I fantasised that I could put it right. I did some research and found out that Edward Hennessy was not the Chief Constable anymore. He was the mayor of Whitbrook then. So I rang the cops at Whitbrook and told them. I am Molly Forster, I said. I’m alive. I’ll tell you who did it and who covered it up. I just wanted to live my life with Gabriel, but I now know that this phone call is what killed him.
And now, Jacob and I are going to do some investigating. And I’m terrified. But I’m doing it, I’m going with him, which is amazing, really.
“Are you listening to me, Rach?” Matt snaps.
“Yes, I am.” I throw the suitcase on top of the bed and drop a handful of socks into it.
“You’ve never been away from Gracie for two days before,” he says.
“It’s one night, love. And I’ve never been away, full stop, so what? Does it mean I never can?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t get it, that’s all.”
“It’s my job, Matt! What’s to get?”
“No, it’s not! It’s not your job!”
I put a finger on my lips. “Please, you’ll wake her up.”
“It’s almost six o’clock anyway, she’ll be up any minute.”
“Let her sleep.”
“This podcast is not your job, Rach. You only took it on because that guy, that creep, got fired!”
I wince. “Jacob didn’t get fired. He left. Then he came back.”
“I thought you didn’t like him.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Clearly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me! You said there was something not right about him. That he gave you the creeps. Now you’re road-tripping with him?”
I had said that. I came home after that first day back from our holiday, where Chris and Jacob made their big announcement about the podcast, and I was terrified. I didn’t tell Matt about the podcast at the time, but I did bitch about Jacob over a bottle of wine later that night.
“I just told you. I changed my mind. He’s back now and he’s doing a good job. Can we not shout at each other, please?” I pull out two tops from the drawer. One of them has a somewhat revealing neckline. I put that one back in and choose a plain white one.
Matt sits on the bed.
“Vivian said she’d help with Gracie. And your mother will too, she loves looking after her.”
“I don’t need help to look after my own daughter,” he says, sullen.
“I know, love,” I say gently. I sit next to him and put my arm around his shoulder. His body stiffens under my touch.
“I just want to go because I think this work is important, and it would be a good experience for me. It’s an opportunity to show them at work that I can do more than the website and cook the books. I might get a better pay out of it. You understand, don’t you?”
There’s something unusually fragile about Matt today. I can’t put my finger on it. He’s usually so dynamic, highly capable, everything with a smile, nothing is too difficult. He’s the perfect boyfriend and father. He enjoys being home looking after his family. He’s responsible. He’s the guy everybody loves and he’s always up. But not lately.
He looks into my eyes.
“Don’t stop loving me Rach.”
I didn’t expect that. “I love you more than ever.” Which is the truth. I have loved Matt since the moment I met him. I wanted him to be the father of my children. I wanted him forever. I always did and I always will.
He blinks, but the tear still comes and rolls down his cheek. He brushes it off with the back of his hand. I hold him close.
“Why did you change your hair?” he asks sadly.
I bring my hand up to touch it. I got it cut so short that it doesn’t even cover my ears. The colour is different too. Clairol Chestnut is back.
“You know me, slave to fashion,” I reply gently.
He rests his head on my shoulder. “I preferred it the way it was.”
“I know.”
Matt takes my bag to the car. He says it’s to save me the trouble, but I know he wants to check it out, both the car and Jacob. Matt might work as an electrician, but he could just as well be a great mechanic. He can figure anything like that out. He said to me once, “It’s all about the signal, Rach. You have to figure out where the current begins, and where it ends. It can only go one way, just follow the trail.” I guess cars were the same, just follow the fuel.
Jacob gets out of the car to say hello and Matt eyes him like he’s some kind of conman and then grunts. He pushes the bag onto the back seat and then before heading back into our building, he says, “Don’t drive over the speed limit. Speeding, that’s how most accidents happen.” Which is something he’s seen on a road safety campaign somewhere.
I watch him go inside, then climb into the grey Hyundai.
“You’ve changed your hair?” Jacob says. I’m still mortified from what just happened. I reach to touch it, self-consciously.
“That’s right. Do you have any music?” I ask. We’re only on the Westway but there’s some kind of road works ahead and the traffic is moving at a snail’s pace.
Jacob pushes a button on the dashboard and the CD starts to play.
“Is that okay?”
“Yeah! What is it?”
He smiles. “It’s Zoya’s. One of her compilation playlists. I don’t know who this is.”
It sounds like a happy Bollywood song to me. I turn the volume up a little.
“After we check-in, where do we start?” Jacob asks. “You want to go and see Edward Hennessy first?”
“Have you got a reply from his office yet?”
“No, but we could always do a doorstep. It’s not likely to give the same results as an invitation, but it’s better than nothing.”
I’ve only met Edward Hennessy once, before I ran away. I look nothing like I did then. No adult does. The hair colouring is just to cover all bases.
“We’ve got Mrs Dawson this afternoon,” he continues.
“Poor Mrs Dawson. It’s amazing that she never left this—place,” I was going to say ‘God forsaken place’. “Her son is known as the local mass murderer and she goes to Church every Sunday.”
“She’s courageous. She’s also adamant that they got the wrong guy, and that she has every right to be here and try to prove it.”
“Courageous is the word, yes,” I say, wishing I had even half her courage at any point in my life.
I consult my notes, pretending to look up who we are going to interview and when, even though I already know it all by heart. My old teacher Mrs Callaghan won’t be interviewed, but to soften the blow, she has put us onto Grace’s old teacher and her friend Amanda. I don’t remember Amanda, but they’re both willing to speak with us.
“We really need to talk to Hugo Hennessy,” Jacob says. “He still lives there. He has always refused to speak to reporters, but after all this time, who knows. People change.”
I clench my jaw. “Yeah, we should try.” I can hear how weak my voice sounds.
“You okay Rachel?” he asks.
“Yeah, why?”
“You look a bit pale there.”
“Fighting off car sickness.” I reply.
“You winning?”
“I think so.”
“Let me know if I need to stop. Whatever you do, don’t throw up in the car.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Twenty-Five
I’m told that Whitbrook is a lovely town, but I can’t look at it that way. To me it’s ugly and heavy. I never think of Whitbrook as home. Home is wherever my daughter and Matt are. Whitbrook is the stuff my nightmares are made of.
Once we check-in to our accommodation, which is a perfectly ordinary guesthouse on the edge of town, the kind which you find on the edge of every town in England, I start to relax. I am here and the world hasn’t come crashing down. Incredibly, the place isn’t even that familiar. I don’t recognise the streets at all. I�
��m almost disappointed. I expected the shock of recognition like a slap in the face. Even when the tower of St Andrew’s church comes into view, it’s as if someone else is looking at it through my eyes. I recognise it, I know I’ve seen it before, but it doesn’t connect. Maybe that’s why I am completely unprepared for the effect the sight of my own house has on me.
I’m looking through documents on my laptop when the car stops, and Jacob says, “Here we are,” in a funny tone.
I look up and stare right at my old front door. It’s just like my nightmares, only smaller. Then it begins. The narrowing of the vision. The heart palpitations. I manage to open the car door and bend down, taking great big gulps of air.
“Wow, you really do get carsick!” He comes around and stands next to me. His hand is on my back and I wish with all my heart that he would take it off. It feels too heavy. But I can’t speak, I can barely breathe.
When it’s over, I stand up and lean back against the car. I put a hand on my forehead. It’s clammy. I feel hot and cold at the same time. Jacob is looking a little pale himself.
“I think I’m okay now,” I manage to say. Then I retch.
He takes me to a coffee shop so I can get some water and recover. I’m fine by now. Just embarrassed. I make up a story about picking up a stomach bug and blame it on Gracie.
“I had something like that last year. It was horrid. You’re sure you’ll be okay?” I don’t tell him I doubt very much he’s ever had something like that, ever.
We’re sipping hot sweet tea which is exactly what I need. Our table is at the front, right by the windows and I feel exposed. It’s grey outside, and a group of children walk past. Shouldn’t they be in school? There’s a young man on the other side of the street waiting for a bus, and for a second I think it’s him and the room tilts. Same build, same hair, but it can’t be. Hugo must be in his early thirties now.
“Yeah, thanks, Jacob, it’s over now. One of those twenty-four minute bugs I guess.”
He laughs.
I need to use the bathroom. There’s a woman with a small child sitting at a table and when I walk past, she looks at me strangely and it makes my stomach lurch. In the ladies room, I check my face from every angle. Could anyone possibly recognise me?
I don’t look at her on the way back, but I feel her eyes lingering on the back of my head. It makes me shiver. Jacob is on the phone when I sit down.
“Anything interesting?” I ask after he hangs up.
“Hennessy’s office. The father. He doesn’t have any time for us. They said he already gave us an extended interview and he has nothing more to add.”
“Oh well, it was worth a shot.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s Mrs Dawson I’m interested about,” he says.
I put on my coat and catch the young woman’s eye, the one I passed before. She’s whispering to the waitress who served us and they’re both stealing glances our way. I can’t get out of there fast enough.
Emily Dawson lives in a small council house on the outskirts of Whitbrook. She only moved there last year, and I am glad of that. I’ve been to Dennis’s old flat two or three times, with my sister Grace, and I have no desire to revisit.
“Hello dear, come inside, out of the cold. Bring your friend. I’m sorry if the house is a bit dusty. My eyesight isn’t good anymore you see. I’m as blind as a bat. It’s macular degeneration. Nothing they can do.”
She shuffles back from the front door into the living room, feeling her way there by lightly touching the top of various pieces of furniture. An armchair, a sideboard, another chair.
“It’s spotless, Mrs Dawson,” I tell her.
“Oh good! Thank you! I do worry now that I can’t see. It’s just me now, so it’s all right and I don’t get visitors anymore.”
She has white hair in short tight curls, and her face is so thin and drawn, her skin is like translucent paper. You can see the veins beneath. I don’t remember her, from before, not exactly, but there’s something about the lilt in her voice that resonates with a distant memory. I’ve met her, I know that, but I can’t remember when, or how.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs Dawson,” Jacob says.
“Oh, that’s quite all right, Mr Whitelaw. I’m the one who called you.”
“I would prefer if you called me Jacob,” he adds quickly. Jacob is always so polite, I would have just said, ‘call me Rach’.
“Oh, all right, if you like. It’s a nice name, Jacob. It means nobleman, I believe. I’ve made some tea,” she says. The low coffee table was set with a tray.
“Thank you, that’s kind of you,” Jacob says. “Would you like me to serve?”
“If you would, Mr White—Jacob, that would be kind. Thank you.”
I feel so sad, watching her. It comes over me out of nowhere. She has gone through a living hell, and yet she is so kind, so thoughtful.
I help things along by taking a cup to Mrs Dawson and making sure she holds it securely.
“A podcast, that’s terribly interesting. I’d never heard of such a thing of course. I haven’t managed to listen to it yet. But I have a young woman who comes and helps me once a week. From the council services you know. They’re very good. Usually I get Sophia, such a lovely name, don’t you think? It means wisdom in Greek. Although as lovely as she is, I wouldn’t say she’s wise, by any means. She’s Polish. Not that it has anything to do with it.”
She’s rambling and I want her to stop. I lean across and take her hand in mine. The skin feels papery, dry. She makes a small gasp.
“Mrs Dawson. Is it all right that we came to see you? If it will upset you, we don’t have to stay.”
She squeezes my hand. “Thank you dear. It’s Rachel, isn’t it? Yes. Little lamb.”
I freeze. My father used to call me little lamb, or lambkin, sometimes. But then she adds, “It’s Hebrew.”
She’s only talking about the meaning of my name. Rachel means ‘ewe’ in Hebrew. I pat her hand softly, willing my heart to slow down.
“Are you sure you want to talk to us?”
She nods, very fast, almost frantically, and a single tear pools at the rim of her eyelid, and falls. I squeeze her hand.
“Nothing happened like they said,” she says. She pulls her hand away from mine, but not unkindly. She straightens in her seat. “Nothing.”
Jacob explained to her over the phone about the podcast, and he asked her permission to record her, which she’d given. But seeing her now, frail and sad, and blind. I can’t help feeling like we’re taking advantage of her.
Jacob has pulled out his Zoom and is fiddling with buttons. I put a hand on his arm.
“Mrs Dawson, before we continue, I want to make sure you understand that we are recording you. Everything that you say now, anyone can listen to it. Just as if it was on the radio. Do you understand that? Because you don’t have to say yes. We can still talk, and we don’t have to record you if you don’t want us to.”
“You record me, young lady, and you Jacob.” For the first time I understand what the expression ‘a voice with a steely edge’ actually means. “You record every single word of what I say, and you put it out there. They didn’t want to listen to me back then. They wouldn’t let me speak. It’s my turn now.”
Twenty-Six
“They never let me talk. Not at the police station, not at the courts, not at the town hall. They just wouldn’t listen to me. I didn’t even know that poor family had been killed, or that he’d been arrested, can you believe it? My neighbour, Rosemary, she came to tell me the next morning. She’d heard it on the radio. They didn’t even tell me themselves.”
“They?”
“The police. They threw him in jail and didn’t even bother to call me, his mother.”
She pulls out a carefully folded handkerchief from inside the cuff of her sleeve and dabs at her eyes.
“They wouldn’t let me see him. I went to the police station, and they were celebrating, can you believe it? They’d come and taken my so
n and thrown him in prison already, and they were celebrating. They wouldn’t help me. He was locked up in Haverigg. I went there right away but they wouldn’t let me see him. My own son. They said no visitors. Not even me.” She takes a breath, dabs at her eyes again and puts the folded handkerchief back in her sleeve. “I never saw him again.”
She’s too upset to go on, so we wait, let the moment exist. I look around the room.
“The drawings on your walls,” I say gently, “Did you do these?”
They’re mostly pencil drawings, delicate and incredibly detailed, of various buildings. I stand up and take a closer look at the drawing of St Andrews’ church. Every detail is there, down to the different brick tones.
“No dear. Dennis drew those.”
“Really? I didn’t know.”
Jacob raises an eyebrow at me and I can’t believe I just said that. “There was no mention of—” I scramble to come up with something but she interrupts me.
“I always thought he could have been an architect but he could never get into University. He didn’t have the traditional learning abilities. But he was going to college, he was going to be a draughtsman,” she says.
“They’re beautiful,” I say.
Jacob nods at me. I’ve calmed her. And myself.
“Mrs Dawson, can we continue to talk about that day? The day Dennis was arrested?”
“That’s why you’re here, Jacob, and you, Rachel. Where should we begin?”
“Your son—Dennis, was in the Forster’s house when the police arrived.”
I return to my seat on the sofa. I watch her face closely.
“He was very distraught,” Jacob says.
“Of course he was. He had just walked into a massacre.”
Missing Molly Page 11