Sarah Dee Was Here

by Steve Galloway

  “Then what’s it doing here?”

  “How should I know?”

  Terry felt in his back pocket for his keys and while he did so Sharon tried the door handle out of impatience. To her surprise it pushed down and she was able to open the door.

  “Terry, it’s not locked!”

  “OK” said Terry, feeling his wife getting anxious and trying to remain calm, “maybe Millie’s in.”

  “But she works Saturdays...”

  The couple walked into the house. All seemed fairly normal, except for the lights: all the lights were on. Terry felt a strange tension rising in his gut.

  “Millie” he shouted. Sharon did the same. There was no answer.

  “Millie!”

  Nothing.

  “She must be at work, must’ve left the door unlocked. We’ll be lucky if we haven’t been burgled. I’ll look upstairs” said Terry.

  “What about the pizza?” asked Sharon.

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s nothing. Go and check the lounge and kitchen.”

  Terry darted up the stairs and checked all four bedrooms, the study and the bathroom, his heart beating with an urgency he didn’t like to admit to Sharon. They were all empty: superficially at least. He ran back down the stairs and found his wife in the kitchen.

  “The TV was on” she said with worried eyes. “There was no sound, but it was left on.”

  “It’s fine” said Terry, “we’ve not been burgled, she’s not upstairs. She must have just left in a hurry. Probably overslept.”

  “But the pizza?”

  “OK, maybe she ordered it last night and fell asleep before it arrived.”

  “So the man just left it and didn’t accept any money?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s just phone the salon and check she’s safe.”

  “Terry”

  “What?”

  Sharon was pointing to the shelf next to the microwave where family detritus always gathered. Terry saw what she was pointing at.

  “Her car keys!”

  “I’ll check the garage.”

  Terry ran out through the kitchen door. Sharon felt a lump rising in her throat. She suddenly saw the red light flashing on the telephone display.

  One new voicemail message.

  She pressed the button to access the message; her palm moist around the handset...

  She heard a voice:

  Hello Millie. It’s Amanda here at the salon. It’s 11.30am on Saturday and I’m just ringing to see where you are and if you’re OK. I’ve tried your mobile and there was no answer. Can you let me know when you get this message and tell me if you’re going to be in work at all. OK, thanks Millie, hope to hear from you soon. Bye.

  Terry rushed in from the garage and looked at wife’s ashen face as she held the phone to her ear. He knew something was wrong now, why else was his daughter’s Mini still in the garage?

  Sharon dropped the receiver onto the floor.

  Thirty

  The girl pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear and repeated the words again. She never expected this to go well, but she could already tell it was going badly:

  “I’m having your baby”

  “No you’re not” he said with a half-smile on his face that wasn’t reflected in his eyes, “tell me you’re joking right...?”

  “It’s not a joke. I’m pregnant.”

  “What the fuck!” he yelled, clenching his fists and rising from the table. He was breathing hard and looked unsure what he should do. He slammed one fist into the other.

  “You can’t be! You’re on the fucking pill aren’t you? Or was that a lie?”

  “I am. I don’t know how it’s happened. The pill doesn’t always work, I guess...”

  “Bullshit! You planned this. You wanted this to happen!”

  “You think I wanted to get pregnant at seventeen!?” yelled the girl.

  He walked away towards the window and stared out, all was silent for a moment, then he grabbed his hair in his hands and let out a guttural roar, the intensity of which sent a shiver through her bones. He walked back over to her and shouted inches from her face:

  “I know what you’re doing. You planned this all to trap me. Well it’s not going to work. I’m not having a thing to do with you or that baby.”

  “You have to. Legally you have to...”

  She didn’t finish what she was saying. He drew back his fist and punched her in the mouth. She fell backwards off her chair and lay motionless on the kitchen floor, blood trickling from her lip. He stood over her and slowly raised his foot towards her midriff.

  Oh God, he’s going to kick the baby, our unborn baby. Please God stop it happening.

  She tried to move but couldn’t. The sheer shock of the punch had drained her energy. She threw an arm across her stomach and pleaded:

  “No... please, no.”

  He put his foot back on the floor and stared at her with eyes full of hatred and disgust.

  He shook his head slowly and walked out of the room.

  Thirty-one

  (Anna)

  (Saturday morning)

  I was at the foot of the waterfall looking up longingly at the frothing, surging water which was hurtling down towards me. I lay on my back and opened my mouth gratefully, desperate to welcome the water in. I closed my eyes to savour it; but no liquid reached my lips. When I opened my eyes I was looking up at a cracked, empty ravine; burning dry in the sun. Birds and animals lay around me; their eyes bulging and their bodies weak; dying for want of the water that had disappeared somewhere into the atmosphere.

  Then I was awake. In my confusion I was briefly lost to the world: all I knew was the bed I was lying in, but where I was, indeed who I was, was a mystery.

  My mouth was dry like sandpaper. I reached around me and found a bottle of water: it sated my thirst for a matter of seconds before the dryness crept back over the walls.

  Slowly the facts seeped back into my mind. The details of last night were hazy and flickering, like images from a movie trailer: the bar; the drinks; the first kiss; all that kissing; the taxi; the humiliating roadside vomiting.

  And Adam wandering off into the darkness without seeing my taxi drive away.

  Was I silly to be hung-up on that minor detail? Should I really have expected him to stand there waving like an idiot? No, I was just being daft. But somehow I’d wanted him to be frozen by the events of the night and unable to do anything but watch me slide into the distance; instead of shuffling off like he’d gotten rid of me.

  I was a romantic fool.

  Maybe I’d just been drunk and stupid and it had all been nothing; just a casual teenage encounter. Maybe Adam did this all the time. Every Friday: same time and place; different girl.

  My stomach felt empty and sadness wrapped around me. I flung my head back into my pillows, too tired to get up and seek more water. My head throbbed painfully at this slight movement. I’d drunk before; of course. You don’t spend two years away at college without having the odd drink, but I never usually went crazy, and didn’t think I had last night. But this hangover was worse than any I’d ever had: my eyes were physically aching and it felt like a tight band was being pulled around my head.

  I glanced through one eye at my digital clock. It read 12.32.

  God, really? Had I actually slept for that long? Twelve hours or more? There was sunlight creeping around the edges of my curtains and from somewhere up above I was vaguely aware of the buzzing drone of what sounded like a helicopter. I wanted to drift back to sleep and wake up feeling better; but it was too light, too late, too noisy. I resigned myself to getting up, and tried to remember what had happened after the taxi had dropped me off. I couldn’t recall getting into my house or going to bed, or even paying the man. It was all a blank.

  It was then I saw my phone lying on my bedside table, and it came back to me: the message I received in the taxi, and how trying to read it had been impossible and helped contribute to my vomit-fest. I picked the phon
e up and squinted at the bright display. The battery was almost dead. I chose messages and looked at the message I’d been too drunk to read last night:

  Had a great night tonight... do it again soon? Xxx Sender: Adam Jacks, 23.17pm.

  Instantly, happiness and relief penetrated my hung-over brain. He may have walked off, but he did care, he was interested, and we were going to see each other again.

  I was grateful that he hadn’t been put off by my drunkenness, by my keenness and naivety. I sprung out of bed with the energy of a little lamb, defying the weight of my hideous hangover. I was excited, and eager to text Adam back. He probably thought it was weird I hadn’t replied for thirteen hours.

  In the distance I could hear the wailing of sirens on the breeze. Whether they were police, ambulance or fire I couldn’t tell, and didn’t particularly care. I had other things to worry about.

  Looking back, I really should have cared.

  Thirty-two

  (Two years ago...)

  CJ walked back in from the garden with the shovel in his hands and dirt under his fingernails. He put the shovel back into the cupboard he had found it in, and moved slowly into the bathroom to wash his hands. There were tears in his eyes. He’d done it: he’d buried his love for Sarah Dee; buried it deep, but not forever.

  He had taken her letter and had one last deep breath of it; he breathed in the aroma of those distant hands, which had once held the same piece of paper and written those words to him. He was sure he could smell her skin on it. Next he had taken his penknife and pricked the top of his ring finger: drawing blood, and smudged a little bit of that blood onto the paper, just below Sarah’s name. Then he had slipped the letter into a plastic envelope and placed it in a shoe box. The shoe box had been wrapped in a carrier bag and placed inside another carrier bag. And then CJ had buried the whole package several feet deep at the bottom of the garden.

  From now on his life would start again: without Sarah. He’d never forget her, of course, because her words would always be there, buried in the earth. But he had to put his love to one side and move on. That was the only way he could grow: the only way he’d ever be strong enough to fight for her; to get revenge for her.

  To win her back.

  He had a plan, but it was a long plan: and one that needed time, effort and extreme patience to see through. And it involved abandoning his emotions and becoming cold.

  He achieved this in the shower. He took out his penknife and held it shakily in his hand. A minute or so passed before he was able to summon up the courage to slice its blade into his skin.

  It cut through his flesh surprisingly painlessly at first. A round gash appeared on his chest and the blood started to seep through it, slowly at first, then stronger, cascading down his body as the water flowed. He screamed; a primal, ugly roar. It hurt now, but the pain was welcome; refreshing.

  CJ felt his sorrows swimming out of him with the blood. Red-tainted water swirled around his feet and disappeared into the plughole, his hurts flowing away.

  When the bleeding stopped he would be left with a scar: a circular scar surrounding the tattoo on his chest: a permanent reminder of the pain he had been through and the pain Sarah had endured.

  And of the pain he would one day inflict on others.

  Thirty-three

  Inspector Harry Wollers had risen quickly through the ranks of the police since joining the force at nineteen, and he had now reached the rank of Inspector at the relatively young age of 28.

  He was in plain-clothes today: a short leather jacket, smart shirt and suit trousers. His hair was short at the back and sides - in line with police regulations - but worn slightly longer on top; a nod to the sense of style he still liked to maintain. Overall, Wollers didn’t look much like a policeman at all, let alone a high-ranking one. In fact, as one of his colleagues had once wisecracked, he looked more like a male hairdresser.

  As a result, people often didn’t take him seriously.

  Just like Dave James wasn’t taking him seriously today.

  The man was standing in the doorway of his council house with his muscular arms folded across his chest and a glare etched on his face. He was about forty, shaven-headed and wearing a black vest and jogging bottoms, and looked extremely displeased to see this young policeman on his doorstep.

  “Ricky isn’t talking to you. Simple as.”

  “I just want a quick chat with him, Mr James, we can either do this the easy way or the hard way.”

  “My son’s in bed, right?” he said, leaning closer to Harry: “he’s sleeping, because for the last day or so you lot have had him in your bloody station being asked all sorts of questions about something he had nothing to do with. No wonder he needs a rest. And now you’re round here again, poking your nose in.”

  “Mr James” said Harry, remaining polite, “do you know a Millie Blunden? I believe she’s your son’s girlfriend?”

  “Yeah, so what?” said Dave.

  “She’s been reported missing, Mr James, and we’re in the process of questioning everyone who might know of her whereabouts. Now, either you can let me have a nice little chat with your boy, or I can go away and come back with a search warrant; twenty officers; a bunch of dogs; and turn your house inside out. Now which is it to be?”

  Dave James looked at Harry in frustration.

  “You lot make me sick” he muttered to himself.

  “What was that?” asked Harry.

  “Ricky!” Dave bellowed back into the house “the old bill are here for you. Again.”

  Mr James stood back grudgingly to allow Harry Wollers into the house.

  Harry didn’t rate his chances of a cup of tea too highly.

  Minutes later he was sat in the James’s small living room waiting for Ricky to appear. Dave James sat grim-faced in an armchair staring at horse racing on the TV with the sound turned down low. Ricky staggered in through the door wearing a dressing gown and looking bleary eyed.

  “Good morning Richard” said Harry brightly.

  “Uh” grunted Ricky and slumped onto the sofa, “what do you want now?”

  “Just wanted to know when you last saw Millie. Are you aware that her parents have reported her missing? She failed to turn up for work today.”

  “No, I didn’t know that” said Ricky. There was surprise in his voice but not, Harry noted, in his eyes or body language.

  “Did you see her last night?” asked Harry.

  “No. When you lot let me go I was knackered. I came straight home to bed.”

  “You didn’t want to see your girlfriend first?”

  “I was going to see her today.”

  “It’s three in the afternoon already, how long were you going to wait?”

  “Well I’ve been asleep”

  Things didn’t quite stack up. Harry and DS Crane had released Ricky from custody just after midnight when they had realised that the CCTV footage from the cinema confirmed he hadn’t murdered Callie.

  Was that really late enough to warrant sleeping until the afternoon?

  Harry knew from the police’s early investigations that Millie had ordered a pizza which had been delivered just after midnight, when Ricky would have been leaving the police station in his Dad’s car. DS Crane was over at the pizza place now talking to the delivery man.

  In Harry Wollers’ mind, the oddest thing about the whole case was that the pizza had been found untouched and stone cold outside the front door of Millie’s house, which had been unlocked. Millie had also left all the house lights on; the TV turned down and her car in the garage. If not for those factors, her disappearance could probably be explained away as a teenage huff; a day bunked off work for some shopping spree or an illicit trip out with friends. But the weirdness of last night’s events gave it a more sinister feel.

  Tarnsey had its fair share of crime: it was a smallish seaside town, but with its surrounding suburbs and council estates taken into account it had a population of almost 60,000. A lot of these people were poor, a lo
t were jobless, and some were even homeless. Tarnsey had all the problems of a big city: drugs, street crime and robbery, just on a slightly smaller scale. Its residents also had the nasty habit of getting particularly drunk at the weekends and beating each other up outside the pubs and bars on the seafront. There was certainly enough going on to keep Wollers, Crane and their uniformed colleagues busy.

  Tarnsey definitely had its problems, but it rarely had murder. Until Maggie Dickens had been bludgeoned to death, there had been only two murders recorded since 2000. One had been a stabbing in an after-pub kebab shop fight. The other had been a domestic row one Christmas day during which an elderly man had strangled his wife to death. They had been random, unplanned, and in both cases the culprit had been caught.

  Maggie and Callie’s murders had been different: planned, possibly linked and ruthlessly executed, the murderer leaving barely a clue behind. And something about Millie’s sudden vanishing act gave Harry the sinking feeling that there might soon be a third victim.

  Harry Wollers turned back towards Ricky:

  “So does this mean you have no idea whereabouts Millie Blunden is?”

  “Not a clue” answered Ricky, staring back at him.

  “In that case, you won’t mind if I have a quick look around your house?”

  Thirty-four

  DS Nick Crane pushed open the glass front door of Pizza-Mia and saw the boss, Reni Marzetti, standing behind the counter with his hands on his hips and a grin on his face.

  “Mr Crane! What can I get for you? Meat Feast? American? Quattro Stagioni?”

  “What’s a Quattro Stagioni?”

  “Italian for ‘four seasons’; it has four different sections. You want to try it?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not here for food” said Crane.

  Nick Crane liked Reni: he was a real local character, having owned Pizza-Mia for as long as he could remember. He had a permanently bloodshot left eye after some drunken customer had stuck a beer bottle in it during a brawl. Pizza-Mia was often the scene of late-night arguments, mainly because it was located right opposite the town’s only nightclub Chic’s, and Crane had often been called out there to sort out some fight or other during his days as a young uniformed officer.