A tiny metal dart of reality lodges in her heart. A grief-stricken look crosses her face. Karen won’t recognise her, won’t recognise the mother who loves her more than anything. The one who has waited all these years. She tries to summon up her thirty-year-old self. All she sees is an ancient woman with long grey hair and wrinkles; she feels as old and decrepit as the house itself.
She rubs her temples with her finger-tips. ‘Maybe I need something to eat.’ The urge fades as quickly as it came.
She feels a presence behind her – a movement, a smear of paint across a canvas. It’s at the top of the stairs, barring her way. In the shadows. A fracture between dark and light. Standing still. The sallow skin, hazel eyes turned milky white, lips pinched in disapproval. Clumps of dried blood matt its hair. It, whatever it is, gazes directly into her eyes—judging. Margaret taps her forehead with the knuckles of her left hand. Tries to knock the malevolent changeling out of her head.
A cramp, an ache – makes its way down from her shoulder to her elbow.
It’s still there. She takes a few paces towards it, then shrinks back. There’s a smell, an off-ness, like rancid fat.
Her body jolts as the telephone reverberates up through the floor. She waits for the clanging noise to stop. It goes on and on. She covers her ears. Thomasine warned her—a reporter, that’s who it’ll be. The newspapers or some nosey parker from the village. Thomasine told her not to speak to anyone until she returned. She was vehement about it.
That’s it. She’s gone to get something out of her car, what is it? How long has she been gone?
Thomasine’s words gnaw inside her, weave between the muscles of her ribs, ‘human remains’. That’s what she’d said. Whatever it is, isn’t my Karen.
The pulse in her forehead flutters. What was I going to do? The noise, that’s it. I was going to stop the noise. She pictures the phone sitting on the top of the hallway table. A long piece of plastic-covered wire connects the phone to a small cream junction box, just above the skirting boards beneath it. I’ll cut it, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll do it right now.
It takes her longer to climb down the narrow, wooden stairs than it did to get up. Eyes glazed in determination, she clings to the handrail. With every downward step, a flush of heat spreads across her chest, rises up her neck. At the bottom of the stairs, she tugs at the buttons on her cardigan; her fingers work them undone. Sweat glistens on her forehead, the woollen vest itches against her skin. The loud clanging noise hurts her head. With a flourish, Margaret jerks the plastic cable from the wall, knocks the telephone to the floor. Silence at last.
I’m too hot. She eases her arms out of the cardigan; it slips from her grasp to the floor. Where’s Thomasine, where’s she gone? Her feet drag as she makes her way through the kitchen. Her breathing labours; she sinks into the wooden back of the chair.
Margaret tilts her head to the side and remembers. Karen, her birth so quick – over in minutes, the softness of her skin as the midwife placed her in her arms. The mop of spiky black hair that none of them had expected. The way her teeny fingers grasped around her own. The smell of her wrapped in a towel, fresh from the womb. Born at home, here at the farm, upstairs in their bed. The winter sun peeking between the curtains that she’d insisted on being left open.
She can’t be dead. I would have known. That fierce love she has carried in her heart all these years, since the moment of Karen’s birth, that would have told her.
Margaret shuffles out into the hallway, goes to switch on the light, something grabs at her foot, pulls her back. Caught off guard, her arms flail out before her, the bones in her wrists snap as they collide with the freezing cold flagstones.
7
Thomasine hurries out into the field, arms raised, her feet unsteady in the deep snow. The bright yellow air ambulance hovers mid-air. The blades let out a loud whine as they stir up a thick white mist that almost envelopes them. As it lands, two medics leap out; they wade towards her.
Her mother, Margaret, lies motionless on the landing at the top of the stairs. Covered in a thick woollen blanket, left eye wide open; her right drooping as though tugged down by a hidden stitch in her cheek.
The next five minutes are a blur of activity, questions, medical checks, phone calls. A paramedic takes Thomasine aside.
‘You’re right—it’s probably a stroke.’ The woman’s grey eyes peer from behind thick horn-rimmed glasses. ‘More than likely a haemorrhagic stroke. Bleeding in the brain. We won’t truly know until a scan is done. We’ll take her to the Royal Blackburn. I’ve called it in.
The colour seeps from Thomasine’s face, her hands are trembling. ‘I’d not been gone long, no more than thirty minutes, I’d gone to get my handbag,’ she pushes her fingers through her hair, ‘it was on the back seat of my car. I’d gone into a ditch, down on the road, couldn’t get the car out.’ The words stutter out. ‘God, I can’t… believe this… I shouldn’t have left her. I found her at the top of the stairs, on the landing. The phone was pulled off the table, she must have tried to get up to…’ She gazes down at her hands, takes in a breath. ‘We’d just had some really bad news. Mam hadn’t taken it well. She was sat in the kitchen when I left her.’
I’m blabbering, I’m blabbering.
The paramedic frowns, ‘Was there anything special up here.’
Thomasine nods her head, ‘My sister’s bedroom.’
‘We’re ready.’ The other medic interrupts as he checks the straps on the stretcher.
Exactly eight minutes later, the helicopter rises upwards, swoops over the barn, banks off to the right, towards Blackburn.
As the helicopter lands, its roaring engine shutting down, the clatter of the rotor blade stuttering to a stop, the hecticness truly begins. Her mother goes into cardiac arrest. The paramedics go into overdrive, words shoot between them that Thomasine doesn’t recognise, Asystole… epinephrine… flatline. Flatline, the word ricochets around in her skull, she knows what that means. Her stomach plummets. They rush through to Resuscitation. She hurries after them.
‘Sorry, you can’t come inside,’ a man in navy-blue scrubs blocks her way. ‘I’ll come and get you.’ There’s a firmness in his tone that is not unkind.
She takes a seat in the corridor, covers her face with her hands, lets her body fall forwards.
Sometime later, she has no idea how long, there’s a light touch on her shoulder.
‘Are you Margaret’s daughter?’ It’s the male nurse who spoke to her earlier.
She nods her head, gets to her feet.
‘Sorry about that,’ he gestures along the corridor, ‘I’ll take you along to the Family Room, you can wait there, it’s a bit more comfortable.’
She follows him through A & E, then along a corridor to a room off to the left. He opens the door, offers her a drink.
‘Thanks, tea, please. Milk, no sugar.’
Her eyes take in the room, an oblong window at shoulder height looks out into the corridor. Plain, wooden chairs with padded seats line one wall, a side table houses a small pile of magazines. In the corner is a box filled with red and yellow Lego bricks; cast aside on the floor are plastic cars, a wooden train, a doll with long black hair and bright blue eyes. The magnolia walls are covered in posters warning of the dangers of obesity, drug addiction, smoking.
A few minutes later, the nurse returns, tea in hand. ‘From the machine, I’m afraid.’
‘Thanks, that’s okay,’ she says, nestling the plastic cup in the palm of her hand. It’s warm to the touch. She tries to smile but her lips seem locked in a frown.
He nods, hastens back towards A & E.
Muffled sounds filter through the glass window, the incessant ring of mobile phones, the chatter of voices, footsteps echoing up and down the corridor. Someone whistling, a cleaner, she watches his shoulders swing up and down, the mop in his hands moving from side to side. In the nape of his neck, a tattoo – one word in ornate block letters, DAD. The turquoise ink bleeds at the edges.
Good memories to hold back the chaos of the last hour; her mother’s body on the landing, the spittle on the edge of her mouth. The panic in her eyes as her heart went into cardiac arrest.
Thomasine sups the final dregs of the tea now gone cold, deposits the plastic cup in the bin.
She checks her watch, it’s over an hour since they admitted her mother into Resus.
Not long after, the door swings open, someone in a white coat strides in. A doctor, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, thick black hair swept back off his forehead. The door closes quietly behind him.
‘Miss Albright, Thomasine is it?’ The long drawn out vowels of his Northern Irish accent fill the room.
She nods her head, winces as she stretches out her back.
‘Phillip O’Connell, I work in Resus.’ He drags over a chair from against the wall. She notices that one of his nostrils is smaller than the other. Narrower.
‘I’m sorry. Your mother—’ his voice softens, ‘there was a second stroke. We couldn’t revive her—I’m sorry.’ The dark shadows under his eyes give them a bruised look. ‘It was quick. I don’t think she felt any pain.’
There is a long silence between them. She senses he is expecting an outpouring of grief. That door is bolted shut and she cannot open it at will. Not even now.
The muffled sound of a woman’s voice comes over the PA system.
‘Adult Male Trauma, ETA fifteen minutes.’
His pager vibrates in his pocket.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, glancing out of the window. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He fidgets in his seat, brushes the hair away from his eyes ‘Would you like to spend some time with your mother before she’s…?’
Her eyes widen in confusion.
‘To say goodbye.’
There will be an autopsy, she knows that, Thomasine nods her head.
Better to say goodbye now before they…
He steps outside the room for a moment. There’s a murmur of voices. A nurse appears in the doorway alongside him, her eyes soften in a smile.
‘Jennifer here will take you to your mother.’ His pager vibrates again. ‘Sorry—’ His hand rummages in his coat pocket, the vibrating stops. ‘I’ve got to go back to Resus.’
Getting to her feet, Thomasine nods in acceptance.
The nurse leads the way. They walk past a row of cubicles. Thin lengths of green plastic cloth flap open as people in scrubs go in and out, their shoes slap on the floor. She follows her down the corridor, they turn left, then right, down another corridor. People flow by them, technicians, bringers of life, their eyes focused on something in the distance, something behind her, through her. The noise drifts away the further they go.
Her mother is laid out in a private room, as though asleep, her body shrouded up to her chin in a navy-blue cotton sheet. Her head rests on a matching pillow. Her plaited hair curves around her head like a crown. Thomasine leans over, goes to kiss her forehead. She freezes – takes in a sharp breath. She has encountered hundreds of dead bodies during her career, yet nothing prepares her for this. Close up, everything changes. All the hurt and bitterness of her mother’s life now written across her face. It is as though her skin has turned to plasticine. As if someone has dragged their fingers down the right side of her face – caught the edge of her eye. Her lips, already a bluish tinge, are twisted into a grimace. There is a strong smell of surgical spirit. Trembling, Thomasine steps back, covers her mouth and nose with the palm of her hand.
The nurse draws up a chair, tells her to sit down.
‘Are you, okay. Can I get you anything?’
Thomasine slowly shakes her head, ‘No, thank you.’ She didn’t say she was fine; the words wouldn’t come out, not even in politeness.
Over time, Karen’s disappearance had turned her mother harder than the gritstone boulders that littered the fields. Yet Thomasine had always sought her love. Her mind goes to earlier on that morning.
It could have been a good day.
Her mother smiled at her through the window, welcomed her in, tugged at her wet clothes to get them off, just like she had when she was a child. She’d made tea for them both, chattering away, happily. It would have been a good day if Thomasine hadn’t ruined it. If Karen hadn’t been found.
‘Just let me know when you’re ready.’ Jennifer slips out into the corridor.
Thomasine gets to her feet. If I’d not gone back for my bloody bag she might still be alive. She takes in a deep breath, holds back the tears that threaten her eyes.
This is all my fault. And there’s nothing I can do to change it.
Later that day she goes back to the farm; the snow had abated.
The dogs howled late into the night, as though they too were mourning her mother’s death. It had been too much to take in, the broken wrists, the burn mark around her ankle. Probably the telephone cord. She must have fallen; how did she get up the stairs? Why did she want to go up there? Nothing made sense. Yet in some way it did. Karen’s bedroom, their bedroom, the one place her mother cared about above everything else.
When all this is done, I will grieve, she promises herself that. I’ll get some counselling, sort myself out.
She refills her glass, until then it will have to be self-medication.
8
Mel leans over her desk, arches her back, lifts her arms in a stretch. She’s been sitting, hunched over the Albright evidence file for the last hour, fountain pen in hand, her thumb and forefinger now stained with red ink. The rank smell of stale cigarettes rises from every page. She gives herself a quick spray of Jo Malone to take the edge off it. Back in the 1970s, the squad room would have been a thick fog of smoke, a fag hanging off everyone’s lips. Lung cancer two words rarely exchanged between them.
The notepad to her right is covered in small, neat handwriting. Comments and questions, a long list of them waiting to be answered. She could have got one of the team to do this, but there’s something about this case that’s piqued her interest.
The Albright case files are now in the murder room. All evidence from previous investigations is to be reviewed in light of new findings.
Mel had resumed the team briefing as soon as she returned from Hardacre’s office. Her final words were specific and direct.
‘And lastly, I know she’s one of us, and to many of you a mate, but Thomasine Albright cannot be involved in this case. Any questions she has must be directed to me. Am I clear on that?’ Her eyes scanned the room, looked for evidence of dissent. There were none. ‘Right, let’s crack on then, shall we?’
She looks through the plate glass window; the office is a hive of activity. Heads are down, phones busy, the murder board filling up.
Back aching, she slumps back into her seat, rubs her eyes. She recalls the look on Thomasine’s face, the way the colour paled on her cheeks. How her hands bunched into fists—her knuckles white with anger. The slamming of the door. God knows how she would have behaved in the same circumstances. She would have told them to piss off, told them that they’d have to suspend her first. But then Thomasine Albright wasn’t her.
‘She’s done well,’ Hardacre said, ‘she’s got a talent for finding people and years of experience. There’s always a lot of turnover in that job, she’s stuck at it. She’s a DI now, in charge of the whole team. The families like her, trust her. Her success rate is good. I don’t want to lose her.’
Mel breathed out a sigh through her nose.
It must have been a heavy burden, knowing the one person you couldn’t find was your own sister. Never knowing where she is, always wondering if she’s alive or dead.
She ha
s no doubt that transferring Thomasine to another team will have only a limited impact; she probably copied the case file years ago, she’d call in favours. That’s what she herself would do.
She picks up her pen, at least now Thomasine and her mother know exactly where Karen is. But now a new kind of waiting has begun. The ugly question of who killed her had raised its head. A murder enquiry – that’s a whole different ballgame.
And the first person she needs to interview is Margaret Albright, Thomasine’s mother, but that will have to come a little later. She stands up, goes over to the window, the car park is half empty, non-operational staff will have gone home. Everything in sight is covered in a white layer of snow. She shakes her head.
When will this weather let up?
Mel knows she can’t put it off, not now, she must visit the crime scene. On her own without anyone littering her mind with their own theories. She tugs a thick black parka off the back of the door, zips it up, takes the woollen hat out of the pocket and pulls it on.
It’s going to be bloody cold out.
9
Pick, pick, pick at the scab. Front door, back door, French doors, windows – all fourteen – check, check, check. Ten minutes later, Lily is doing it again.
Hyper-vigilance to go with hyper-cleaning? I’d say she’s in the manic phase. She’s a whole heap of things. Too long a list to go into here.
It was a while before those hikers found her up on the moors, middle-aged men having a day out. Their warm hands rubbed her face and fingers, they wrapped her in a coat. It was that bright pink buff around her neck they spotted.
She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller Page 6