by Mark Tilbury
Ben stood up. ‘We’ll do our best to find Hannah, Mrs Heath.’
Monica walked them to the front door. ‘Thank you.’
As the door closed behind them, Maddie turned to Ben. ‘Do you reckon we’ve got any chance of finding her?’
Ben shivered. The chances of finding Hannah Heath alive were about as slim as finding his father in a pleasant mood. ‘It doesn’t look too good, does it?’
Chapter Four
Geoff studied the picture of Hannah. ‘Are you sure they can pay?’
Ben admired the old man’s compassion. ‘Yes.’
‘I want a cheque for the first two weeks in advance.’
‘A cheque might bounce,’ Anne Whittle said. ‘And those things take ages to clear.’
Ben sometimes wished that his mother would disappear. Or at least keep quiet. ‘I’m sure a cheque will be fine. Hannah’s mum is straight down the line.’
Geoff picked up a cheese straw from a plate on the dining table. ‘You say the mother’s remarried, and hubby number two isn’t Hannah’s real dad?’
Ben nodded and prayed that his father made no derogatory comments. His prayers went unanswered.
‘The mother puts it about a bit, then?’
‘One husband and one ex-husband,’ Ben said. ‘That’s hardly putting it about, is it?’
Geoff took a bite of his cheese straw. ‘I don’t like stepfathers; there’s always something dodgy about them. Especially when stepdaughters go missing.’
‘Monica said Vic’s been a good dad to Hannah. A proper dad.’
‘Don’t take everything as it’s presented. Families paper over cracks.’
‘I don’t think Monica was papering over any cracks. She seemed genuine enough.’
Geoff turned his attention to Anne and waved his cheese straw at her. ‘What are these things supposed to be?’
Anne brushed flour from the front of her apron. ‘You know full well what they are.’
‘Bloody thing almost chipped my tooth. You ought to sell them as weapons.’
Anne’s face crumpled.
‘Don’t listen to him, Mum. They’re lovely.’
Geoff seemed in no mood to patronise. ‘If you’ve got teeth like a bloody beaver.’
Anne scurried into the kitchen. ‘Thank you very much.’
Geoff threw the rest of the cheese straw on the plate and turned his attention back to Ben. ‘You make sure they cough up. We’ve had enough setbacks for one year.’
‘Perhaps I should march them to a cash machine at gunpoint?’
‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. I just want the first payment up front, that’s all.’
Maddie picked up the photo of Hannah and studied it. ‘I might know her. I wouldn’t swear to it, but she looks like one of the sports leaders at school.’
‘Girls always look the bloody same nowadays,’ Geoff said. ‘I’m sure they’ve all been cloned.’
‘It’s the gap in her teeth,’ Maddie said. ‘I don’t know…’
Geoff tossed the photo back on the table. ‘So, to recap, the girl gets a lift to work, leaves early to go home because she’s got a dicky belly, and that’s the last anyone sees of her?’
Ben was tempted to give his father a sarcastic round of applause. ‘That’s about the size of it.’
‘Go down to Thames Travel. She might have caught a bus. If there’s a camera on the bus, there’ll be footage of her.’
‘Won’t the police have looked into that already?’ Maddie said.
Geoff agreed. ‘Probably. I’m still waiting for Andy to get back to me. What time did she leave work?’
Ben referred to his notes. ‘According to Monica, the care manager said Hannah left work about an hour before her shift ended.’
Geoff scowled. ‘Am I supposed to guess what time the shift ended or are you going to tell me?’
‘Sorry. Eight.’
‘Go on the Thames Travel website. Look at the times of the buses. Where is this nursing home?’
‘Tadmarsh.’
‘That’s barely a village. My guess is the buses run little after six. What date did the girl vanish?’
Ben was relieved he’d remembered to ask. ‘Fourth of August.’
‘So who gave Hannah a lift to work the day she vanished?’
‘Seb Smith,’ Ben said. ‘Hannah and Seb’s wife are good friends. Hannah was a bridesmaid at their wedding.’
‘You need to interview him. And the care manager at Sunnyside. And anyone else in that nursing home who was on shift with Hannah that day. See if anything leaps out at you. Liars are easy to spot if you know what you’re looking for.’
Ben wasn’t convinced that anyone at Sunnyside was responsible. It was far more likely to be a chance encounter. Some psycho who had seen her waiting at the bus stop and offered her a lift home.
‘Most times, it turns out the victim knows their attacker,’ Geoff said. ‘In fact, if you want to strip it right down to the bone, the culprit is usually a close friend or a family member.’
Ben was tempted to remind his father of the dangers of assumption.
Geoff stretched and looked at his son. ‘What do you reckon happened to this girl?’
‘I think someone’s abducted her somewhere between the nursing home and her house. Probably a random stranger who saw an opportunity and took it.’
‘Do you think she’s dead?’
Ben looked for something positive to say; it was like looking for a heartbeat in a corpse. ‘I hope not.’
‘The nursing home will probably have CCTV,’ Geoff said. ‘We might see Hannah leaving work. Or, more importantly, if she left one her own.’
Ben nodded. ‘I’ll check.’
‘You need to talk to the care manager about any maintenance men and delivery drivers connected to Sunnyside. Those buggers turn up as regular as clockwork in murders. I’ve lost count of the number of white-van drivers who have appeared in the dock, guilty as charged.’
Ben was reminded of the dangers of assumption again.
‘What you’re looking for when you talk to people is eye contact,’ Geoff said. ‘A lot of criminals have watched all those forensic shows on TV. They know maintaining eye contact is important when telling lies. But forced eye contact is easy to spot. They stare too hard, almost like they’re on drugs. Natural eye contact will break away occasionally. Forced won’t.’
Ben scribbled in his notebook and made a mental note to never maintain prolonged eye contact with his father in future.
‘Next thing is what I call left and right thinking. When they look to the right, they’re making stuff up. When they look to the left, it’s a good indicator they’re telling the truth.’
Ben stifled a yawn.
‘Am I boring you?’
‘I didn’t sleep much last night.’
‘Being tired isn’t an excuse for anything. You need to be on top of your game if you want to be a private investigator.’
‘Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind when I’m tossing and turning at night thanks to Penghilly’s Farm.’
Geoff didn’t seem in a sympathetic mood. ‘You’ve got to let that go. It’s over now. Move on.’
Ben didn’t think it would ever be over. Terrible memories of that place would haunt him forever. Edward Ebb would stalk him until his dying day.
Geoff winked at Maddie. ‘Take a pin with you and give him a jab when he flags.’
Maddie smiled.
Ben didn’t. He excused himself and went to the toilet. If his father had experienced a hatpin being jabbed into the soles of his feet by Edward Ebb, he might not be so flippant with his remarks.
Chapter Five
Hannah Heath didn’t know how long she’d been incarcerated in her stinking basement prison; there was no natural light to allow her to distinguish between night and day. But the swell of her stomach told her that the baby wasn’t far away from being born. She lay on an airbed, staring at ceiling. A solitary lightbulb cast an eerie glow across the room, turni
ng shadows into figures. Dark entities with sinister poses. Animals baring huge sharp teeth. A vulture waiting for her to die so as it could strip her flesh and reduce her body to nothing but a memory.
The baby moved inside her. A tiny life dependent on its mother. But Hannah could never nurture it. Never watch it grow. Never even hold it. She reached down and caressed her tummy, as if casting her hands over the most delicate crystal ball in the world. She wanted to tell the baby how sorry she was. That she loved it more than anything else in the world. But words seemed as empty and hollow as the stinking basement.
Her tummy felt fit to burst. Skin stretched tight. Veins running across its surface like tiny red rivers. There was a bottle of Bio oil at home in the medicine cabinet, along with her folic acid tablets. A woman had to watch out for iron deficiency and stretch marks – in the normal world.
Hannah had made about a dozen plans to escape, all of which had seemed reasonable until you factored in the fact that she was pregnant and about as nimble as an elephant. One idea that had merited a certain level of excitement was to fake a miscarriage. Take away the one thing her captor wanted. But it soon became apparent that she could never get away with it. For starters, she would need blood. And a fair bit of it, too. And what she was supposed to do with the bump in her belly? Breathe in?
Another idea, a slight improvement on some of the others, was to feign illness. A stomach virus. One that might threaten the baby. This had seemed good enough to run with. Perhaps her captor might panic. Take her to a hospital or get a doctor to call at the house. Her initial optimism had been crushed within a day of declaring her illness. She’d been put on a diet of bottled water and porridge and told to take regular exercise to help keep her body in shape.
How had she been dumb enough to expect otherwise? The only way out of here was in a coffin. No, not a coffin. She wouldn’t be afforded such dignity. Perhaps a refuse sack. Buried out in Hadley Woods or tossed over a bridge into the river. No one would ever find her. Her family would have no grave to attend. Nowhere to go to and pay their respects. Lay flowers. Just a huge black hole in their lives.
She tried not to think about dying, but it was like trying not to think about food when you were starving hungry. Sometimes she would dream she was out of the basement. Walking across a lush green stretch of grass. Or the soft golden sands of a beautiful beach. Always bare foot. The wind in her hair. The sun on her face. It was such a wonderful feeling not to be walking on the ragged concrete floor. But dreams were cruel. They leaked into your waking hours and taunted you with their whispers of freedom.
As soon as the baby was born, she would be murdered and erased from the world. Life would go on. The sun would still rise in the morning. The stars would still shine at night. People would eventually stop talking about her. It would be as if she’d never even existed. Robert would move on and meet someone else. Have children and do all the things parents got to do with kids. Simple stuff like watching their first steps and taking them to school. Things most parents took for granted.
What had she done to deserve this? She’d always tried her best. Been good at school. Worked hard. Never been in trouble. It was as if none of these things counted for anything. Victims were victims, irrespective of their worth. It was as if fate somehow conspired to bring them into contact with evil people. A missed bus here, a snapped shoelace there, just to ensure they would be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
A spider crawled across the ceiling, weaving its thread around the lightbulb. Hannah didn’t mind spiders. Some of the girls at the nursing home were terrified of them, but she couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Spiders were clever. Their webs were so intricately woven. So beautiful on a frosty morning, decorating the hedgerows with dozens of miniature white veils.
She watched the spider working. And then a thought struck her: what if she took the bulb out of the holder and smashed it. She could use it as a weapon. Wait at the top of the steps and strike when the door opened.
Stupid idea. The basement will be pitch black. How you gonna see?
‘I’ll have the light from the kitchen when the door opens.’
You won’t get time to adjust your eyes.
The baby kicked. A sign perhaps?
A warning more like! You’re only a few weeks away from giving birth.
Hannah watched the spider drop away from the bulb and hang a few feet above her face. At least she would have one advantage with this new plan: surprise.
And if you miss?
‘What does it matter? I’m going to die anyway.’
It matters if you end up getting shoved down the basement steps. That’s both you and the baby done for.
Hannah tried not to dwell on that. She rolled over on the airbed and pushed herself up into a kneeling position. She backed onto the concrete floor and forced herself to stand. Her swollen ankles throbbed. The bottom of her back ached from the weight of the baby pulling her forward.
Don’t tell me you’re going to go ahead with this stupid idea?
Hannah arched her back. She kicked the airbed out of the way to allow access to the bulb. She then walked over to a small wooden table with a microwave oven sitting on top of it. The table didn’t sit too well on the uneven concrete floor, but it would probably be strong enough to support her weight.
And if you lose your balance?
Hannah laughed. A tiny sound gobbled up by the empty basement. ‘I’m about to lose everything. Losing my balance is the least of my worries.’
The baby moved again, as if to remind her what was at stake. She imagined him rolling over and sucking his thumb, oblivious to the hell he was about to be born into. She crawled under the table and unplugged the microwave. She then struggled back to her feet, put the microwave on the floor, and dragged the table across the basement, positioning it directly beneath the bulb.
How are you going to take the bulb out? It will be red hot.
There was a hand towel draped over a metal rail leading up the basement steps. It was for drying herself on when she was afforded the occasional luxury of a bucket of warm water and a bar of soap to wash with. She fetched it and climbed onto the table. It took several attempts to release the bulb. Apart from being hot, the damn thing was slippery. To make matters worse, she had to grip the holder at the same time as the bulb to stop the whole thing turning around.
Finally, the bulb popped from the bayonet holder. Darkness consumed the basement. The table no longer had edges. There was nothing for her to gauge distance with. No walls, no celling, no floor. She wrapped the bulb in the towel and dropped it onto the floor. It landed with a soft plumph sound. She knelt down and waited for her eyes to adjust.
After a short while, she could just about make out random shapes cast by the faint glow of the electric fire. She edged backwards and pushed herself off the table. Back on solid ground. Slightly more confident. At least she was no longer in danger of falling and hurting the baby. She waited for the bulb to cool and smashed it against the floor.
Hannah made her way slowly up the steps, gripping the handrail with one hand and holding the bulb out in front of her with the other. For what seemed like hours, she sat at the top of the steps preparing herself for the fight of her life.
In her mind’s eye, she watched the bulb strike home, rendering her captor helpless. Watched herself running out of the basement. Out of the house. Finding the nearest neighbour and raising the alarm. Police lights. The open back door of an ambulance. Robert. Her parents. A hospital bed. Freedom.
You need to move about. Keep warm. If that door opens now, you’ll take forever to get up!
Hannah fumbled for the handrail and hauled herself up. She walked back and forth on the tiny patch of concrete like a caged animal marking its territory. Pins and needles tattooed her legs. She gripped the remains of the lightbulb in her right hand. She reached down with her free hand and rubbed her stomach, as if reassuring the tiny life inside her she would do all she could to protect him.
&
nbsp; A loud click. The door unlocking.
Hannah’s breath froze in her throat.
Forget it! Get back down in the basement.
The door creaked open and flooded the basement with light. Hannah didn’t have time to think about what she was going to do. She rushed forward and thrust the jagged remains of the lightbulb at her captor’s face.
A scream rolled around the basement. Harsh enough to break lightbulbs, you might say. Hannah’s makeshift weapon got to within a few inches of its target, but was thwarted as a tea tray, containing a foil dish of lasagne and a bottle of Highland Spring water, slammed into her face.
Hannah dropped the bulb and staggered backwards.
‘You dirty little bitch.’
Hannah groped for the handrail and just steadied herself before she tumbled down the steps. The door slammed, once more plunging the basement into darkness. Her legs turned to marshmallow. She struggled to breathe. Tiny white stars popped before her eyes. Using the rail for support, she eased herself down onto the concrete floor and peered into the dark abyss of the basement.
Now look what you’ve gone and done.
She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream and beat her fists against the wall, but there was no strength left inside her. Maybe she ought to retrieve the jagged remains of the lightbulb and slash her wrists.
The baby kicked, hard, as if to say, Hey, I’m still here.
‘I tried,’ she whispered.
Trying counts for nothing. The world’s full of suckers who think it’s better to try and fail than to not try at all. But is it? Is it really?
Hannah Heath didn’t think it was.
Chapter Six
Friday morning found Geoff Whittle in what appeared to be quite a congenial mood, considering his wife had burned his breakfast after being interrupted by a phone call from Aunt Mary. Ben didn’t trust his father’s mood; he’d seen the results of his mother’s ineptitude too many times to be comfortable with it.
Geoff looked at Maddie as if appraising her. ‘You look tired, love. Out clubbing last night?’