doesn’t recognise her because he’s seeing her body from an unusual angle. What’s more, her face has a quality in death that’s unfamiliar. His gaze trails over her staring eyes, down her pallid cheeks, to her mouth. Awareness slams into him as he spots the scar on her top lip. The dead girl is Jessie Golden.
Spencer’s stomach spasms, almost causing him to bring up the water he’s just drunk. He doubles over, gulping in air as the nausea first hits, then recedes. Some part of his brain, still addled by drink, drugs or both, tries to persuade him he’s imagining things. That sixteen-year-old Jessie Golden’s corpse isn’t lying right before his eyes.
When the spasms finally pass, he becomes aware that the stench of burning is becoming more pronounced. He stumbles up the stairs, making for the hallway, past the billows of smoke issuing from under the door. The front entrance is unlocked, thank God, and he staggers down the driveway, gulping the cold night air into his lungs. All thoughts of calling 999 have vanished. What’s imperative is that he gets as far away as possible, and quickly.
Three a.m. on Friday morning. The Golden household hasn’t gone to bed; what would be the point? Impossible to sleep with Jessie missing, although nobody gives voice to the terror they all share. Their fear, however, is woven into the atmosphere like thorns throughout a wreath. Don’t such things happen to other families? What if this time, though, the grief lands on their doorstep?
Let Jessie be found alive, and soon. The mantra pounds through Lori’s head as she paces the room. God, she wishes Ryan was here. She’s texted her boyfriend, unwilling to go into details, simply asking him to call when he gets the chance. In contrast to Lori’s restlessness, Dana hunches, silent and withdrawn, on the sofa, Jake beside her.
‘Do you think I should call Spencer?’ he asks Lori.
Before she can reply, her mother interjects. ‘There’s no point. Not until we hear back from the police.’ A strangled sob from Dana. ‘Besides, what could he do?’
A question nags at Lori. Where the hell is Spencer? Why doesn’t Jake seem worried about his son’s whereabouts?
Because Spencer is male, comes the answer, and seven years older than Jessie. There’s a huge difference in vulnerability between a sixteen-year-old girl and a twenty-three-year-old man. Even though she doubts whether Spencer Hamilton, thin as a whippet and barely five eight, could hold his own if attacked. Hell, she’s sure he couldn’t.
What had he been arguing about with Jessie earlier? The words indistinct, the anger in them almost palpable, come back to her. Not that Lori, in a rush to get to Celine’s, paid much attention. At the time, she was heading to the bathroom to retrieve her make-up case, the argument reaching her through Jessie’s open bedroom door.
‘For God’s sake, Jessie. You’re not planning on telling my father, are you?’
Her sister’s girlish laugh rang out. ‘No need to get uptight. Why would anyone care if you go to a gay bar?’
Spencer’s tone remained annoyed. ‘That’s not the issue. Drugs are. Dad will think I’m using again if he knows I’m going there.’
Now, in the middle of the night and with her sister missing, Lori’s mind fast-forwards to Jessie’s words before she left the house. Yes, definitely something about hanging out at a friend’s place, the explanation vague, the words spoken too fast, as though Jessie, if she had to lie, needed to get it over with quickly. Lori, still in a rush, hadn’t paid her sister much heed. Now conviction steals over her: Jessie had been lying, something that for her isn’t the norm.
As the minutes crawl by, the tension in the room magnifies. When the doorbell chimes, its tinkling jollity shoots an almost physical pain through her, so tightly wound are her nerves. Dana’s head jerks up, but she remains frozen on the sofa.
‘I’ll go,’ Lori says.
When she opens the front door, three police officers are standing on the doorstep. Lightfoot and Baldwin, along with another woman. Empathy hovers in their expressions. In that instant, Lori understands no happy ending exists for the Golden family, not tonight. She gasps, barely suppressing her cry of pain. Her head shaking in denial, she holds Lightfoot’s gaze, silently pleading for different news. In the corner of the woman’s left eye she spots the beginnings of a tear, before it’s hastily blinked away.
Dana’s footsteps pad into the hallway. Lori gathers, from the strangled sounds her mother’s making, that Dana also understands the ghastly truth. How Jessie will never sass any of them again. No more pointed remarks about Lori’s untidiness, no more teasing Spencer over his unruly hair, an end to the rows over her weeknight curfew. All gone forever, ripping Lori’s heart to shreds.
Until the words are spoken, however, hope remains. Lightfoot guides Lori and Dana back into the living room, Baldwin and the other police officer following. Lightfoot introduces her as DC Meg Campbell.
Jake stands up. ‘Have you found her? Is she OK?’
Lori listens as Lightfoot says the awful words. She watches her mother’s eyes widen with shock and denial. Dana’s face crumples, tears streaming down her cheeks, the skin of which is chalky-pale.
‘God, no. Please, God, no. Tell me my little girl’s not dead.’ Raw anguish echoes in her mother’s voice, before she erupts into an almighty scream
. Her fists clenched, Dana sinks to her knees, rending the air with frenzied shrieks. The sounds she’s making are howls of agony, those of an animal caught in a trap. Jake takes her arm, but she pummels whatever parts of him she can reach, her eyes wild and mad. Pain, raw and brutal, strikes Lori at her mother’s despair.
Words reach Lori through the fog of horror surrounding her. Body discovered by firefighters. Naked from the waist down. Knickers not located. Lori learns a handbag was found beside the body, containing documentation identifying the dead girl as Jessie Golden. As notification had already been made that a teenager answering Jessie’s description had gone missing, the police linked the two events. A connection ending with their visit here tonight, DC Campbell being the family liaison officer assigned to the Goldens.
It’s then all hope shatters into a thousand pieces for Lori. Sweet Jessie, she of the soft blonde hair and scarred lip, is dead. Unlike Dana, she’s too shocked to cry. Tears will come later, but for now she’s unable to express her devastation. All hope that Jessie might come home has ended, killed by the tinny chimes of the doorbell.
From where she crouches on the floor, tortured sounds continue to erupt from Dana, causing DC Campbell to kneel beside her. She grasps her shoulders, turns the distraught woman to face her. ‘I need you to calm down,’ she says, her eyes fixed on Dana’s, cool authority in her words. They appear to hit their mark, because Dana gulps, then quietens, although her demented stare still frightens Lori.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Golden,’ Campbell continues, as she guides Dana to a seat. How trite the words sound, thinks Lori. But then, she guesses, they’re probably ones the woman has used many times already in her career. On the sofa, Dana Golden continues to sob, her arms wrapped around her knees, as she rocks to and fro incessantly.
Baldwin pulls Lori aside, her voice low and measured. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Ms Golden. Would you be willing to identify the body?’
Jake steps forward, a frown on his face. ‘Is that necessary? I thought you’d found Jessie’s handbag? With her purse and everything?’