#justiceforalison
Very interesting. They want your name. They want to know who you are. After following the Twitter hashtag for a while, I created my own account—a pseudonym, of course—and added my own voice to the mix.
Fkin bitch. She let that syco out. She’s in on it. #justiceforalison
And then another account.
Don’t give up. #justiceforalison. Find the nurse.
And another account.
Why should we pay for her to be safe? #justiceforalison
And another account.
I heard her name was Leah. Anyone else hear that? #justiceforalison
And then I almost had to leave the library, because I wanted to laugh. Oh, Leah, you poor thing. You do end up in the shit, don’t you? I got a little distracted from the Twittering Twats who want your blood and instead Googled Tom’s old school, discovered a few kids his age in the catchment area and looked to see if I could find a profile for your little brother—or your son, if what you told me on the moors was true. If anyone is going to fuck up big time, I imagine it’s that little dweeb. I tried reading NHS news articles and the websites for hospitals in different areas, going through staff pictures, but I still don’t know where you are. I don’t even have a radius to begin with.
Then it dawned on me. What if the #justiceforalison mob got your full name? Would it take long for them to find your photograph? And once they had your photograph, someone might recognise you.
I went back to my tweet: I heard her name was Leah. Anyone else hear that? #justiceforalison. Then I created another account in order to reply to my own tweet. Leah Smith. From Hackney, moved to Hutton, where she worked at Crowmont Hospital. Spread the word. #justiceforalison. We’ll get her, and the little psycho Isabel Fielding.
Then I leaned back and smiled. My original tweet already had five retweets and six hearts. Now those retweets and hearts were going up. There were replies back. Are you sure? This is a game-changer. And: Fuck, yes! Finally, someone with balls. But my favourite tweet is this one: This is right. I worked at Crowmont Hospital. I knew her. So glad it’s out there. Sick of keeping her secret.
It’s only a matter of time, Leah. The people on the internet want you just as much as I do, and now they have your name. Soon, they’ll have your new name, and I will find you.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I’m Evelyn again, only this time I’m searching for the Pierces. This distraction is a welcome one. Otherwise, I would be worrying about Tom, who hasn’t been in touch for a few days now. The house is quiet and lonely, with nothing but the TV to keep me company. I become obsessed with watching the footage from the camera on the door and then I buy an extra lock, but that just makes me feel guilty about not buying it while Tom was here. I’m not sure why. I’ve never been great at protecting him, have I? And now I’m here, locked away in the bungalow, while Tom is out there all on his own.
Without Tom here, I’ve abandoned all attempts at exercise and self-defence, not that I was doing much anyway. As soon as Tom joined the gym, I lost the motivation to do it on my own. At one time I fantasised that if Isabel ever found me again, I’d be ready for her, but now that isn’t going to happen. She’ll find a mess, just like before.
No, forget Leah and her problems. I’m Evelyn now. I’m searching for clues, because I will find out what happened to Abigail Hawker. The desire to know burns brightly inside me, sometimes competing with my desire to keep Tom safe, to want Isabel out of my life for good, to wish bad things on the people who use the #justiceforalison hashtag.
Maybe not that last one.
Evelyn continues to post in local history groups about the Pierce family. Where did they go? One mentioned Liverpool. Another says London. How am I going to find them in these large cities? The name is not unusual enough. I’ll never be able to track them down. Eventually, I give up on Facebook and make a phone call instead.
He answers after just one ring. “Leah—I mean, Lizzie.”
“You don’t have to call me that over the phone,” I say. “I’m guessing your mobile isn’t being tapped.”
“It would be unlikely,” Murphy replies. “But yours?”
“I’m safe,” I say. “Well, for the time being, I guess.”
“How are you?” he asks. “Keeping all right?”
“I’m okay. Tom moved out, though. He wanted to live with some new friends he’s made.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”
“He wanted space. I guess we all deal with trauma in different ways.” I force myself to smile as I talk, and then remember how my mum used to do exactly the same thing when she was in tears. There she was on the phone, smiling, tears running down her cheeks.
“As long as you’re safe and happy. How can I help you today?” he asks.
“It’s about that cold case I told you about.” It feels strange to use the vernacular of a police officer, and for a moment I fancy myself a character in a Hitchcock film. “I’m still helping the elderly man in the nursing home. It’s a welcome distraction, to be honest. Otherwise I’d be obsessing over… her.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he says. “Go on. Have you found anything out? I’m afraid the lad I had researching this case couldn’t find much.”
“Actually, yes,” I say. “We found out that George Hawker’s mother had an abusive ex-husband called Simon Blackthorn. He moved away to somewhere near Canterbury, where I think there was a home for displaced children during the war. I actually need to check that out. But there’s also this family that disappeared around the same time. The Pierces.” I explain to him what I think, telling him about the unusual husband and the circumstances surrounding their disappearance. I hear Murphy’s pen scribbling away as he diligently takes notes. “If I do some research into the children’s home, could you do me a favour and check out the Pierces?”
“I will,” he says.
“Any news? You know, about her.”
“A strange sighting in Wales,” he says. “If it’s real, it means she’s a long way away from you. The… new victim… the girl. It seems that Isabel was with this girl for a while. They stole a car and drove around a bit. The girl was a junkie. She rode around with a bad lot, dealt some drugs, prostituted herself for a while. I don’t know how Isabel ended up with her, but when we found the abandoned car, we checked CCTV at a few petrol stations, and Isabel was in the car with her. It appears that they were travelling together. We’re piecing things together, Leah. Sit tight for now, okay?”
“I will.”
After I hang up, the house feels even quieter than ever.
*
That night, I dream of blood again. It’s on my hands and face, smeared on like lipstick. I wake up thinking of the girl Isabel befriended. Did that girl have any idea about the danger she was in? At what point did she know she was in too deep and that Isabel was going to open her jaws and swallow her whole? At least one thing is certain—Isabel killed that girl. No one else.
Because I was beginning to wonder.
But I won’t let my mind go there.
No news from Tom. Perhaps he’s lost to me. I remember when I was looking forward to the day he would come out to me and announce that he’s gay. I had this fantasy all built up in my mind of a rainbow-coloured cake on the kitchen counter with a heartfelt note alongside the plate. I’d tear up, turn around, see him there with a nervous expression on his face. Then I’d throw my arms around him and tell him that I loved him and was proud of him. Okay, so I was a bit of a lame, uncool older sister to him, but I never doubted his love for me, not until the moment he lifted that knife and held it out to me in a threatening way. That wasn’t the Tom I know and love.
Toast for breakfast. Don’t think about what Tom is eating. Is he eating? Can he afford food? No, don’t think about it, because you’ll drive yourself mad. Instead, focus on the Hawkers. The children’s home.
The morning flies by in a blur of visitors and paperwork. I’ve almost completed the d
atabase, which means I’ll have a little time on my hands if I take the last of the work slowly. In stolen minutes here and there, I search for children’s homes operating in the area in 1944. Where is close enough to Canterbury to be the place Rita Blackthorn told me about? Where could this home be? There are four possible children’s homes. One has now been converted into flats, a second was turned into a private hospital, the third was knocked down in the eighties and is now a multi-storey carpark, and the last one is now a school. But there have to be records of the children who once lived there. To find those records, I’ll have to phone up local libraries or a local registry office and see if they have any information.
Well, I wanted a distraction.
When lunch comes around, I take my tuna sandwich to George’s room and sit with him, but he’s asleep. I stay there anyway, not wanting him to be alone. George sleeps a lot now, and that worries me. The bedsheets seem looser against his body, and there are dark circles beneath his eyes. Old age creeps up on us all. When I’m old, what will make me feel proud? I see no great acts of bravery in my past, only failures.
“Talk later, George.” A small kiss for his forehead.
As I walk back to my desk, I can’t stop thinking about Abigail and her disappearance. Canterbury isn’t very far away from Clifton. If you were going to kidnap a child, wouldn’t you take them farther away? Ideally, out of the country. But not every criminal in history was a master criminal. Some of them got away with it because of the time period or plain old luck. There’s no way I can rule out the children’s home, but I have to admit, I’m not holding out much hope.
Before I start calling libraries and registry offices, I put everything I’ve found out in an email to Mark. We’ve agreed to keep each other updated. He sends me back a gif of a cartoon character dialling an old-fashioned telephone. I send him one of someone falling asleep at their desk.
The afternoon is busier, but I manage to cross one phone call from my list. They take my details and ask what information I need before promising to email me back. Then I find myself swamped by organising doctors’ calendars and arranging meetings for the executive staff. I even end up staying half an hour late before heading home. The empty bungalow awaits, and I can’t claim to be ecstatic about getting home. At least the bus journey is scenic, with views of the sea and the promenade along Clifton Bay.
“Excuse me.”
When I pull myself away from the window of the bus, I see that a woman in her thirties with her hair pulled into a tight bun has leaned across the aisle to come closer to me.
“Don’t I know you?” she asks.
“I don’t think so,” I reply. The way she’s staring at me makes me feel ill at ease. Whoever she thinks I am, she doesn’t seem happy to see me.
“I’m sure I know you,” she insists.
Luckily, a little boy no older than five pulls on her jacket, and she tears her gaze away from me. But once more she turns and glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and I’m sure she’s scowling now. My stomach flips over with worry, and my chest begins to feel tight. Rather than stay on the bus with this strange woman, I decide to ring the bell and get off at the next stop, hoping she’s not doing the same. The bus brakes suddenly as I’m getting out of my seat, causing me to bump into the woman with my hip.
“Sorry,” I mutter as I hurry off the bus, my fingers trembling. I thought the new medication was supposed to help me with anxiety? God knows it makes me feel groggy and out of it enough.
Three stops away from home. I have quite an uphill walk, but the fresh air feels good. Who was that woman, and why did she frighten me like that? Am I reading into things too much? Am I overreacting?
Of course I’m overreacting. I have one of those bland faces that people mistake for their local shop owner, or the person they see at the bus stop, or someone they went to school with ten years ago. It means nothing.
The fresh air is nice for a time, but soon the effort of the uphill walk causes me to sweat, and before long, the back of my shirt is sticking to my skin. Cars pass me on the narrow road, and the rumble of their engines makes me tense and edgy. Exhaust fumes mix with the sea salt in the air. I long for the quiet. The empty bungalow now feels like a haven against the stress of the journey back.
But as I approach the bungalow, there’s an alien object on the front step that causes me to stop in my tracks and makes my stomach heave. I don’t like things on my front doorstep, especially not things like this.
A dead magpie lies there lifeless. I turn around and walk away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I have nowhere to go, but I know I’m not walking into that house. As I turn on my heel and begin hurrying down the hill, I almost drop my handbag onto the driveway. But I’ll need that. I need to keep my wits about me, too; otherwise, I’ll be in deep trouble.
Who can I call? Tom? DCI Murphy? Adam?
No. The first person I call is Mark.
I’m not sure why I’m calling Mark instead of Tom. Mark has a car, which of course is useful, but I’m not sure where he lives or works, if he could even see me, and of course how to explain my predicament. How can I? I can’t even tell him who I am. And yet I call him.
“Hey, Lizzie, what’s up?”
“I’m really sorry to bother you. Are you at work?”
“No, it’s okay. I just got home.”
“Oh, okay, good. I…” A bus whizzes past, and my breath catches. Pull it together, Leah. I think about taking a couple of extra pills, but I’m not sure I have the dexterity in my trembling fingers to retrieve them from my bag. “I don’t know how to explain all of this, but I wondered if we could meet now. For a coffee or something?”
“Of course. Have you found something?”
“No. It’s nothing to do with Abigail or George. I… umm, I just could do with someone to talk to.”
There’s a slight pause before he answers brightly, “Then you called the right person, Lizzie. Shall I pick you up? We could go to mine. It’s nice and quiet.”
“Thanks.” I give him directions to the next bus stop and sit down inside the shelter. Staying still seems wrong, but I can’t keep walking forever.
It’s just a magpie, I tell myself. But what if it isn’t? As I wait for Mark, I contemplate calling Adam and telling him what’s happened, but what if he overreacts and relocates us immediately? Would Tom come with me? If he didn’t come with me, would he be safe? After another deliberation with myself, I decide to call Tom to make sure he’s okay.
He answers the phone after letting it ring nine times. I count them.
“I thought I said not to call for a few days,” Tom says by way of greeting.
“I just wanted to check you’re all right.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good.”
“Is something going on?”
I take a deep breath, deciding that there are enough secrets between the two of us. “I found a dead magpie on the doorstep, and… well, you know what that means.”
“Did it die there, or was it put there?” he asks. “If it died there, there would be marks on the door. It probably flew into the door or something. I found that bird around the back, didn’t I? The birds are mental here. Maybe it’s the sea or something.”
“I didn’t look.”
“I don’t think it’s her,” he says. “It’s not her style.”
“How do you know what her style is?”
He laughs. “What, you think you were the only one there that night in the farmhouse? When you find my head on the doorstep, that’s when you’ll know—”
“How can you say that?”
“Grow up, Leah. You probably imagined it.”
“Jesus, Tom—”
He hangs up, cutting me off, leaving me staring at my phone. I could throw it into the road and stamp on it until my feet hurt, but the honk of a horn makes me start, and the phone slips through my fingers onto the pavement instead.
“Sorry.” Mark leans out of the window and
smiles apologetically. “Thought the horn thing would be funny, but it really wasn’t.”
“It’s okay. I’m a bit jumpy, that’s all.”
“Get in.”
I retrieve my phone from the tarmac and climb into the passenger’s seat. Mark still seems sheepish after his little joke.
“Sorry about startling you. Is everything all right? You don’t seem yourself.”
“I’m okay. Just had a bit of a fright, that’s all.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, it’s a long story.” I should probably be utilising this time to come up with a good story to explain what’s happened to me over the last few days, but my mind is completely blank. Then I consider telling him everything, but that would be stupid. I glance in his direction and wonder, how well do I know this person? Can I trust him? There’s no reason not to. Surely, Mark couldn’t have anything to do with Isabel. He’s just a normal guy living in a normal town who is trying to help his family.
“You can tell me over a cup of coffee. I would suggest a coffee shop, but when you said you wanted to talk, I figured you’d prefer somewhere more private. But if you’d prefer a coffee shop, just let me know.”
“No,” I say. “Your place is just fine.”
*
Mark’s small terrace reminds me of Susie’s house. It has that light, airy feel, with bright colours and large windows. He doesn’t live like a typical guy, where the décor often contains harsh contrasts between white and dark, glass and metal. His place is softer and even has a few throws and cushions. He has good taste.
“This isn’t what I expected,” I admit.
“I can’t take credit,” he says. “Most of it was bought by my ex. But she left suddenly and didn’t bother taking anything with her.”
“Oh.” That revelation surprises me. I had thought he was still seeing someone. “I’m sorry.”
He casts his eyes downwards as though the memory is still painful. “That’s also a long story, but you’re not here to hear mine, you’re here to tell me yours.” He moves around the kitchen, opening cupboard doors and finding the paraphernalia for his fancy coffee maker, the kind that use little bullet-shaped pods to create different flavours. “Regular coffee? Chocolate? Vanilla? This thing has it all.”
Two For Joy (Isabel Fielding Book 2) Page 14