by Martyn Ford
‘Not particularly. But she doesn’t strike me as especially capable either.’
‘I agree.’
‘We should ask Anna about the scarred man too.’
‘Burned faces.’
Sam nodded, recalling the dolls, remembering the rarity of scorched heads.
He stared over at the Clarkes’ house – a wide mansion behind the gate, behind the hedges – and thought of all the ways Robin could have left it.
‘They’re still teaching kids not to talk to strangers,’ he said. ‘But parents hurt children, or it’s the uncle, the bus driver, the caretaker, the family friend, the neighbour, the vicar, that milkman who loves to chat. Strangers are the ones who come and save you.’
‘You believe whoever took Robin knew her personally?’
‘Anna said she woke up around three a.m. – she listed all the things she noticed. Her daughter’s night light, the oven timer, the back door, the thick carpet . . . the dog that wasn’t barking. Yes. I’d bet my life on it.’
Chapter 19
Hallowfield, like any city of this culture, size, day and age, is home to untold numbers of CCTV cameras. Digital eyes watching, recording, witnessing a thousand silences, the day-to-day interactions of countless, nameless souls. Most of whom are oblivious to any audience. And on the path that leads from the park, behind the tall fences, we see Freddie walking this route again. As before, a pair of trainers, tied at the laces, dangle and spin from the rear of his rucksack. His earphones are in – his hands tucked into the pockets of his tracksuit top. His gait is steady, perhaps stepping to the beat of the tune he can hear.
He comes down a curved tarmac slope, heads to the right of the frame, towards a tunnel that burrows beneath the dual carriageway and splits off to Kendell Street. The bare grey concrete around the opening hosts water stains, old graffiti and the speckled black print of exhaust fumes. Brambles at the sides, filled with litter, faded packaging, shopping bags thinned in the weather, catching the wind. Suspended. Fluttering.
Freddie turns into the walkway, into the tunnel, and out of sight. Here is that blind spot again – around two minutes at his pace. One hundred and twenty seconds go by unseen.
Because it’s true. There are no cameras in the underpass.
Sam had made provisions in his flat, taping a knife to the underside of his coffee table and hiding another beneath the sofa cushions. In his bedroom, he had a small hammer in his top drawer and a baseball bat perched against the wall, behind the door. Of course, he couldn’t account for every eventuality. Besides, he suspected revenge, in whatever form it took, would be served outside, somewhere cold – as is customary. But still, he’d feel foolish to come home, find an intruder and be more than a few paces from a deadly weapon. The Glock 17 he’d purchased was, day and night, holstered beneath his hooded, zip-up jumper, no matter the weather. He’d practised loading, reloading, racking the slide, clearing the chamber. For this he’d driven out to the woods – to a place where you might expect to hear the crack of distant shotguns turning pheasants into feathers and dust and continue about your rural business.
There was something ridiculous about following a YouTube tutorial on how to handle this pistol. But the reality was Sam had minimal experience, especially with small arms. He rehearsed the motion again and again, reaching down, pulling it clear, having both hands in place within a second – one on the grip, another cupped beneath.
The final test of the day saw him twenty feet from a tree. Shoulders firm and leaning into it, he fired a pair of rounds into the bark, which spat splinters back at him and sent startled birds flapping from every treetop in sight. He blinked and stood there alone as the last of the sparrows faded out, dissolving in the late summer haze above. Twigs snapped underfoot as he walked back to his car – another happy customer. If he could, he’d give that eccentric dairy-farming arms dealer a glowing review. The ice cream wasn’t bad either. Five stars.
After this, Sam drove to Hallowfield General Hospital and sat in the cafe. He ordered a cappuccino and bought a newspaper. They were props more than anything, but he sipped the coffee and read the front page nonetheless. Still yesterday’s news – no mention of the custody extension, just hours old at this point. The hunt for Robin Clarke intensifying – a quote from Daniel Aiden about ‘offering his support to the family’.
‘All they ask,’ the BAFTA-award-winning documentary filmmaker added, ‘is that their privacy is respected during this difficult time.’
And, dead centre on the front page, the school portrait photograph of Robin – cute and blonde, curly hair just like her mother. Rotting somewhere now, if the arrest held water. Sam didn’t know what to think. Perhaps Francis Clarke was a masterful liar – a stone-cold professional. Perhaps he was a monster. Perhaps he had killed his own daughter.
But he had not, and Sam believed this as much as he believed in gravity, killed Ethan. The papers weren’t afraid to plant that suspicion though – picturing Francis on page three, above photos of both his missing children, looming over them with those steely blue eyes. Eyes like a winter dog.
Back then, when the days were barely weeks and the coverage was just a seed of the mammoth it would become, Sam had tried to spur himself on by thinking about Freddie, five years old at the time. He imagined how hard he would work should his own son suffer a similar fate. There was no excuse to treat Anna’s and Francis’s child with anything less than that obsession. And it didn’t take long to flourish. There had been no comfort with Ethan – nothing plausible enough to believe provisionally in lieu of an answer. It was total darkness – pitch-black, the kind of thick night that tricks your eyes into doubting they were ever even capable of detecting light in the first place.
So when they found that coat on that beach, it was given far more weight than it deserved. And those looking took every bit of undue solace from the only glimmer there’d been. For Sam, the idea that Ethan was in the ocean, that he’d fallen into that void, offered little but horror.
However, as time went on, he created a divide and never allowed himself to imagine Freddie entering the same blind space in his mind. It hurt too much. Plus, it wasn’t necessary. Within six short months Sam thought about little else but the case and, when he noticed the other cornerstones of his life beginning to wither from such wanton neglect, it was already too late.
This was also when his commitment to honesty stopped being merely an ideal. If he treated the truth with the respect he always knew it deserved, then maybe, just maybe, it’d grow to trust him. Maybe it’d lower its guard and unfurl, expose every shade of its elusive beauty as though seducing a mate. He was, after all, a compatible species.
He spent a long time thinking about Francis and realised that, despite the tide, despite the current pulling everything in this direction, nothing had changed. Sam would need far more before he believed Francis Clarke was a murderer.
Surveying the scene in the hospital cafe, he closed and folded the paper. From here he could see the foyer – a large open space with two sets of wide automatic doors. Then a semicircle of grey carpet and a long reception, staffed by a busy woman with a couple of nurses behind her – desk-bound but dressed in uniform. Phones rang. Beds carrying elderly people rolling past from time to time, back trolley wheels wobbling and squeaking on old metal swivels. Blank eyes looking nowhere.
A doctor pressed an alcohol gel dispenser on the wall across from Sam and, when she strode close, rubbing her hands, he smelled the sterile liquid in the air. Clean. In the same way the faint sweet smoke out the front made him want a cigarette, this made him want a drink.
Sam could also see the corridor to the trauma centre, where men and women in shirts and scrubs would intermittently gather, disappear inside and respond to an ambulance arriving. Like a factory arrangement but, instead of produce, the conveyer carried critically injured humans for an urgent dose of medical intervention. Earlier, Henry Marston had been treated in there, heavily sedated, strapped to a bed, head held in place with
a plastic neck brace. Sam had managed to wander in and overhear talk about an upcoming scan – he’d caught a glimpse of Henry and the empty chair by his bed. No visitors. He had hoped to catch sight of a face or follow up a number plate – something to bring him closer to the remaining Marston brothers, to Diane, to North Serpent. And yet, he had found no such thing.
He left just before 7 p.m. and returned home for the smoke and drink the hospital had suggested. Perhaps he could orchestrate something from here. With a cold vodka and Coke, he sat at his laptop and removed the small white cardboard box from his top drawer. Henry Marston’s prescription was for citalopram – an SSRI antidepressant which Sam familiarised himself with online. Crucially, on the packet, he found a label with Henry’s GP practice printed in bold letters.
Acorn Wood Surgery had a cheap-looking website, with nothing flashy besides a repeat-prescription form which didn’t work. Sam clicked through to ‘About Us’. Three doctors. Two female and one male. Smiling headshots.
Doctor Roland Patel – a Bangladeshi man. Sam googled him and found an academic profile. Although he had studied medicine in Germany, the doctor appeared to have worked in the UK for over twenty years. There it was again – the temptation to lie. To phone the hospital and feign a diluted accent which, however hard he tried, would invariably sound comedic. No. He would play it straight.
There were two missed calls from Marilyn, notifications he ignored for now. He’d text her later.
He found the number for Hallowfield General Hospital and called the switchboard – ‘If you know the extension you need, dial now. If not, press two.’ Beep and it rang again.
‘Hallowfield General.’
‘Hi there.’ Sam stubbed his cigarette out and spoke through the smoke. ‘I’m wondering if you can help me – I just wanted to check on the status of a patient who checked in last night, Henry Marston.’
‘Which unit?’
His phone buzzed in his hand, he looked down at the screen – incoming call, Marilyn. He dismissed it.
‘Intensive care.’
The tone changed and he was put on hold – three seconds of crackled, hissing music and the ice clinking in his glass as he swirled the liquid. Another voice. ‘ICU.’
‘Hello.’ He sat up. ‘I wanted to check the status of a patient, Henry Marston—’
‘We can’t give out details to members of—’
‘No, no, of course. I am a . . . I was there when he was injured. All I want to know is that he’s being cared for and that he’s not alone.’
‘He’ll be receiving the best care, sir.’
‘Has he had any visitors, can you at least tell me that?’
There was a sigh, ‘Please hold.’
Around thirty seconds later she was back. ‘Yes, sir, Henry Marston Junior has had two visitors.’
‘He’s . . . sorry, Henry Marston Junior?’
‘Yes, Henry Senior was here earlier today.’
His son.
With a plummeting dread, a nightmare sense of falling, Sam felt his heart throb in his chest. He recalled Joey’s warnings again and again – the words eye-for-an-eye rattling, screaming in his ears. A literal interpretation.
His hands were shaking as he went to missed calls and pressed Marilyn’s name. She answered after a single ring – tears clear in her jittering voice.
‘Sam,’ she said. ‘Sam . . . God . . . it’s . . . it’s Freddie, he’s . . . It’s bad, Sam.’
Dizzy and sick, his pulse drumming, he stood and listened to her cry down the phone. She was still saying unthinkable things when he leaned over his desk and vomited on the floor. Brown, bitter coffee and froth, stinging vodka and shit he couldn’t remember eating poured out of him. It stank.
The world tapered in – the walls tilted down towards his head as he swayed and left his flat, past the spectacularly misplaced weapons he’d hidden throughout. Outside. Into his car. Into the night. And back to that hospital, where invisible borders mean nothing. A place where sharp things hurt you, all in the name of healing. A place that makes you better, or kills you trying.
Chapter 20
There was just one place left in the house that Robin hadn’t seen yet. But today, that would change. Although she knew whatever was in that room was forbidden, and would most likely scare her, as so many things here did, she still wanted to know. And it wasn’t only curiosity. It might even be that, inside, there was a window, or a door, or some other way out of the building. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t allowed to go in there.
Actually, she thought, he hadn’t exactly said she couldn’t go into that room. But he had said she must never, ever touch any locks. And that tall door in the kitchen was bolted shut with two of them – one at the top, one at the bottom.
Over the past few days, Robin had been allowed out of her room. They now ate meals together at the kitchen dining table, mostly in silence. And, yesterday, she’d even had a bath. This was good because she preferred baths, especially compared to the cramped, trickling shower in her bedroom.
It also gave her time to think. To plan. Because, whenever she was alone, even for a second, she would begin examining the house for weaknesses. He would turn away and suddenly her eyes would dart to look for keys, or inspect the screws on a door’s hinges, or she’d come up with crazy ideas like starting a fire and slipping out under all the smoke and panic. She often had ideas in the bath.
During these sly searches for chinks in the house’s armour, she had confirmed that every single window leading to the outside world was covered with bars, apart from a small one in the downstairs toilet. But, like the fan in her bathroom, it was way too narrow to get through, even if she was bold enough to break the glass.
The problem with her plan was that whenever he left the building, which was rarely, he never gave her any clues about how long he would be gone. He probably did this deliberately. On one afternoon, he was out for almost an hour and, as time ticked away, Robin grew annoyed that she hadn’t tried to escape again. But, with every second that passed, it became more and more dangerous because it was more and more likely he would return. So, in the end, she just sat on her bed and waited. Just like she’d been told to do.
But this time, today, when he left, she wouldn’t hesitate. She would stand up and go straight to that secret room. She knew, from counting the boxes on the monitors, that there were no cameras inside. And there was only a single camera in the kitchen that could not see the door or the right-hand side of the dining table.
Still, even with that blind spot, she would need to be quick. She had never seen him reviewing footage, but what were the cameras for if not to keep an eye on her?
‘I’m going out now,’ he said, on the landing, before heading downstairs.
She turned her head to listen, closed her eyes to be sure. And when she heard all the front door locks click and slide and clunk shut, Robin leaped into action, across the carpet, down to the ground floor – she swung round the bannister and went up the hall. Although she was rushing, she tried to act normal for the cameras, so it looked like she was maybe just getting herself a drink. In the kitchen, out of sight, she did as she had planned, dragging a chair across the tiles and pushing it against the tall inner door. Old-fashioned, made from planks of wood painted white, it reminded her of a door on a boat, or on a beach house. The bottom slider was easy – she crouched and pulled it open. With the top lock though, she had to stand on the chair, place her knee on the kitchen counter and reach up. She lifted the bolt, gripped it and, clack, slid it left.
Down on the tiles again, she moved the chair aside, stepped forwards and grabbed the handle. Even though she was alone, she still opened it as silently as possible. With her palm flat on the wood, she pushed, poking her head through the gap and, gradually, the rest of her body.
Inside, she found probably the messiest room she had ever seen. It was gloomy and smelled a bit like the loft at home. Like old clothes and cold air. Like the radiator had been turned off. And it was, she rea
lised, a bedroom, maybe for an elderly person as it was downstairs. Plus, there was an antique lamp with seashells glued around the base on the cabinet beneath the window.
The window. She tiptoed through the clutter, towards the closed curtains, holding a shelf for balance and stretching her feet out like a gymnast.
All the crosses, the paintings, the strange religious objects she’d seen in the living room had been thrown in here – out of sight. Robin was, as she had hoped, less scared of it all this time around. Still, she tried to avoid the worst pictures. Particularly the one on the bed, perched upright between the pillows – it was a beast of some kind, an animal with horns. Maybe it was the Devil. Either way, it was something she didn’t want in her mind, so she made a special effort to look elsewhere. Although she didn’t get frightened very easily, there were some things – like a video on YouTube which made you jump with a loud noise and a monkey’s face – that stopped her from sleeping. Her night light at home helped. But occasionally she would have to tuck her feet in extra tight and pull the cover up right over her ears, which would protect her – although she wasn’t quite sure how.
Robin arrived at the window. She reached over an empty washing basket, held her breath as she pulled one of the curtains aside to reveal— She sighed. More bars.
OK. She turned. What else? There was no phone, but maybe there was a computer. She could send an email home. Nothing of the sort on any of the shelves, or in any of the boxes, just candles and dusty crosses. A cabinet on the left caught her attention – it was full of old books. Robin picked one of them up: Modern Demonology. The cover had a painting of a woman wearing a white dress, sprawled out on her back with a strange creature squatting on her stomach. And dark in the background, there was a black horse with bulging eyes.
It had been well read and opened all by itself when she held the spine and—
A bookmark fell out and landed on the carpet, near her foot. Robin reached down. It was a photograph. A photograph of her, at home, sitting with Mum, Dad and Button. Biting her lip, she didn’t cry, even though seeing them made her stomach ache and her heart beat faster and faster. She sat on the edge of the bed. Held them in her palm. She missed them so much. She just wanted to see them, just for a second, just hear their voices and, and . . . No. Don’t. She cleared her throat and rubbed each eye socket with the back of her hand. For a few moments she sat there, looked at the ceiling and took some deep breaths.