Two Little Girls

by Kate Medina

  ‘A twenty-six-year-old son and a twenty-three-year-old daughter. We had them young. I was only twenty-two when we got married and she fell pregnant on the honeymoon. I very quickly found her, our whole life, stultifying. She was obsessed with the children, had no interest in going out partying any more, so I started going out partying with my colleagues, one thing led to another and the rest is history.’ He drained his coffee and raised his hand to summon the waiter for another. ‘With the benefit of hindsight, I can see that she was only trying to provide a loving, stable family life for our children. I was the one who was out of order. I didn’t want to face up to my responsibilities, so I dumped them all on her.’

  ‘Relationships are hard. God, I know that and I’ve only been in one for five minutes. Marriage was invented to protect women and children when women were totally reliant on men, when hardly anyone lived beyond the age of thirty-five and adventure meant travelling more than five miles away from home. Monogamy was never intended to last for fifty or sixty years. It just makes you human, Marilyn.’

  ‘Fallible.’

  She smiled. ‘Fallible and human. So you left Brighton and came to live in civilized Chichester to reinvent yourself, start afresh?’

  ‘The only problem with new starts is that they end up looking very much like the old ones after a while.’

  ‘You can take the boy away from temptation, but you can’t take temptation out of the boy.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Did you still see her and your children?’

  He nodded. ‘She is and always has been very civilized. I only see her three or four times a year, but we talk on the phone every week or so. They all still live in Brighton. My son is like his mother, solid and reliable. He’s a criminal lawyer.’

  ‘Prosecution, I hope?’

  Marilyn smiled. ‘He inherited one thing from me, at least.’

  ‘And your daughter?’

  ‘She’s a dancer.’

  ‘Ballet?’ Jessie asked, noting the expression on Marilyn’s face in response to her question, knowing his answer before he spoke it.

  ‘Pole. Stripping.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘A dancer, a drinker and a druggie.’

  ‘Lots of Ds.’

  ‘Better than Bs?’ The ghost of a cynical smile crossed his face. ‘She inherited too much from me and not enough from her mum. She’s a disaster. My fault, of course.’

  ‘Is that what your ex-wife says?’

  ‘That’s what I say.’

  Jessie laid her knife and fork on the empty plate. She had felt slightly nauseous since she’d woken, probably the result of another disturbed night’s sleep. She hadn’t thought she’d eat much, but she had polished off the lot and felt better for doing so. Resting her chin on steepled fingers, she met Marilyn’s gaze. ‘Why are you telling me all this, Marilyn?’

  ‘Because I want you to know that I’m not just a machine.’

  Her gaze moved pointedly from the black coffee with two sugars in his right hand to the cigarette in his left. ‘I already know that you’re not a machine, Marilyn.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Remind me never to have breakfast with a psychologist.’

  ‘Or lunch. Or dinner.’

  ‘What I mean is—’ he broke off.

  ‘I know what you mean. You want me to know that you have a life, a perspective, outside the police. That it – Carolynn, Zoe, Jodie Trigg – is not just about a result, that you can be objective.’

  He gave a wry smile. ‘Had a life, maybe. But it is important that you understand where I’m coming from. I went after Carolynn Reynolds hard because I believed that she murdered her daughter. The only DNA on little Zoe’s body was hers. Her fingerprints were all over the doll, the shells, her footprints, leading up to and around the murder site, the only ones we could identify.’

  ‘Finding her daughter’s body, as she claimed, would leave the same forensic traces,’ Jessie cut in. ‘And if the killer was smart and forensically aware, it’s probable that they would have left very little, if any forensic trace, which Carolynn then smothered with her own.’

  ‘It wasn’t just forensics. Her whole demeanour didn’t fit with the mother of a murdered daughter, Jessie. I’ve seen many parents whose kids have been killed, whether accidentally or deliberately, and real grief doesn’t look like that.’

  ‘You can’t expect people’s reactions to conform to some textbook standard. Everyone’s different.’

  Marilyn gave a weary half-nod, half-shake of his head. ‘I still believe that she murdered her daughter and Jodie Trigg, but I need help to prove it. I need to nail the killer this time, Jessie. I failed last time and I can’t fail again. Both those little girls need justice.’

  ‘They do both need justice, but I believe that you’re wrong about Carolynn, Marilyn. She’s not a killer.’

  He ploughed on, ignoring her comment. ‘I need your help, Jessie. I need someone as intransigent as I am to work with.’

  ‘Work against, don’t you mean? Yin and yang.’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘I’m here, aren’t I, so talk away.’

  Marilyn shook his head. ‘Officially, on an ongoing basis, as a consulting clinical psychologist. We have a budget for freelance advisors. You are freelance these days, aren’t you?’

  Her involuntary exit from the army; another thing Callan had shared with him, without asking her. Bastard.

  ‘Freelance, yes, but not ready to prostitute myself to the highest bidder just yet.’

  Marilyn smiled. ‘I can guarantee that Surrey and Sussex Major Crimes won’t be the highest bidder.’

  Sitting back, Jessie folded her arms across her chest. ‘We’re at opposite ends of the spectrum on this case, Marilyn. You’re convinced of Carolynn’s guilt and you’re determined to prove it, and I’m convinced there is no way the woman I got to know over five hours of clinical psychology sessions murdered her own child.’

  ‘You’d add balance to my thinking.’

  ‘Either that, or we’ll end up wanting to kill each other.’

  ‘I’m willing to take that risk, if you are.’

  Jessie chewed on her lip, didn’t answer. Was she willing? She liked Marilyn, rated him hugely, but she felt that, with regard to Carolynn Reynolds, and despite all the circumstantial evidence he’d laid out in front of her, he had lost objectivity. She wasn’t interested in being involved in a witch-hunt. But then he was right when he said that she could add balance. And he was also right when he said that the little girls deserved justice.

  ‘I can’t share anything that Carolynn told me in our sessions with you,’ she said finally. ‘I can’t renege on that patient confidentiality.’

  ‘I won’t ask you to.’

  ‘And I am not willing to be used just to back up your case. The case you’ve already made up your mind is correct. That Carolynn is guilty.’

  ‘I won’t ask you to do that either.’ He extended his hand across the table and after a moment, Jessie shook it. ‘I told you that you’d be willing to do anything for one of those pancakes!’ Pushing his chair back, he stood. ‘Come on, Dr Flynn, we have a house call to make.’

  37

  Roger opened his eyes to a quiet room and the sense that he was alone.

  He stretched out, star-fishing across the bed, appreciating the opportunity to spread. Carolynn’s side was cold. Rolling on to his stomach, he pressed his face into her pillow. Also cold, and her scent barely there. Yawning, he rolled back and fumbled his watch from the bedside table. Nine a.m. – Christ, much later than he’d thought. Carolynn was doubtless out running again, must have left even earlier than usual for the pillow and sheets on her side of the bed to be so cold.

  Shrugging on his navy towelling dressing gown, tying the cord in a neat bow at his waist, he went downstairs and made himself a coffee, strong, with a splash of milk and one level teaspoon of sugar, just how he liked it.

  As he wandered from the kitchen into the hallway, sipping his coffee, the shoe ra
ck caught his eye, specifically the buttercup yellow of Carolynn’s running shoes, stowed on the bottom shelf. His gaze rose to the key hook above the hall table. Her door key was on its hook, but her car key was missing. Why would she take one and not the other, particularly when she knew how important it was that she get inside the house quickly? Waiting on the doorstep to be let in risked attracting unwanted attention. What the hell is she playing at? With the furore surrounding this second kid’s murder, he’d told her not to leave the house at all. His blood pressure hiked at the thought of her stupidity. A solitary early morning run was just about forgivable – much as he hated her obsessive running, he knew how much she relied on exercise to calm her – but a trip to the supermarket, the only other place she ever went, was madness. Rubbing shoulders with nosy locals who would be reading the front page of their Saturday papers straight off the shelves and standing around gossiping, only one subject on their lips.

  Draining his coffee, he placed the cup in the sink and headed upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. He’d throw on some clothes and drive into East Wittering, find Carolynn and get her to come straight home, stay inside, stay hidden. As he crossed the landing, grit ground into his bare soles. Carolynn hoovered the upstairs carpets daily. Cleanliness was important to him, to both of them, and cleaning gave her a focus, structure to her days. Crouching, he ran his hand across the carpet and his palm returned coated in dust. Looking up, he saw that the loft-hatch was closed, but his gaze snagged on a dusty cobweb hanging from one corner, twinkling in the sunlight.

  In the loft, Roger scanned the sunlit boxes. All closed and taped shut as he’d left them when he’d stowed them here nine months ago. Apart from one, a small, rectangular box, and he knew what was inside it. Nothing obviously moved or disturbed, but a trail of shoe prints led across the dusty floor. For a moment, he could see nothing but lumpy unformed shapes in the recesses at the edge of the loft where the light from the single velux didn’t stretch. As his vision adjusted, he realized that the tent, a sleeping bag and one of the suitcases was missing from the pile by the brick chimney breast. His jaw twisted and his cheeks burned red. She wouldn’t have just upped and left him, surely, knowing how much he’d done for her, what he’d sacrificed?

  As he descended the loft ladder, stewing with impotent fury, the doorbell rang. He’d almost forgotten what it sounded like, it was used so infrequently. So Carolynn had returned, changed her mind, realized her error. Not before time. Taking a deep breath to cool his anger, he jogged down the carpeted stairs on silent feet.

  38

  The dirt drive that led down the side of the house to the garage was empty, but a black VW Golf was visible through the open garage doors. The house itself looked neglected, typical low-end seaside rental, white pebbledash peeling in places and mottled green with lichen in others. The front garden was ‘low-maintenance seaside’, bare of planting, just a protective evergreen laurel hedge lapping over the rotting fence. Curtains were drawn across the upstairs windows, but a dim light shone from behind one. All the other rooms upstairs and down were in darkness.

  ‘Looks like they’re in,’ Marilyn said, indicating the car and the light.

  Jessie crouched at the end of the drive. ‘They have two cars though, or at least two cars have been using this drive because there are two different tyre tracks.’ She pointed. ‘These are from the Golf and these from a smaller car.’

  Marilyn clapped a hand on her shoulder. ‘We’ll make a copper of you yet, Detective Flynn.’

  Straightening, Jessie rolled her eyes. ‘You didn’t buy me a big enough pancake for that. Carolynn likes to run, early. She might have driven somewhere to run.’

  ‘Run,’ Marilyn muttered. ‘You said it. Did you notice what she drove when she came to your sessions?’

  ‘No. Usually, I had appointments before and after so I collected her from the clinic’s waiting room. The one day we left at the same time, a man in a black Golf was waiting for her.’

  ‘That black Golf.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not a detective, Detective, so I didn’t memorize the registration plate.’

  They skirted along the narrow garden to the front door. Standing to one side of the doorstep so that his face wouldn’t be framed in the magnifying spyhole, guiding her to do the same, Marilyn jammed his finger on the doorbell.

  ‘That’s sneaky,’ Jessie murmured with a smile.

  Marilyn didn’t smile back. Badly concealed tension radiated from him like heat. ‘With all these windows overlooking the road, they may have already seen us, but if they haven’t, I’d prefer that they don’t get to decide they’d like to continue hiding from me.’

  Marilyn’s ring elicited no visible signs of life. The same dim light continued to shine from behind one of the upstairs curtains, no new lights were switched on, they saw no movement from inside, heard no footsteps. He raised his finger to the doorbell again, but Jessie caught his arm.

  ‘They would have heard it. If they’re going to come, they’ll come. Ringing it again is too demanding, it says officialdom.’

  With a nod, he slid both his hands into his pockets. His sole drummed a tense tune on the concrete path.

  There was the sudden sound of a bolt being drawn back and the front door swung open in one fluid movement to reveal a big man in a navy towelling dressing gown, pale blue pyjama legs protruding beneath, feet bare. Despite his state of undress and the bed hair, Jessie recognized him immediately as the solid, dark-haired man she had seen waiting for Carolynn a few weeks ago. It was clear from the way his eyes widened fractionally when he looked from Marilyn to her, that recognition was reciprocated. Not ideal.

  Stepping forward, Marilyn held out his hand. Glancing down, Jessie noticed that he had planted one suede Chelsea boot firmly over the threshold. He wasn’t taking any chances.

  ‘You remember me, Mr Reynolds?’

  ‘How could I forget?’ His grey eyes were cold. He made no move to take Marilyn’s outstretched hand. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘We have nothing to talk about.’

  ‘You’ve heard about the young girl found dead on West Wittering beach on Thursday, I presume? Jodie Trigg?’

  ‘I’d have to be living on Mars not to have done, but it has nothing to do with us.’ His tone was measured, a ‘poker’ tone, if there was such a thing.

  ‘She was strangled.’

  Reynolds lifted his shoulders. His expression remained unchanged. ‘I’m very sorry for her parents, but as I said, it has nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Like Zoe, she was strangled.’

  Reynolds didn’t react.

  ‘Her body was found very close to where your daughter was found, two years to the day, lying in a heart of shells with an identical doll left by her side.’

  ‘What are you implying, DI Simmons?’

  ‘I’m not implying anything. I’m here purely out of courtesy, to assure you that finding your daughter’s murderer is still one of my key priorities. I will find out who killed her.’ There was an edge to his tone that was at odds with the reassuring message.

  ‘I sincerely hope that you do find out who murdered my daughter. My wife and I have been waiting two years for a result. Waiting in vain.’

  ‘Is your wife in, Mr Reynolds?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Reynolds shrugged. ‘Out running, probably.’

  ‘Does she often go running early?’

  ‘Most days, I believe.’

  ‘Her car is missing.’

  Marilyn waited for Reynolds to contradict his statement.

  Another shrug. ‘Shopping then.’

  So Jessie had been right – they were a two-car family.

  ‘Does she like to shop?’

  Reynolds’ wrinkled his nose. ‘Don’t all women like to shop?’

  Jessie would have liked to interject in the negative, but kept silent. Her feminist principles would just have to let that one go. />
  ‘What car does she drive?’

  ‘Small, silver.’

  ‘Like about five million others then?’

  Reynolds suppressed a smirk.

  ‘Make, model and registration plate?’ Marilyn asked.

  ‘I’m not good with cars, DI Simmons, so I don’t remember.’

  ‘Where are your ownership documents?’

  ‘I can’t recall where I left them,’ Reynolds said. ‘I’ll have a think and get back to you.’

  ‘How predictably convenient,’ Marilyn snapped. ‘What time did she leave?’

  ‘I was working late last night and slept late. I only woke up a few minutes before you rang the bell. She was gone when I woke.’

  Reynolds’ appearance validated his story.

  ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘I’m sure I can find out.’

  Jessie gave a subtle warning shake of her head, but Marilyn didn’t notice, wasn’t looking at her. He was eyeballing Reynolds, and Jessie could almost see the hackles raised, like a dog sizing up for a fight. This wasn’t the approach they had agreed on. The plan was to go softly, softly, engender cooperation, however obtuse Roger Reynolds tried to be. Marilyn was letting his bias guide his actions, but however much she wanted to, she couldn’t pull him up in front of Reynolds.

  ‘Where was your wife the day before yesterday, between three and five-thirty p.m.?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’

  Reynolds’ knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the front door. ‘This is sounding suspiciously like an interrogation, DI Simmons. Should I call my lawyer?’

  Jessie stepped forward. ‘No, Mr Reynolds, you don’t need to speak with your lawyer. As DI Simmons said earlier, we’re here out of courtesy, to ensure that you had heard about Jodie Trigg and to inform you that the police believe the two murders are linked.’

  Reynolds eyeballed her, unsmiling. ‘Very uncourteous courtesy. And you are?’

  Jessie was tempted to tell him that she was well aware he knew exactly who she was.