He had asked her how Erin had died and she had been strong enough to tell him what D.I. Vincent had explained to her, but she had told her father that she definitely didn’t believe what the police were saying. Her father had asked what Sarah thought had really happened and she had to admit she had no idea. She told him that there was no rhyme or reason for Erin to have been driving near Dibden, when she knew Sarah was cooking a special meal and it was the lack of reason that Sarah was finding so difficult to accept. Her father had asked whether it was possible that Erin had found a clue and was going to look for the missing girl. Sarah hadn’t really considered the question before, but like a bolt of lightning, the question made everything seem clearer.
Vincent had told Sarah that Erin had planned to check on something before returning home and that she had been questioning that creepy Jimmy Barrett in the afternoon. Sarah joined the dots in her head and wondered whether Erin had found something out about Jimmy and had gone to question him again and it had cost her, her life. It was a stretch, and didn’t explain where the car was found, given that Jimmy lived in Sholing with Natalie’s parents, but it made more sense than Vincent’s claim that she was drunk behind the wheel. At the very least, it gave Sarah some further questions to ask Vincent when she returned to Southampton at the end of the week.
Peggy McGregor had been really understanding when Sarah had phoned her from the train. She had told Sarah to take as long as she needed. Sarah had booked a return train for Friday lunchtime, intending to try and visit some old school friends in Weymouth before returning to organise Erin’s funeral, a task she was dreading. Alan Jenson had told his daughter that she was welcome to stay at the house, for as long as she needed, though he did admit that he would need to whip the Hoover around first.
Sarah decided she would take the opportunity to ask her father some questions next. It had always annoyed her how cold he was towards her, and she decided that now was the best time to confront him. Alan Jenson returned to the table with another two tumblers of whisky.
‘I haven’t finished the last one yet,’ she protested as he placed one of the glasses in front of her.
‘Best you get a move on, then,’ he said, smiling.
‘Dad,’ she began, ‘can I ask you some questions now?’
‘Of course you can, love,’ he said taking a sip from his glass.
‘And will you answer honestly?’ she asked, nervous about what she was going to ask, but determined to continue.
He eyed her cautiously, curious about where this might be going before saying, ‘Sure.’
Sarah had about one finger’s worth of scotch still in her first glass and decided to knock it back quickly, grimacing as she did. She justified it as Dutch courage.
‘Do I embarrass you?’ she asked.
The directness of the question caught him off guard, but he resolved to be as honest as she had demanded, ‘For heaven’s sake, what makes you say that?’
‘At mum’s funeral, when I told you about Erin, you seemed so disinterested, and you’ve hardly said two words to me in the three years since. I wondered whether you were ashamed to have a lesbian for a daughter.’
Alan Jenson looked her up and down, and put his glass down before reaching out and taking both her hands in his. He said, ‘I have never been more proud of you than I feel right now. I am ashamed at myself if my behaviour has made you think that I could ever be embarrassed about you.’
It wasn’t the response that Sarah had expected, though it was what she had hoped he might say.
‘So why were you so dismissive when I told you about her?’ Sarah persisted.
He thought for a moment, keen to get the words straight in his mind before responding. ‘You’ve always been a very independent young lady, Sarah. Even when you were a teenager, you always knew what you wanted to do and achieve from life. When you were born, I promised your mother that I would protect you until the day I died. But, as you grew up, you seemed to need me less and less, and you would always go and speak to your mother if something was bothering you; it felt like there was no place in your life for a dotty, old codger like me. When you told me that you had fallen in love with another woman, at your mother’s funeral of all places, I knew that you were really telling me that you no longer needed me in your life; that you had moved on. I accepted your decision and have tried to stay out of the way, so as not to be a burden.’
Sarah stared at him, speechless, moved by his admission. ‘Is that what you really thought?’ she eventually asked.
‘You don’t realise how strong you are, I think,’ he replied, smiling warmly. ‘I knew there was nothing I could offer you that Erin couldn’t, and that you no longer needed me.’
‘You don’t know how wrong you are,’ said Sarah as she felt tears starting to build up in her eyes. She fought them back down, determined not to break again so quickly. ‘I needed you more than ever, after mum passed away and you just weren’t there.’
‘Oh God, Sarah,’ he said, sighing. ‘If you had asked for my help, I would have gladly come running for you.’
‘I shouldn’t have needed to ask for your help!’ she practically shouted back. ‘You are my father; you should have been there for me, without me having to ask for your help.’
‘You’re right,’ he said, keen to diffuse the situation. ‘I am here for you now, Sarah. I know it’s probably too late but I need you to know it. I love you and I want you to understand that.’
Sarah remained angry and relieved in equal measure, but decided that another argument would not solve matters. They both sat in silence for the next five minutes, taking occasional sips from their drinks. An old-looking, box, television on top of the bar, caught Alan’s attention.
‘That’s nothing to do with you, is it?’ he asked waving a finger towards the television set so Sarah could see what he was referring to.
She turned to see where he was pointing. On the small screen she could just about make out the face of a reporter standing in front of blue and white police cordon tape. A banner running along the bottom of the screen read, ‘Body Discovered in New Forest.’
Sarah put her glass down and ran over to the television screen. She searched desperately for a volume button, and, not finding one, she looked up towards Les for help.
‘Do you have a remote?’ she asked urgently.
Les felt down behind the bar and produced a remote control that he passed to her. Alan Jenson had since moved across to where his daughter was stood, shaking. She was turning the volume up on the story as it flashed back to the face of a fierce-looking woman sitting behind a news-desk.
‘And so, Marshall,’ said the news-presenter, ‘Have the police been able to identify the body yet’
The image on the screen returned to a man in his early fifties, with a mop of ginger-coloured hair. Another banner appeared, identifying him as Marshall Lancaster. ‘The body is still in situ at the moment but should be removed from the crime scene shortly. I managed to speak to Detective Inspector Jack Vincent, who is leading the investigation into the disappearance of missing local school girl, Natalie Barrett. He told me that they cannot confirm or deny if it is Natalie’s body until tests have been carried out. He was able to say that the body did match the description of the missing school girl.’
‘No!’ screamed Sarah as she dropped to her knees and began wailing. Her father tried to lift her up, surprised by the sudden collapse of his daughter, but he wasn’t strong enough. Instead, he got down on his knees and held her tight.
‘What is the matter, child?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘No,’ sobbed Sarah. ‘Not Natalie, as well. Not Natalie!’
‘Is everything okay, Alan?’ asked Les, peering over the top of the bar at the strange woman crying beneath the television and his friend, who seemed to be cradling her. Alan looked around the room and could see that everyone was staring at them.
‘It’s okay,’ he offered the staring eyes. ‘She’s just had some bad news.’
Sarah didn’t want to move anywhere but knew her father was right so she allowed him to manoeuvre her up and then they headed out of the bar, and into the cool, evening air.
THURSDAY
21
Sarah awoke with a start and it took her a moment to remember where she was: in the bedroom she had grown up in. The room had hardly changed and still had a Peter Andre poster hanging inside the wardrobe from when she had been twelve; she had never had the courage to hang a poster of a woman in the months before she had packed up and moved to university. The room was at the top of the house, on what could be considered the second floor of the rickety old house. Technically it was more like the loft space than a second floor as it was a single room at the end of a steep, winding staircase that led up from the first floor.
The house was typical of those in Fortuneswell: very narrow at street level but extending back a decent way for adequate living space. The smaller bedroom on the first floor was barely big enough for a double bed and Sarah had actively encouraged her parents to convert it into a spare bathroom, but her dad had said something about the floor not being strong enough to support an additional water tank; so the room had remained a guest room, although Sarah wasn’t sure if a guest had ever stayed in it, with the exception of Erin when they had returned for Sarah’s mother’s funeral.
Sarah’s room was large enough, but had very creaky wooden floorboards, meaning any chances for naughty goings-on, when she had been a teenager, had been out of the question. Sarah suspected that this was the reason her father had refused to get the floorboards changed.
Sarah rubbed her eyes. Her head felt woozy and she swayed a bit as she tried to stand. She had only had a couple of shots of whisky the night before, but had no recollection of going to bed or why she felt so odd. She decided to walk down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen on the ground floor, to fix some breakfast. The stairs creaked as much as the other floorboards in the house, so she wasn’t surprised to hear her father shout out, ‘Morning, love,’ as she approached. Alan Jenson was sitting on a small, two-seater sofa in the lounge, which was the first room she reached from the foot of the stairs. He was wearing his reading glasses and had a newspaper open on his lap. He smiled as she entered the room.
‘How are you feeling, love?’ he asked.
‘Fine, I think,’ she said, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ he asked, folding the newspaper in half and placing it on the seat next to him, ready to stand and go to the kitchen.
‘Can I have a coffee?’ she asked, stifling a yawn.
‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘I might join you actually. Did you sleep okay?’
‘Fine, I think,’ she repeated, following him from the lounge, through the small dining room and out into the kitchen at the back of the house. Like the house, itself, the kitchen was narrow but long.
‘Well, you’ve been out for a good ten hours by my calculations,’ he said, as he turned the kettle on and found a couple of mugs in a cupboard above where the kettle stood.
‘That whisky must have been strong,’ Sarah replied, unable to stop the yawn this time. ‘I usually only sleep for about six hours.’
‘Oh,’ said her father, looking sheepish, ‘I may have been the reason for the extra sleep.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, frowning.
‘Well,’ he began. ‘When we got back from the bar last night, you were pretty inconsolable. We watched the news, but you wouldn’t stop crying. I suppose it’s only natural, given the ordeal you’ve been through. Anyway, I slipped something into your tea to help you sleep.’
‘You drugged me?’ she asked, incredulous that her father would do such a thing, and concerned about where he might have got his hands on illicit substances.
‘Don’t overreact,’ he replied defensively. ‘It was something your mother used to take when she had one of her migraines. It used to help her sleep, so I knew it was harmless.’
Alan Jenson offered his daughter a reassuring smile, ‘It worked didn’t it?’
The old man had a point and Sarah found it hard to disagree with him, especially when he was showing so much concern for her.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said, before adding, ‘I don’t suppose there is any toast going, is there?’
‘Is wholemeal, okay?’
‘Wait a second,’ she said in mock judgement. ‘You’ve got wholemeal bread? Mum tried for years to get you to switch from white bread, and you always refused. What changed?’
Her father’s eyes darted around as if he was checking that nobody was in ear-shot. ‘Doctor’s orders,’ he eventually whispered, placing two slices of bread in the toaster to his side. ‘Says it will keep my bowel movements regular.’
‘Too much information, dad,’ she said. It was incredible how much he had changed overnight. From someone who had barely said two words to her in the last three years, to a man quite happy to share the inner workings of his digestive system.
‘You’re keeping healthy then?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes,’ he replied. ‘See the old doctor once every three months for a check-up. He says I am in pretty good condition for my age.’
He seemed quite proud of himself at this statement.
‘And your drinking? What does he say about that?’ she asked, the disapproving school teacher in her coming to the fore.
‘All is fine in moderation,’ he replied, winking.
‘And how many times do you go up to the club in a week?’
‘Only when there’s nowt I want to watch on the telly,’ he said. ‘Relax,’ he added seeing the concern in her eyes, ‘Dr Willoughby gives me a blood check on liver function whenever I see him, and it all looks good. Don’t worry. I’m as fit as a fiddle!’
The toast popped up from the toaster and he placed the two slices on a plate for her and told her that he had left a pot of butter on the table. He apologised for not having any jam, but did offer a jar of honey, which she gratefully accepted. He sat with her at the small, wooden dining table, sipping his coffee until she had finished the toast and her head began to clear.
‘I was thinking of going up to the Verne this morning, to see if I could get a visiting order to see Ryan Moss. I thought he might be able to give me some insight into the sort of person capable of abducting a young girl.’
‘Good luck with that,’ her father laughed.
‘What do you mean? I know I haven’t seen him in a while but I reckon he’d agree to see me.’
‘That’s not what I meant, Sarah,’ he replied. ‘Moss isn’t at the Verne anymore. He was released two months ago, for good behaviour.’
‘What do you mean he was released? He was supposed to be inside for twenty years!’
‘That’s how these things work, Sarah,’ her father said. ‘He may have been sentenced to twenty years, but it is rare that an inmate ever serves his full sentence, unless of course they misbehave inside, or attempt to escape.’ He paused, while she digested what he was saying, ‘Moss was a model prisoner, never in trouble, avoided the bad apples, and attended worship every Sunday. He accepted what he had done was wrong and had turned over a new leaf. He is a free man now.’
Alan Jenson eyed his daughter nervously. ‘What’s troubling you, Sarah?’ he asked. ‘You look worried.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this last night?’ she asked, standing and heading towards the lounge.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied, standing and following her out of the room, ‘I thought I had. Sarah, stop a second,’ he pleaded, trying to catch up with her. ‘What’s wrong?’
She paused as she reached the foot of the stairs, ready to ascend, ‘Don’t you see, dad? Don’t you get it?’
‘See what?’ he replied. ‘Get what?’
‘It’s him,’ she said, frustrated at having to spel
l out what seemed abundantly obvious. ‘It’s Moss. He’s the one who abducted Natalie.’
Her father laughed out loud and only stopped when he saw Sarah glaring at him.
‘You’re being silly, Sarah,’ he said in a condescending tone. ‘What makes you think it’s Moss?’
‘Fourteen years ago, Ryan Moss abducted and tried to kill little Chloe Greene. This man was released into the general public two months ago. On Friday, a pretty, young child was abducted on her way home from my school and may have been murdered. Don’t you see the connection?’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t,’ he replied. ‘There must be hundreds of abductions every year across the U.K. What makes you think these two are linked?’
Sarah turned and ran up the stairs, shouting back over her shoulder, ‘I’m the link, dad. Moss was dating me, when he abducted Chloe and now Natalie has been taken from my class.’
‘That’s just a coincidence, Sarah,’ he shouted after her, but it was too late. She had already made it to the second flight of stairs and was bounding up them; her intention to pack as quickly as she could. She returned ten minutes later, bag in hand, now sporting a pair of faded, blue jeans, a grey t-shirt and a thin faux-leather, black jacket.
‘Where are you going?’ her father asked, from where he had re-taken his seat on the sofa, with his newspaper.
‘I’m heading back to Southampton. I need to stop him,’ she replied, a determination in her voice that reminded Alan of a younger version of himself. He knew that trying to convince her of the error of her ways was pointless.
‘Okay,’ he said, looking her straight in the eye. ‘Let’s just say, you’re right and he has been harbouring some deep resentment against you for all these years. And let’s just say he was the man who abducted that little girl from your school on Friday night. What do you think is going to happen next?’
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