Traces of Her

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘Mum!’ Becky says, throwing me a surprised look. As though I shouldn’t be sharing.

  I ignore her and fix my eyes on the inspector. ‘I’m sure the inspector already knows that already. You were helping her, weren’t you? Your name is all over her calendar.’

  He stares at me for some moments before nodding. ‘I told her to be careful,’ he says, dropping down onto the sofa, and shaking his head.

  ‘I’ll make some coffee, shall I?’ Becky says, heading into the kitchen.

  *

  Inspector Gareth Jones cradles a mug of coffee. ‘I worked on Willow’s mother’s murder case back in 2001,’ he says. ‘It was a terrible tragedy.’ He looks about him. ‘This is where they lived,’ he says. ‘The Millars.’

  Despite the warm room, I shiver, a chill running through me, as though someone walked over my grave. ‘So whoever booked this place for Willow would have known that?’

  He nods. ‘Too much of a coincidence otherwise, I would think.’ He pauses to sip his coffee. ‘I only spoke to Willow yesterday. As I say, she told me she was heading into Newquay. She’d tracked down her Uncle Peter in Australia, which was no easy feat. He was coming over to the UK. Maybe she was meeting him? As I say, she didn’t tell me her reasons.’

  Peter. ‘Peter is Willow’s uncle?’ A memory floats in of Willow talking about him when she was a child.

  He nods. ‘Yes, he’s Ava’s older brother. I can’t be sure it was him she planned to meet, but it seems likely.’

  ‘He was in one of the photographs she sent Mum,’ Becky says.

  ‘Photographs?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘She sent me four photos. She was certain one of the men in the pictures killed her mother. Peter’s in one of them.’

  ‘I wondered about him at the time of Ava’s death,’ Inspector Jones says. ‘He dashed back to Australia shortly after her funeral.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘Have you got the photographs with you?’

  ‘Yes.’ I reach for my bag, search inside, and hand them to him.

  He shuffles through them. ‘I gave these to Willow. This is Peter Millar,’ he says, staring at it for several moments. ‘And this is Justin Havers – Willow’s father. I still believe he killed her, despite his fairly sound alibi.’ He flicks to the next photo. ‘And this is Rory Thompson – Ava’s brother-in-law.’

  He studies the final photograph. ‘I didn’t give her this one,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘But then it’s hard to tell who it is anyway.’

  ‘Taken from a distance,’ I say, stating the obvious, as I take the photo of the lad with the yellow cap from him.

  He hands the rest of the photos back to me.

  ‘She told me she knows who the killer was,’ I say. ‘That’s what she said in her last voicemail.’

  ‘Did she?’ Becky says, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m sorry I never told you, sweetheart,’ I say. ‘I didn’t want you to worry.’

  ‘Yes, she told me that, too,’ he says. ‘But she was getting herself wound up to the point where I suggested she went home. I was worried about her. She seemed to suspect them all at one time or another. In fact, a few days back Dexter Powell was her prime suspect.’

  ‘Who?’ I flick foolishly through the pictures, knowing I won’t find him.

  ‘There’s no photo of anyone called Dexter.’

  ‘That’s odd. I could have sworn I gave her one.’ He furrows his forehead before shaking his head. ‘Maybe I didn’t.’

  My mind drifts to the box lying open on the coffee table at home – had I dropped one without realising?

  ‘We interviewed Dexter at the time,’ the inspector goes on. ‘He worked with Ava for a while at a DIY store in Newquay. They went out together briefly. He was at her sister’s wedding the night she died, but he took off early evening. His mum gave him an alibi.’

  All this talk of murder is making me anxious, and a rush of anxiety runs through me, as I try to take in everything he’s saying.

  ‘I think Willow may have visited Jeannette Millar a week ago at Green Pastures, whatever that is. It’s on the calendar,’ I say.

  He nods. Rubs his chin. ‘Yes. Green Pastures is a warden-controlled place in Newquay. Willow went to see her grandmother, but it was a waste of time. She was never close with Ava.’

  ‘Surely our main concern at the moment is finding Willow, Mum,’ Becky says. ‘We don’t want to start digging into an old murder case, do we?’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, snapping myself round. ‘It’s not up to us to solve an ancient murder, even if Willow thought it was hers.’ I’m lying to myself. The death of Ava Millar is getting under my skin. I know it’s connected to what’s going on with Willow.

  ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right,’ Inspector Jones says. ‘I’d love to get to the bottom of it all, but if I couldn’t solve it eighteen years ago, there’s even less hope now.’ He sighs deeply. ‘I’ll let them know at the station that Willow is missing. Get the ball rolling. Right then …’ He slaps his knees, before getting to his feet. He rams his hand in his trouser pocket and fishes out a card with his contact details on. ‘Call me if you hear from her.’

  I take the card, and he turns and heads for the door.

  If Willow’s in Newquay why hasn’t she contacted us? Why has she taken all her clothes? This isn’t just my unpredictable, flaky sister taking off on a whim. I’ve no doubt something’s happened to her.

  I follow the inspector into the hallway – glancing back once to give Becky a reassuring look – and out through the front door. I pull the door ajar behind me.

  ‘Have you been searching for Ava’s killer all these years?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘The case went cold a long time ago, but it’s always bugged me, you know. Ava was a lovely girl. But when the leads dried up and it stopped being a priority, I didn’t have time to devote to it, what with other cases I was working on. It was Willow turning up asking questions around the village that piqued my interest once more. I visited her – offered to help if I could.’

  ‘I see.’ Part of me wishes he hadn’t encouraged her. That he’d sent her home.

  As though reading my mind he says, ‘I tried to tell her all the leads had come to nothing eighteen years ago, but she was desperate to find out the truth.’ He stares into my eyes for some moments and I see speckles of black in the blue in his. ‘We’ll find her, Rose,’ he says, and places a comforting hand on my shoulder. ‘Why not leave it to us? Head home. God forbid Willow’s in any danger, but if she is, you’ll be safer there. I’ll keep you updated.’

  Tears sting behind my eyes, as I watch him go. ‘Inspector,’ I call after him, as he reaches the gate. He stops and looks back. ‘Did you know Willow visited Justin?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, opening the gate and heading through it. ‘Justin Havers – yes. He was recently released from prison.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say, covering my mouth.

  He rubs his hand over his bearded chin. ‘He went down for armed robbery a long time ago.’ A pause. ‘To be honest, it bugs me that the moment he’s released she disappears.’ With that, he raises his hand, gets into his car, and drives away.

  Chapter 21

  AVA

  2001

  Ice-cold rain started to fall, soaking Ava and Willow as they peered through the trees. The truck’s headlights illuminated the bare, spindly trees that stretched across the road from both sides forming an arch. It was impossible to see who was sitting behind the wheel, but Ava recognised the battered truck, knew who it was.

  She picked Willow up and dived towards the buggy, heart thumping as she attempted to strap her in with shaking hands. She had to get away from here. But he threw open the truck door and stormed towards her, grabbing her arm.

  ‘Justin, let go of me,’ she cried, trying to shake free, but his fingers pressed hard into her arm.

  ‘You’re not taking Willow away from me,’ he yelled, and the child burst into tears and wiggled in the buggy.

  �
�So now you want her?’ Ava cried, rain stinging her cheeks. ‘Now you can’t have her, you panic.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted her, Ava.’ He lessened his grip. ‘I just haven’t had the time – what with my music.’

  ‘And other girls, and drugs, and basically being a total waster.’ She pulled away from him and unbuckled Willow, lifting her crying from the buggy.

  ‘Who I sleep with is up to me, Ava.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Justin – you said you loved me, that we’d be together, the three of us. But you haven’t done anything to make that happen, you haven’t paid a penny towards bringing up Willow. Have you any idea how hard it’s been?’

  ‘I will help. As soon as my music takes off.’

  ‘I’ve heard it before, Justin. It’s too late.’

  ‘I’ll fight for her. She’s my daughter too.’ He made a grab for Willow, whose sobbing had taken on a new level.

  A car engine rumbled nearby and a Ford Sierra rounded the bend, headlights blinding them. Ava ran into the road, screaming and waving, while holding tightly onto Willow with one arm.

  Justin raced back to his truck. ‘You won’t take her from me, Ava,’ he said before ducking into the driving seat. He slammed the door closed, and pulled away with a screech of tyres, as the other car pulled to a stop, windscreen wipers ticktocking.

  ‘Inspector Jones?’ Ava whispered, when he flicked on the interior light and buzzed down the window.

  She’d seen him about the village. He’d even been in the DIY store where she worked. She’d helped him pick out some magnolia paint and some decent paintbrushes.

  The inspector was in his late thirties, his pleasant face comforting as he leaned out of his car window, his gold-framed glasses getting splattered with rain. ‘Is everything OK?’ he said, looking concerned. His blue eyes were friendly, his dark hair cropped short – with a hint of army rather than police force.

  She knew she looked a sight. Her face, still wet from tears, must have been red and blotchy, her eyes puffy, her hair soaked from the rain and clinging to her skull. ‘Not really,’ she said, squeezing Willow so close they were practically one person.

  A sudden memory of the inspector coming to the cottage when she was a child, just before Peter took off for Australia, came and went. He’d made her a hot chocolate that day – yes, she remembered that.

  ‘You couldn’t give us a lift home, could you?’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’ He unclipped his seatbelt and within moments he was by her side folding the buggy. She sighed with relief as he put it in the boot. ‘Climb in the back,’ he said with a smile aimed at Willow, who was holding onto Ava’s neck, as though she was on a log in rapid waters.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ava said, opening the door. ‘I live at Ocean View Cottage.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  Inspector Jones carefully took the bends in the roads, his headlights picking out the occasional rabbit on the grass verge, classical music playing softly on the radio. ‘Whoever he is,’ he said, meeting her eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘He’s not worth it.’

  She smiled, comforted by the inspector’s soothing Welsh accent, his kindly words. Part of her didn’t want to leave the security of the back seat.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve been a total idiot.’

  ‘Get him out of your life, love. If he makes you feel like this, he doesn’t deserve you.’

  ‘I will. I mean I have.’ Tears pricked. ‘I went round his house hoping to sort things out. But he had some woman with him. I’ve told him he can’t see Willow anymore.’

  ‘He’s Willow’s father?’

  ‘Uh-huh, for his sins.’

  Before too long the inspector pulled up outside Ocean View Cottage, tugged on the handbrake, and killed the engine. He flicked on the courtesy light once more and looked over his shoulder at Ava unbuckling the seatbelts.

  ‘He doesn’t deserve my darling girl,’ she said, opening the door. ‘And you know what else, I’m going to make a better life for Willow. I really am. I’m going to get a better job, save money, and …’ A tear rolled down her face. She sounded ridiculous. How the hell was she going to make that happen? ‘Well, thanks for the lift,’ she said, climbing out of the car.

  ‘Why not study from home?’ he said, his tone serious. ‘I bet you’re a bright girl, Ava. You’ve stumbled, that’s all. But with time and hard work you can make that life you want for you both. With qualifications you could get a good job.’

  The idea bounced around her head. ‘Maybe,’ she said.

  ‘My son’s done a few courses and we’ve still got all the details. I can drop them off sometime, if you like.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’d like that,’ she said, the idea taking shape in her head. ‘Thanks, Inspector Jones.’

  ‘Call me Gareth.’

  ‘OK, Gareth,’ she said with another smile, as she climbed from the car. She stood for a moment with Willow in her arms, looking up at the cottage, fine rain tickling her cheeks. Peter was standing outside the door in the porch light, a cigarette glowing between his fingers.

  Gareth buzzed down his window. ‘Who’s that?’ he said, nodding towards the house.

  ‘My brother.’

  ‘Peter? He’s back?’

  ‘Yes, for Gail and Rory’s wedding.’

  ‘Ava!’ Peter was strutting down the path, huddled into his fur-collared coat. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘I’d better take off,’ Gareth said, starting the engine and pulling away.

  Peter reached her side. ‘Who was that?’ he said with a slur, watching Gareth’s car disappear into the darkness.

  ‘What do you want?’ Ava said, pushing past him, heading towards the house. ‘You’re drunk, and I’ve had a crap evening.’

  He followed. ‘Listen,’ he called after her. ‘Wait up, please.’

  She stopped, glanced over her shoulder. ‘What?’

  He was rubbing the cold from his arms, his eyes wide. He looked suddenly vulnerable, like a lost little boy. ‘The thing is, I wanted to say sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve been a bit of a dick since I arrived.’

  ‘You’re fine, Peter. I’m just tired, and it’s cold out here,’ she said, continuing towards the front door.

  He raced after her, grabbed her arm, squeezing.

  ‘Let go of my arm,’ she said, as Willow started to cry.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, releasing her. He went to touch Willow’s face, but the child buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. ‘I want to be here for you, Ava. If you need me.’

  ‘I’ve had a crap night,’ she said again. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’ She rushed into the house, and up the stairs, leaving him alone on the doorstep.

  *

  Later, in bed, Ava listened as the village church bells chimed midnight and the roar of Rory’s Ferrari made its way down the hill.

  Before long, Jeannette and Peter climbed the stairs, and after a rush of whispers, taps running, toilets flushing, doors banging – the cottage was finally at peace.

  Chapter 22

  YOU

  Sometimes you confided in me. Told me about your childhood. How you hated your father. How you would never forgive him. You would talk for hours about your mother, and we would drink wine, and hug. That’s all. Nothing more. Those days I felt so close to you.

  Other days you’d transform – flirty, feisty. You would go out, be the gorgeous one with the flashing eyes – charm everyone, win them over. I’m not going to lie, I was jealous as I looked on, watching as you shared yourself with everyone like an expensive bottle of champagne. They could never see how you manipulated them, moulding their egos like plasticine, only to crush them later. You always had your way, no matter who got hurt. You never cared about anyone but yourself. Never understood that people have feelings.

  I saw the signs.

  It almost became too easy, didn’t it?

  Bored you.

  Chapter 23

  ROSE
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  Now

  ‘So Willow definitely visited her father,’ I say, as I close the front door and see Becky standing at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Really?’ she says biting on her nails.

  ‘Really,’ I repeat, imagining the effect it would have had on Willow, on top of everything else. ‘She would never have coped,’ I add in a whisper. ‘Especially if she thought he may have killed her mother.’ I take a deep breath and lead the way into the lounge. ‘Anyway, the inspector is going to report Willow’s disappearance at his end. He’ll keep us updated.’

  ‘What can the police actually do?’ Becky says.

  I fiddle with my earlobe, thinking. My only knowledge of police protocol is gleaned from TV. ‘I guess they’ll check hospitals.’ I pause ‘Maybe I should tell your grandpa and Eleanor she’s disappeared,’ I say, already knowing it’s a bad idea.

  ‘Leave it for a bit, Mum,’ Becky says. ‘She could turn up today. We don’t want to worry them – especially Grandpa.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right. What good would it do, anyway?’

  Becky glances out of the front window. ‘Jeez, it’s that boy again,’ she says. ‘The one in the yellow cap.’

  I join her at the window, sensing there’s something suspicious about him. His stance. The way he stares.

  ‘I’m going to speak to him,’ she says. Before I can reply, she dives into the hall, and shoves her feet into my flip-flops. ‘He may know where Willow is,’ she adds, throwing open the front door, and racing down the path.

  I head out after her, bare feet slapping crazy paving. ‘Becky,’ I call.

  I expect the boy to run, like he did before, but he doesn’t, and moments later Becky is standing next to him.

  ‘What do you want?’ she says with a bite in her voice. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  The boy is taller than Becky, almost six foot, older than her, I suspect. His faded yellow baseball cap covers shiny black hair, a long fringe hangs over one of his mud-brown eyes – eyes that are vacant, as though he doesn’t see what’s in front of him. He doesn’t speak.