Traces of Her

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘Photos?’

  ‘Mmm. Did you order any?’

  I shake my head and, sitting down on the edge of the sofa, I look inside the box. She’s right. It’s photographs. I pull them out one at a time, and lay them in a row on the coffee table. There are four – all of men I’ve never seen before.

  ‘Who are they?’ Becky says, sitting down by my side. ‘Do you know them?’ She tucks her wayward curls behind her ears as she stares down at them.

  I shake my head again. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘So who sent them?’ I hear a twang of apprehension in Becky’s voice. ‘Why have you been sent them, Mum?’

  ‘I’m sure there’s an explanation, sweetheart,’ I say, although I don’t know what it is. I turn the photos over one at a time, looking on the backs, hoping to find names.

  There’s a colour photograph of a boy of about seventeen, with white-blonde hair styled back from his face with gel, and blue eyes that seem a little too close together. I take in his baggy pale blue jeans, the way his hands are stuffed in the pockets of a black bomber jacket. I turn it over. ‘It says Justin, 1999.’

  ‘No surname?’ Becky asks, and I shake my head. ‘He looks a bit spaced out to me,’ she goes on, taking the photo. ‘A bit like Foggy Marsden in my class when he’s high on coke.’

  ‘Please tell me you’re talking about the brown fizzy stuff.’

  She rolls her eyes.

  ‘You mean cocaine?’ My heart, already thudding at the sight of the curious photographs, picks up speed.

  ‘It’s OK, Mother. I would never touch the stuff. My body is a temple.’ She puts the photo down.

  I pick up another photograph. This man looks like a throwback from the Sixties. He’s nice looking enough, but too pale with dark shadows under eyes framed with Harry Potter style glasses. He’s in his late twenties, I would think, with dishevelled hair to his shoulders. ‘Peter Millar,’ I read from the back of the photo.

  The next picture is of a man with dark brown hair. He’s good-looking, and kitted out in an expensive suit. I move the photo closer to my face, before flicking the photo over. ‘Rory Thompson.’

  The final picture isn’t as clear as the others. It’s taken from a distance, possibly without the man’s knowledge. He’s wearing a yellow baseball cap pulled low over what looks like brown hair, and a white hooded sweatshirt over black jeans. There’s no name on the back.

  ‘Why has someone sent you these?’ Becky asks. ‘Are you two-timing Aaron?’ She tries for a laugh – she knows that would never happen. She’s trying to make light of it. It isn’t working.

  I pick up the cardboard box once more, and search inside. Squashed at the bottom is a sealed envelope. I pull it free and rip it open. Inside is a piece of paper. I recognise Willow’s handwriting instantly.

  My eyes widen as Becky and I read her words.

  Dear Rose,

  I’m sending you these photos because one of these men killed my mother eighteen years ago. Her name was Ava Millar. I’ve been asking questions, and now someone is hanging about the cottage. They want me to leave, but I’m not giving up.

  I’ll explain everything when you arrive. But Rose – if anything happens to me, please keep digging until you find the truth.

  Love, Willow X

  My hands shake, and my heart bounces in my chest, as I try to push the letter back in the envelope. I’m in shock that Willow would send me a letter with such potency. That she would worry me that something could happen to her – tell me to take the baton if it did.

  ‘Christ! What’s going on, Mum?’ Becky says. She’s nibbling her nails, and her eyes look browner and wider than ever.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I say, the words of the letter jumping around my head, ‘but the sooner I get to Cornwall the better.’

  ‘This is so freaky.’ Becky pulls her phone from her pocket. ‘I need to tell Tamsyn.’

  ‘No! Don’t tell anyone.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘OK, Mother.’ A pause. ‘But I just can’t believe we’re going to Cornwall to catch a killer.’

  ‘You’re not going at all,’ I say. ‘It’s no place for you. You can stay with Grandpa and Eleanor.’

  ‘But Mum!’

  I raise my hand like I’m the traffic police. ‘And I don’t want to hear any more about it.’

  Chapter 12

  ROSE

  Now

  Becky thunders up the stairs and slams her bedroom door. With a deep sigh, I plonk down on the sofa and grab my laptop. Trying to block out her teenage tantrum, I open it up.

  I key in ‘murder’ and ‘Cornwall’ into the search engine. There are almost 100,000 hits. As I scroll down the websites: unsolved murders, mysterious murders, frenzied killings, sadistic killings, my stomach turns over – and I pray nobody ever looks at my search history.

  I spot an article about a rape and attempted murder of a young woman near Crantock in 2001, but Willow said her mother was murdered.

  With determination, I do the same search and include Ava Millar.

  Oh God, it’s there in front of me within moments. Ava Millar. Murdered in 2001.

  With shaking hands, I press the link. It takes me to a newspaper article:

  The Cornwall Journal

  December 22nd 2001

  The body of nineteen-year-old Ava Millar was discovered early this morning by sixty-year-old Stephen Patterson while he was walking his dog along Beach Road, Bostagel.

  Stephen told the Cornwall Journal that the attack on Ava was horrific, and finding her would live with him forever. It has now been confirmed that she was stabbed eight times.

  Near the body a bride’s dress, thought to belong to Ava’s sister, Gail Thompson, was found folded neatly with what appeared to be a suicide note.

  The last sightings of Ava and Gail were at Bostagel Village Hall yesterday evening. Police are keen to talk to anyone who may have seen Ava or Gail between ten o’clock and midnight last night to get in contact on the numbers below.

  Ava leaves behind her two-year-old daughter Willow.

  ‘Oh God,’ I whisper, covering my face with my hands. Trying to comprehend the terrible tragedy. Imagining Willow doing the same online search. Reading this article. I can’t bear to think of the effect it would have had on her. Why didn’t she turn to me sooner?

  I struggle to believe that Eleanor isn’t Willow’s real mother, that she kept it from us all. But as the idea settles, I wonder if there were signs I missed over the years. Mummy is an angel.

  Later, as I stir fry chicken and vegetables, I try calling Willow, the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder as the food sizzles and spits in the wok, but her phone rings and rings, finally going to voicemail. I leave a short message. ‘Call me, Willow. Please.’

  ‘Becky, dinner’s ready,’ I call, as I serve.

  She thumps down the stairs. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she says, disappearing into the lounge. So I sit alone, pushing food around my plate, unable to eat, my mind full of Willow.

  Later, I grab my jacket from the rack, and call my dad. ‘Hey! Is Eleanor home?’ I say when he picks up.

  ‘She’s right beside me, love. Do you want to speak to her?’

  ‘I thought I might come over, if that’s OK. It’s just I really need to chat with her in person.’

  ‘Of course, is everything OK? You have that tell-tale wobble in your voice.’

  ‘Do I?’ He knows me so well. ‘I’m fine, honestly. It’s just … well I’ll tell you when I get there.’

  ‘OK, love. Drive carefully.’

  ‘Yes, will do. Love you.’

  I end the call and tug on my jacket, slipping the phone into my pocket. ‘I won’t be long,’ I say to Becky, who is sprawled on the sofa, her long legs stretched out in front of her, a throw around her shoulders. She’s watching a dark series on Netflix, and grunts, still sulking.

  ‘Should you be watching that?’ I say.

  She keeps her eyes on the screen. ‘How old do you actually think I am, Mum?
No wait – I remember – you think I’m a baby.’

  I glance at the TV and catch sight of a blood splattered wall, a decapitated body on a factory floor. I cringe and squeeze my eyes closed. ‘I know how old you are, Becky.’

  ‘Well stop treating me like a kid then.’

  I duck out of the doorway, before we start bickering again, or I see another gruesome scene. I’m sure she shouldn’t be watching disturbing programmes, but if I say anything she’ll claim Aaron and I are overprotective. She doesn’t seem to realise it’s an awful world out there and we need to keep her safe.

  *

  I drive towards Old Welwyn, the sun setting behind the trees. Dusk has settled on the warm day by the time I pull onto the drive at Darlington House.

  The grounds are still and quiet and, probably due to my mood, I feel uneasy. Dad and Eleanor have had a few offers over the years from film directors wanting to use the place as a setting for horror or supernatural movies, but they’ve always declined, insisting this is a happy house. And it is. Mostly.

  I knock, and Eleanor answers the door within moments. She turned sixty at Christmas, but could easily pass as forty-five.

  ‘Rose, darling,’ she says, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around me – coating me with her expensive perfume. She’s softly spoken, pronounces her vowels. ‘Your father said you wanted to talk to me.’

  Once she’s released me, I follow her into the lounge. There’s no sign of Dad, and as though sensing me searching for him, Eleanor says, ‘He’s popped to the Fox and Hound. Said he thought you wanted to see me. Decided to give us space. Drink?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’

  I spot two cases in the corner, and suddenly remember. ‘Oh, I forgot you’re going away.’

  ‘Yes.’ She aims the remote control at the TV, muting a wildlife programme. ‘We’re heading for Scotland in the morning. Your dad said we shouldn’t go. That we should be here for Willow.’ She stares deep into my eyes as though asking me what she should do.

  ‘Dad needs a break,’ I say. He’s been suffering with angina, needs some time out to relax.

  ‘Yes, and we’re only going for the weekend. We could be back in a flash if needed.’

  ‘You must go,’ I insist, sitting down on one of the sofas opposite her. ‘Dad’s never been to Scotland. And let’s be honest, if we stopped living every time Willow took off we’d never go anywhere.’ She still looks a little unsure. ‘She’s got me, Eleanor. I’ll keep you both updated.’

  ‘Yes, of course you will. Thank you, Rose,’ she says.

  Photographs in silver frames of the family are everywhere. Expensive ornaments, mostly wild animals, are displayed in an oak cabinet. A bookshelf full of hardbacks – non-fiction mainly: biographies, books about birds, the rainforest – stretches across one of the walls.

  ‘So what did you want to see me about?’ she says. She cups her chin with her left hand, places her index finger on her cheek. ‘Is everything OK?’

  Deciding to come straight to the point, I say, ‘Do you know why Willow took off like she did?’

  She moves her hand from her cheek and examines her neat nails for some moments. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

  ‘Are you her biological mother, Eleanor?’

  Tears appear on her lower lashes. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘That her real mother was murdered? Yes, I know.’

  ‘I brought her up, Rose. She is my daughter.’

  ‘You adopted her?’

  ‘She’s had a far better life with me – us – than she ever would have.’ She sucks in a sigh, as a resting tear zigzags down her cheek. ‘You may as well know how it came about.’

  ‘Go on.’ I lean back, feeling a tension in my shoulders, and the beginnings of a headache forming.

  She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘So you know Willow’s mother was murdered.’

  I nod, feeling fuzzy, as though I’m not in my own body. As though none of this is real.

  ‘Her name was Ava Millar,’ she goes on, and I don’t stop her, even though I know that much. ‘I knew the Millars from my time as a social worker. In the early Nineties Ava’s older brother was a difficult boy, and her mother couldn’t handle him. There was concern for the safety of Ava and her sister, Gail. They were eight and ten when I was assigned their case.

  ‘Although things calmed down when the brother took off to Australia, I kept the family on my radar, and heard when Ava got pregnant at seventeen with Willow – the father was a useless article.

  ‘When Ava was killed, I visited her mother. Jeannette Millar was a mess. Anyone would be after losing two daughters. Gail killed herself you see, after supposedly killing Ava.’

  ‘Supposedly?’

  ‘I never quite believed she was capable. She was a self-centred girl but, in my opinion, not a killer. Although the evidence was there – the note – her wedding dress folded neatly – the knife.’

  My mind drifts to the photographs I was sent. ‘So if you don’t think she killed her sister, who did?’

  She shrugs. ‘There were other theories. Ava’s brother-in-law, Rory, was suspected for a short time, but he had a sound alibi.’

  I think back to the photos. ‘So Rory was Gail’s husband?’

  She nods. ‘It happened on the night of their wedding.’

  I cover my mouth. ‘Oh God,’ I say into my hand. ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘It was, yes.’ She shakes her head. ‘A terrible tragedy.’

  ‘And the other theories?’

  ‘Well … there was Justin, Willow’s father.’

  ‘Her father?’ My mind is racing. ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He was a useless man. I hope Willow never meets him if he is.’ She takes a deep breath, and fiddles with her earring – a simple sleeper, she never wears fancy jewellery. ‘There were so many stories kicking around that part of Cornwall at the time, Rose. But I doubt we’ll ever know the truth, not after all these years.’

  ‘So when Ava Millar died, you adopted Willow,’ I say, bringing the conversation back to where we began.

  ‘Not right away – as I said Jeannette Millar couldn’t cope, and Willow’s father was useless. Willow ended up in care. I fostered her, and being part of social services, pushed for a quick adoption.’

  It doesn’t seem possible we are talking about my stepsister – the young woman staying in Cornwall hunting for a killer.

  I stare at Eleanor for some moments, before reaching over and taking her hand. ‘So why tell Willow now?’

  ‘I didn’t. Someone contacted her on Facebook. Told her everything.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Willow didn’t recognise the name, and there was no profile photo. They attached an article about the murder of her mother. Willow didn’t believe it, of course. She came to me, hoping I would tell her it was an elaborate lie.’ She lifts her head, dashes a tear from the corner of her eye, her voice crumbling. ‘But I couldn’t lie to her. I always said I would tell her one day, and it felt like the right time. But she took it so badly.’

  I can’t believe I don’t know any of this, that Eleanor kept it a secret all these years. ‘Did Dad know? Does Dad know?’

  ‘He does now. He wishes I’d told him sooner.’

  ‘Maybe you should have.’

  A silence falls, as she rises to pour a brandy. ‘Are you sure you won’t have one?’

  I shake my head and get up too. ‘I should go,’ I say.

  ‘You do understand why I didn’t tell Willow, don’t you, Rose?’ she says, ‘Why I kept it quiet for so long. What good would have come of her knowing her mother was murdered?’

  It seems vital to her that I understand. ‘Of course,’ I say, and turn to leave.

  *

  By the time I get home, I’m emotionally drained. What I’m not up for is a full-on argument with my daughter, who, going b
y her stance as she stands in the hallway, is ready for one.

  ‘OK,’ I say, before she can say anything.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘You can come,’ I go on, as I tug off my shoes. What I don’t say is her grandpa and Eleanor are going away, so I have no choice but to take her to Cornwall. That the last thing I want is her hanging about at home without supervision. ‘But if things get tough, Becky, we’re coming straight home.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she says, lunging at me, and hugging me. ‘Yay!’

  At that moment it hits me that I need her with me.

  Chapter 13

  ROSE

  Now

  My eyes are closed, but I’ve barely slept, my mind far too busy with thoughts of Willow – the nips of guilt that I should already be in Cornwall waking me on the hour, every hour; the heat of the night making it difficult to drop back off.

  I reach across the bed. I know Aaron isn’t here, but I imagine he wraps his hand tightly around mine, and wallow for a few moments thinking of him, before prising open my eyes and pulling myself to a sitting position.

  My mouth is dry from the fan whirring on my bedside table. I click it off, knocking a photo of Aaron to the floor. I pick up my phone, and rub sleep from my eyes, trying to focus. It’s 6 a.m.

  I grab the glass of water that’s been standing on my bedside table all night and swallow a gulp of the warm liquid before trying to call Willow. It goes straight to voicemail.

  ‘Hey, Willow,’ I say into the phone. ‘Can’t wait to see you later. Call me as soon as you can.’ I end the call, trying not to worry. She’s a late riser. That’s all.

  I need coffee, always my go-to first thing in the morning. And then we need to get going as early as possible.

  But still I sit, my eyelids drooping.

  The sun’s fingers reach in through a gap in my flimsy pale-blue curtains, picking out Becky’s life so far in photos that jostle for space on the far wall. My daughter is beautiful. I wish she could see what I see when she looks in the mirror.