by Maggie James
‘We did. We still need two people who knew her to state that the body is that of Jessica Golden. The handbag and purse provide strong evidence, but by themselves they’re not enough.’
‘I’ll do it.’ Lori’s tone is decisive, despite her revulsion. She prays she’ll have the necessary strength. That her legs won’t collapse from under her.
‘You’re sure?’ Baldwin asks.
‘Yes. Whatever you need.’
The woman coughs. ‘As I mentioned, we require two people. I’m not sure your mother is in a fit state, however.’ She looks pointedly at Jake, who nods his assent. For that, Lori’s grateful. Impossible to subject Dana to such an ordeal.
In the hospital mortuary, the twin odours of bleach and disinfectant hang in the air. Lori’s standing in front of a glass viewing pane; what lies beyond is currently in darkness. She shivers, both from the temperature and in anticipation of what awaits her. Lori’s already been made aware of how her sister died. Strangulation, the life choked from her by a length of electrical flex. She prays she won’t see any evidence of that; no angry wounds around her sister’s neck, no proof of the horror of Jessie’s final moments.
And there isn’t, thank God. Someone switches on the light behind the viewing pane, and in a burst of neon, Jessie lies before Lori’s eyes. A sheet covers her body, brought up under the chin so the throat is hidden. For that, Lori’s thankful. For the agony that slices her soul as her gaze falls on the dead girl in front of her, she isn’t. In that second, every last shred of hope withers, shrivels, becomes as lifeless as Jessie. She hadn’t realised it, but she’s been praying this is all a terrible mistake. The corpse of a different blonde teenager will be on the gurney. Except that it’s not. No blunder, this. This time the grief really has landed on the Goldens’ doorstep.
Lori stares at her sister. Jessie’s skin is unnaturally pale, but she looks peaceful, her face unmarked; whoever attacked her didn’t spoil her prettiness. The scar, almost invisible yet so much a part of her, nestles on her upper lip. Her hair has been carefully arranged around her head, framing it in a pool of gold. Her eyes are, of course, shut. Apart from the pallor of her skin, she might be asleep, here in this cold, awful place that sees so much tragedy.
Beside her, Jake stands immobile, silent. Lori steals a glance at him; his expression is shuttered, his face as pale as Jessie’s. Why doesn’t he speak, say something? The rigidity of his body strikes her as unnatural, odd, even given the terrible nature of this place. Then there was his weird behaviour with his car keys.
‘Ms Golden?’ Lightfoot squeezes her elbow, reminding her why she’s here.
Lori marvels at how she finds the words, let alone the fact that her voice doesn’t crack. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That’s Jessie. That’s my sister.’
While Lori is gazing at her sister’s dead face, Dana Golden is remembering her daughter in her own way. Curled on her bed, her eyes gritty from tears and lack of sleep, she’s a foetal ball, the tightness of her shoulders a shield against the world. In her hand, she clutches a necklace, its gold chain spilling from her fingers, the locket held tight in her palm. A present for Dana’s birthday ten years ago, bought with Fraser Golden’s money, but given from Jessie’s six-year-old heart.
‘Isn’t it pretty, Mummy?’ Her daughter’s voice oozed pride as she bounced on the spot a decade ago, unable to contain her excitement. The handmade card Jessie had painted to accompany the necklace stood on the kitchen table, depicting Dana as a stick-woman resplendent in Day-Glo pink, captioned with the words ‘I love you, Mummy’. Dozens of scribbled kisses followed the declaration.
Against Dana’s palm, the locket is clammy with her sweat. She unfurls her fist, revealing its golden heart shape. Etched on the front is a stylised flower, swirls scrolling from it to the locket’s edges. Dana flicks open her treasure.
Inside is a photograph of mother and daughter, Jessie’s six-year-old self forever captured on an outing to Westonbirt Arboretum. She’d spent hours kicking through the autumn leaves, their russet hues swirling around her feet, eventually growing tired. ‘Hug time!’ she’d shouted, and Dana was powerless to resist. Dizzy with love, she scooped Jessie into her arms, as Fraser, the proud father, snapped a photo. Now Dana’s eyes travel over her daughter’s face, causing her belly to melt with grief. A pit of longing exists inside her, seated where she carried Jessie for thirty-five weeks until her daughter’s premature birth. She emits a strangled cry, curling in tighter on herself, still clutching the locket, as though by doing so she can prevent what’s happened. If she can keep Jessie safe inside her palm, she can turn back the clock. Her baby will live.
Whether Dana can is another matter.
Chapter 3
INVESTIGATION
Later on Friday, once the body has been identified, the questions start, taking place in the living room of the Golden house. The police talk to Dana first, their enquiries informal for now, seeing as Lightfoot and Baldwin are still gathering facts. They’ve already established that 26 The Elms, where Jessie’s body was found, is one of Dana’s five rental properties. Lori glances at her mother, fearful for her health; she suspects she’s barely holding herself together. The urge to comfort her, as well as share her own grief, is strong, but she needs to allow the police to do their work. Instead, Lori retreats upstairs, dreading what’s coming. Someone has to inform her father that, as of today, he has one daughter, not two, and it’s better done before he arrives at the house; she can at least spare her mother that task. She assumes her father will call her anyway, rather than Dana, once he lands in the UK.
She’s proved right half an hour later when her mobile rings, Fraser’s name flashing up on the screen. He doesn’t bother with preliminaries. ‘Lori? Has she been found?’ Every syllable pulses with hope mixed with dread.
‘Yes.’ The word comes out as a mere squeak. His favourite daughter, his beloved Jessie, is dead, and she’s the one forced to break the news. Fraser Golden, the background noises indicating he’s at Heathrow, probably having just landed, reacts with disbelief, then fury, finally tears. For a full minute, his choking sobs are all she hears.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ His voice is thick with grief.
‘Dad, the police are here. They’re talking to Mum. Trying to establish what happened.’
‘They’d better have answers.’ The connection goes dead. Behind his anger, Lori’s aware how deeply her father’s suffering. Beautiful, exuberant Jessie. Beside the shining sun that’s her sister, Lori’s always believed herself a pale moon, especially where Fraser’s concerned. She still finds it hard to accept he no longer lives with them. I wish Mum and Dad were still together, she thinks, before admonishing herself. Does she really want a replay of all that drama, mercifully absent during the two years since her parents’ divorce? The rows between Dana and Fraser Golden during the dying gasps of their marriage were vicious, far more so than the more recent ones with Jake. She suspects, though, that despite Dana’s protestations she still carries a torch for her ex-husband.
On her way downstairs, Lori passes her mother, noting her puffy eyes. Her skin is pale, her gaze glassy. Dana is heading to her bedroom, the police questioning clearly over, at least for now. ‘Mum. You should rest. Please.’
The look her mother gives her is wild, manic. ‘Rest? Are you out of your mind? I have to phone Fraser.’
‘Already done.’ The blankness on Dana’s face gives way to relief. ‘He’s on his way here now.’
Lightfoot exits the living room as Lori reaches the bottom step. ‘Can we speak with you next, please, Ms Golden?’
‘Of course.’ Lori has little choice, although she yearns to call Ryan. There are already three missed calls on her mobile, the result of her text to him last night. Soon, she promises herself. Right now, though, she needs to talk with the police.
Lori follows the woman into the living room. Lightfoot and Baldwin fire questions at her; Lori confirms what time Jessie left the house, what she was wearing
, her last words. Lightfoot enquires whether her sister owned a laptop they can check. Lori reiterates what Dana must have already told them: her mother’s refusal to allow Jessie a computer of her own. Instead, she made her use the family one for her homework, its Internet access strictly monitored.
‘Where were you last night between the hours of six p.m. and midnight?’ Baldwin asks.
‘With friends.’ The memory of Aiden’s shocked face, once she’d announced the reason for her hasty departure, haunts her. She remembers he’s someone else she needs to call. ‘I left at seven fifteen to go to my mate Celine’s flat. Jessie had already gone out, around seven. I stayed at Celine’s until nine, then dropped round to see my friend Aiden. I was there until I got the call telling me my sister was missing.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About eleven. I drove straight home, arrived back at ten past.’
‘I’ll need both sets of names and addresses.’
Shock floods Lori at the implication. ‘Of course. But surely you can’t think . . . ? I would never hurt my sister. I loved Jessie. Everyone did.’
‘We’re just covering all bases, Ms Golden. Did you speak with Spencer Hamilton last night?’
‘No. Jessie did, though. I heard the two of them arguing in her room.’
‘Do you know what about?’
‘He was worried Jessie might tell his father he was going to a gay bar.’
‘And you’ve no idea which one? Where he might be now?’
‘He didn’t say. I guess he’s sleeping off a hangover somewhere.’
‘Anything else you can tell us? Any detail, no matter how small?’
Time to reiterate the suspicions Dana Golden had refuted. ‘Whatever my mother says, I still wonder whether Jessie had a boyfriend. Or at least someone she fancied. Can I show you the poem I mentioned?’
Lightfoot nods. Lori walks upstairs, into her sister’s bedroom. She bypasses the underwear drawers in Jessie’s dressing table, heading for the bottom one. No clothes or knickers in here. Instead, her eyes are met by a pile of notepads, their edges stacked in precise lines; Lori picks up the top one. She glides her fingers over the embroidered cover; Jessie always bought the best she could afford, and this must have cost a lot of money. Inside will be her sister’s poetry.
Jessie discovered the joy of haiku not long after her twelfth birthday, encouraged by her English teacher. Straight away she fell in love with its simplicity, its brevity, collecting books of haiku poems. In time, she wrote her own, always sticking with the traditional Japanese three-line, five-seven-five-syllable format. Lori flicks forward, each poem already familiar. Their themes change as the notebook fills up. At the start, Jessie was more concerned with nature; as she hit her teenage years, her focus switched to matters of the heart. Jessie’s haiku tell of love, of loss, of things she can only have imagined, yet their words leap from the page, raw with emotion.
Lori discovered this particular one a few days ago, when she wanted some of Jessie’s sparkly nail polish. The notebook lay on her sister’s dressing table, inviting Lori to pick it up, check for any additions. Mindful now of Lightfoot downstairs, she turns to the last poem, the one fuelling her suspicions. It’s dated a week before her sister’s death.
So handsome, he is,
Yet older; forbidden fruit.
Still I long for him.
Older. Forbidden fruit. At the time, she intended to ask Jessie who she meant, but forgot. Now she wonders. Did some man catch Jessie’s eye? Still I long for him. Could indicate anything from a fleeting crush to a full-blown sexual affair. Or, as Lori said to Lightfoot earlier, Jessie might have been referring to somebody on television or in the movies.
She takes the notebook downstairs, handing it to Lightfoot, who glances at it cursorily. ‘Thank you, Ms Golden. That’ll be all for now. Could you ask Mr Hamilton to come in, please?’
At last Lori’s alone, upstairs in her bedroom. Ryan: she needs whatever comfort he can offer, before she breaks under the weight of her grief. She pulls out her mobile, noting she’s missed another call from him. It takes all her strength to hold herself together as her fingers stab shakily at the screen. Pick up, pick up, pick up, she prays, aware the horror she’s about to reveal will test whether their fledgling relationship is forged from steel or paper.
To her relief, he answers straight away.
‘Hi.’ His voice purrs in her ear, but with a worried undertone. ‘Babe, is everything all right? I tried to call you several times, once I got your text.’
Sobs choke Lori as her misery washes over her. Horrible wrenching sounds of grief, thick with tears, emerge from her throat as she sinks onto the bed, swiping at her eyes with her sleeve.
‘Lori? Sweetheart, what’s wrong?’ The concern in Ryan’s voice has ratcheted up several notches. ‘Talk to me? Please?’
The obvious caring in his words almost unravels her, as does the endearment. Yet, in a way, they stitch her together again, telling her, loud and clear, what they’re building is strong, true. The realisation gives her the wherewithal to speak.
‘Jessie’s dead.’
‘What?’ The horror in Ryan’s voice matches her own. She hears him drag in a long breath before replying. ‘Oh, my God. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. What the hell happened?’
She tells him the bare facts. ‘I should be with you,’ Ryan informs her, decisiveness in his tone. ‘Let me hold you, Lori. I want to help you.’
‘No.’ Fresh sobs choke her. ‘Dad will be arriving soon. I need to be here when he does. And I can’t leave Mum. She’s barely functioning.’
‘I understand.’ His voice is gentle, soothing.
‘Maybe later,’ Lori offers.
‘Please,’ he says. ‘Even if it’s only for a few minutes. I’ll call you soon.’
Two hours later, Fraser Golden arrives. When Lori opens the door, fresh pain strikes her at the devastation in his face. They’ve not been close during the two years since her parents’ divorce, his multiple betrayals of Dana souring his relationship with his daughters. All that’s irrelevant now. As she surveys his ravaged expression, his bloodshot eyes, she understands he’s been crying again, a realisation that tears at her heart. Fraser Golden is big, six three and built to match: barrel chest, thick arms, rugby player’s legs. Yet the man before her appears broken, his former ebullience demolished like a house of cards.
After his arrival, the atmosphere in the house turns ugly. As does Fraser’s mood. He storms around, demanding answers.
‘You’d better find my daughter’s killer, and soon,’ he shouts at Lightfoot, his face flushed, the tendons in his neck taut with anger. ‘Because I’m going nowhere until the sick bastard’s caught.’
Lori escapes to her room. Impossible to avoid her father’s accusatory tones penetrating the floor, however. Lightfoot’s own are heard, asking him to lower his voice. After a while, the shouting tapers away. She surmises he’s being questioned about Jessie, not that he’ll be much help, having been in New York.
Lori remembers she’s not yet called Aiden. The temptation steals over her to let it slide, yet she’s aware she can’t. The memory of his horrified face yesterday evening, his urgent pleas for her to keep him informed, the several missed calls from him, all mean she needs to make another grim phone call.
Like Ryan, he answers immediately. ‘Lori? Have they found Jessie? Is she OK?’ The frantic quality in his voice turns to shock as she relays the news. When she finishes, there’s silence for a while, then a convulsive gulp before he speaks.
‘Oh, my God,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe it.’ He sounds distraught, clearly trying to pull himself together. ‘She was sixteen, for fuck’s sake. How could this happen?’ Lori’s stunned. Are those tears she’s hearing in his voice?
‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asks.
‘No.’ She realises she’s been abrupt, but she’s a millimetre away from cracking inside herself. ‘Listen, I have to go. The police are here. So is Dad.’
‘Can I call you later? Please?’
Lori, too tired to argue, agrees. ‘Sure.’
Once the conversation ends, she reclines on her bed, trying to get a handle on Aiden’s reaction. He’s taken the news badly, worse than she’d have predicted, seeing as he never met Jessie. She rebukes herself. Would she rather he’d been dismissive, uncaring? Of course not. Perhaps her words have triggered some awful memory, something he’s not yet ready to share. She curls into a ball, sweeping Aiden from her mind, salty tears pricking her eyes. Jessie, her beloved sister, is dead; her pallid face on the mortuary gurney continues to haunt Lori.
Around her, the rest of the house is silent, brooding, wrapped in late-afternoon stillness. Dana and Jake are in their bedroom, having presumably collapsed at last into an exhausted sleep. Spencer’s still not home, but Fraser has left, saying he needs a shower and a change of clothes, but emphasising, his tone dark, how he’ll be back later. Lori seizes her chance. She turns the handle to her sister’s bedroom door, pushing it open. Once inside, she inhales, desperate to regain some sense of Jessie. Anything to obliterate the horror of her corpse lying in the mortuary. A faint perfume lingers in the air. From an early age, Jessie has been fastidious over cleanliness; put in a room blindfolded, Lori could identify her sister by scent alone. The soft waft of baby powder. The clean fragrance of her shampoo. More recently, her Juicy Couture perfume.
Lori surveys the neatness of her sister’s bedroom, so different from the chaos in her own. The single bed, its sugar-pink duvet topped with stuffed animals. The clay bowls, made during Jessie’s pottery phase, painted in shades of red and aquamarine. On the wall are numerous paintings done by her sister, all of them riots of colour. Such a contrast to the pink and peach hues she always favoured for her clothes. A girl of two halves, thinks Lori, as she glances around. Young for her age, still clinging to her childhood toys, but her burgeoning womanhood is also apparent. Take the row of nail polishes, all pearly pinks and sparkling silvers, lined up on her dressing table. The beads, hair clips and earrings, their plastic and gilt winking at Lori from the pottery bowls. Beside the nail polishes sits Jessie’s bottle of Juicy Couture.