Discarded

by M. A. Hunter

  The room looked more extravagant than Joanna had expected, with a rich ruby-coloured thick-pile carpet, gold-patterned wallpaper covering every wall, and a large chandelier dangling from the centre of the ceiling. A large leather chaise-longue was positioned in front of the small curtained window. The drapes too were golden, adding a sense of luxury. Beside the chaise-longue – which wasn’t dissimilar to one in her grandma’s house – stood a small drinks trolley with maybe a dozen flutes half-filled with a straw-coloured liquid.

  Precious immediately made her way to the trolley, lifted two flutes, and passed one to Joanna. ‘Drink this,’ she instructed, downing hers in one.

  Joanna copied her, grimacing at the bite of the bubbles on the back of her throat. It was different to the sweet wines Precious usually brought back with her from the shopping trips she would undertake while Joanna was at the studio with Grey.

  ‘I need you to listen very carefully,’ Precious said, taking the flute from Joanna’s grip and replacing it with a fresh glass. ‘There will be others brought in here with us soon but you and me need to stick together. When everyone’s arrived, we’ll be taken in to meet Mr Brown’s guests. As I told you before, they’ll be told that you’re off-limits for tonight, but that doesn’t mean they won’t want to speak to you. That’s fine. A bit of a chat counts for nothing. Think about it like you’re speaking to a distant relative – an uncle or a grandfather – yeah?’ She sighed. ‘Then after a few minutes of talking, some of the others will go off with the guests, leaving us behind. I have an agreement with Grey that I’m off-limits tonight too, so I can keep an eye on you. Okay? So, when everyone else is gone, Grey will drive us back to the campsite and we can go to bed.’

  Joanna tried to smile through the terror and had never been so grateful to have Precious by her side. They didn’t always get along perfectly, but Precious had sort of adopted her as a sister, and Joanna appreciated the lengths that she must have gone to in order to strike that deal with Grey.

  ‘Thank you,’ Joanna said, ‘for whatever you arranged with Grey. Thank you.’

  ‘That’s what friends are for, right?’ She gave her a reassuring smile. ‘It’s Faye, by the way.’

  Joanna frowned.

  ‘My name,’ Precious continued. ‘You asked me once what my real name was, and it was Faye.’

  ‘That’s a pretty name,’ Joanna commented.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m not that girl anymore; she’s long gone. It’s funny, I don’t remember hardly anything of my life before all this. Better that way, I think. I’d advise you to forget about any previous life too. Focus on making the most of what we’ve got here and now. The past is for the history books and the future is for dreamers.’

  The key turned in the lock and Grey led four others in; this time, there were two lads there too. One had to be in his late teens or early twenties, head shaved so short that he looked like an army recruit. He nodded at the two of them before moving across and helping himself to two of the flutes, tipping one into the other. The other members of his party steered clear of the trolley, but squashed up on the chaise-longue.

  ‘Who are they?’ Joanna dared to whisper to Precious, not brave enough to look specifically at any of them.

  Precious turned her back on the group so they wouldn’t hear their conversation. ‘They’re like us; they work for Mr Brown’s friends, but they’re located elsewhere. I recognise one of the girls from a previous night, but not the other three. Best not to talk to them; Grey’s instructions.’

  Joanna kept her head down and her thoughts to herself as more girls were led into the room, some choosing to indulge in the Dutch courage, and others looking as terrified as Joanna felt. And before she knew it, the closed double doors were opened, and they were shown through to a much larger and even more decadent room with a roaring fire and marbled hearth at one end, half a dozen grandfather-type figures holding tumblers of brandy, and the ceiling thick with cigar smoke.

  Joanna huddled close to Precious, coiling her fingers around her friend’s elbow as the first of the men approached and scrutinised them like a consumer comparing fruit, before selecting one of the other girls, and leading her by the hand to his chair in one corner of the room. The next figure approached, this one with a thick, bushy beard who wouldn’t have looked out of place at a Santa’s grotto. He perused them all once, a sickening twinkle in his eye, eventually offering his hand to Precious, who accepted and prised Joanna’s fingers from her arm in the process.

  ‘Just talk,’ Precious growled under her breath at Joanna before moving away with the man.

  The next man’s eyes didn’t leave Joanna’s as he made a beeline for her. In her periphery, Joanna saw Grey step forward, arm stretched out as if he was going to shoo the man away, but he stopped still as Mr Brown moved forward.

  ‘Whatever the client wants,’ Mr Brown sneered, before turning and smiling at the other man, beckoning him to continue with his selection. The last thing Joanna wanted was to place her hand in the man’s enormous palm, but as she looked over and saw Precious nodding encouragingly, she reluctantly gave it to him and he moved her gently towards his chair.

  Joanna couldn’t hear what Grey and Mr Brown were arguing about because they had left the room, but through the gap in the door she could see Mr Brown was the one giving the orders, and Grey looked far from happy with what he was being told.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Now

  Weymouth, Dorset

  I’m up and drinking coffee when Jack surfaces and walks into the kitchen, his shirt creased from sleep and his hair looking as though he has been dragged backwards through a bush.

  ‘The kettle’s just boiled if you want a tea or coffee?’ I say, nodding towards the kettle on the side and the pots of tea and coffee beside it.

  He’s squinting as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, and for a moment I can’t be sure if he’s awake or I’ve caught him sleepwalking.

  ‘Would it be all right if I take a shower?’ he finally asks, stifling his yawn.

  ‘Of course,’ I say with a smile. ‘I left a towel on the chair beside you. You go shower, and I’ll have a coffee out here waiting for you.’

  He thanks me, collects the towel, and continues through to the small bathroom. With the door closed and locked, I slide out the postcard I’d hidden as soon as I’d heard him surface. The image of two parasols on golden sand and a tropical ocean on the horizon has me cringing with jealousy. It’s been too long since I’ve been abroad, or on any kind of holiday really.

  The postcard was on the doormat when we returned last night, and I’m touched that Rachel thought to write to me; she’s always been anti-postcards, which makes this arrival all the more surprising. I remember one of our many drunken conversations when we were at university when she started on her ‘postcards are a waste of time and money’ rant.

  ‘Most people only go on holiday for a week – two at most – so what’s the need to write back and tell your friends how wonderful a time you’re having?’ she questioned. ‘Holidaymakers spend ages trying to find the perfect card to send to that friend or relative – that’s assuming they’ve remembered to bring everyone’s addresses with them – and then have to think of something to say that is more original than wish you were here. Then there’s the mission to find somewhere speaking English where international stamps can be purchased at extortionate prices.’

  ‘I think it’s a nice thing to do,’ I argued. ‘Receiving a postcard from someone you’ve maybe not heard from in a while is a reminder that you’re still in their thoughts.’

  ‘Send them a text message or a WhatsApp instead.’

  ‘It’s also a nice way to see parts of the world you may never have visited.’

  ‘But most of the time the person arrives home before the damned postcard does anyway!’

  Turning the card over in my hand, I laugh when I see Rachel has stuck with the usual postcard tropes. She and Daniella are having a wonderful time; the weather is warmer than
the UK; she’s been pigging out on paella, and she’s missing me. It’s the final line in the postcard that had me hiding it beneath a pile of papers on the kitchen table when Jack stumbled through.

  Have you shagged Jack yet?

  I know she’s only teasing, but I can’t believe she had the audacity to write that on the back of a postcard – a postcard that will have been handled by at least four or five people as it moved from Spain to England, and then arrived on my doormat. I’m not saying that every person working in the postal service reads other people’s postcards, but they could have. I dread the next time I come face-to-face with my postman, knowing he may be looking at me and wondering the same thing.

  Turning the card back over to stare at the beach scene, it really could have been snapped anywhere with a warmer climate than the UK. There’s nothing distinctively Spanish about it, aside from the stencilled letters advising me it is from España. What I’d give for a few days by a pool, putting everything out of my mind.

  A vigorous knocking at my door snaps me back to my kitchen. Standing and straightening my dressing gown, I have a panic that the postman will be on the other side, snickering, even though I know he’s already been.

  Rick’s face pops out from behind the bunch of flowers as I open the door. ‘Morning,’ he says. ‘I wanted to apologise for taking off yesterday. As soon as I was back on the motorway, I hated myself for not sticking around. I was actually worried this morning that you wouldn’t be here and I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t get to see you again. Here, these are for you,’ he adds, thrusting the flowers towards me.

  They are white lilies – my favourites. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ I say, hiding my red cheeks behind the cellophane. ‘I told you to go, and I shouldn’t have kept you for as long as I did. These really weren’t necessary, but they are beautiful, so thank you.’

  ‘I also felt bad about how we left things. It wasn’t right for me to put that kind of pressure on you. You barely know me, but through your writing I feel like I do know you, and I’m in no position to be making demands. Of course I should expect there to be competition for you; you’re the great Emma Hunter. I’m only surprised there isn’t a queue of suitors ahead of me here today.’

  If any more blood rushes to my face, it may explode. I’m trying to find the words to respond when Rick touches my arm and saves me the effort.

  ‘There was another reason I stopped by: I thought you might like to hear the latest about the Neville family.’

  Despite my involvement with the Nevilles still being so recent, it feels like days since I’ve thought about them. ‘There’s news?’

  He nods, with a look of sadness that I don’t expect from someone who always seems to be smiling. ‘They interviewed Jo-Jo yesterday and asked her about how she ended up at her auntie’s house, and she told the specialists that her mummy drove her there and told her she’d be staying with her aunt for a few days, and that when the holiday was over, she’d have to pretend she hadn’t been there so that her aunt didn’t get in trouble. When confronted with Jo-Jo’s admission, Tina admitted the whole thing, and was charged late last night. She’s been bailed pending a court appearance, and Jo-Jo will remain in the care of social services until a decision can be made about her long-term wellbeing.’

  I now understand the melancholy in Rick’s expression. That poor girl. It isn’t her fault that her mother saw an opportunity to use her for ill means, and yet her family home – and life as she knows it – will probably never be the same again. Even if Tina avoids jail time and manages to retain custody of Jo-Jo, I’d be surprised if Trey and his own daughter will stand by them.

  ‘Oh, I see. That poor girl.’

  ‘Tina’s shown genuine remorse by all accounts, but it’s the world we live in now. This obsession with celebrities, and the money offered for scandal, has the world out of shape.’

  Given his own desire to have my signature on his book, his statement seems at odds with his own actions, but before I can challenge him on it, something over my shoulder has caught his attention, and as I turn it is all I can do to avert my gaze. Standing in the doorway of the kitchen is Jack, towel wrapped tightly around his waist, drinking from my mug of tea. His hair is wet from the shower and the light catches on his perfectly formed abs. He doesn’t look ashamed to have stepped out at the most inconvenient time.

  He moves through to the living room with a casual nod towards Rick, and a cheerful ‘Morning.’

  ‘It isn’t what you think,’ I quickly say, turning back to face Rick. ‘Jack drove me back from Hayling Island and it was late so I said he could crash on the sofa. That’s all. I swear, we didn’t—’

  ‘It’s okay, Emma, you don’t need to apologise. I told you yesterday that I don’t want to get in the way if there’s something going on between you and Jack. I get it; you’ve known him longer and I’m okay with it.’

  ‘There’s nothing going on between me and Jack, I swear. We’re just friends.’

  Rick looks away for the briefest moment, clearing his vision and fixing me with a stare. ‘I just want to know I’m not wasting my time pursuing something with you. I like you, Emma. You’re funny, smart, and more beautiful than you realise. I appreciate you might not be looking for a relationship, but I’d like the opportunity to get to know you better, and for you to know more about me. For context, I don’t bring flowers and call by to every house on my beat, and quite frankly your neighbours are probably growing jealous of all the attention you’re receiving.’ His broad grin is back, and I can’t help smiling back at him.

  I’m not used to men falling at my feet, and am still using the flowers to hide my utter embarrassment. The truth is, I could see myself falling for a guy like Rick: he’s kind, takes care of his family, and has a job that serves others. If Jack wasn’t on the scene, I wouldn’t think twice about seeing how things could develop with Rick, but life is never that easy, is it? I don’t want to string Rick along if I’m always going to be wondering if I should have waited for Jack, but at the same time, Jack has told me not to wait, and to move on, so isn’t that what I should do? What would Rachel tell me to do if she was here? I shudder as I picture exactly what she’d tell me to do.

  ‘I think you’re a nice guy, Rick, and I would like to get to know you better too,’ I say, the words sticking in my throat. ‘As I said, there’s nothing between me and Jack – we’re just friends.’

  ‘So,’ he begins, stretching the vowel out, ‘dinner tonight? Dorchester has some cracking restaurants. Italian, Indian, Thai? Whatever you fancy. I could pick you up after my shift, drive you to Mum’s if that’s still okay, and then on to dinner. I promise I’ll have you home before midnight. What do you say?’

  I hear Jack’s words in my head: If you like this Rick, then I think you should go for it.

  ‘Dinner sounds lovely, and yes, I’m happy to say hello to your mum and sign any other books that she wants.’

  Rick looks like the cat that got the cream. ‘Perfect. I’ll meet you here at seven then, if that’s okay? Gives me time to shower at the station before I come over.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, and close the door as he moves away.

  I let out a deep breath and return to the kitchen, hoping Jack didn’t catch the end of our conversation, but unable to keep the spring out of my step.

  I’ve barely started the kettle again when my phone is ringing on the table. As soon as I see Maddie’s name on the screen, my pulse quickens at what this could mean. Answering the call, the trepidation clings to every sentence as I desperately try to sound casual.

  ‘Hi, Maddie, how are you?’

  ‘I just got to the office, Emma, and there’s another A4 brown envelope here with your name on it. I’m certain it’s the same handwriting on the front. Should I open it?’

  The breath catches in my throat. ‘No, just leave it as is. We’re on our way.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Now

  Blackfriars, London

 
As soon as I told Jack about the new envelope, he said we should leave straightaway, and we only stopped to grab a sandwich for breakfast at a petrol station when Jack needed to fill up. If we are to have any chance of catching the person sending these pictures to me, we need the evidence preserved. It’s bad enough that a postman and Maddie will have handled the envelope, but by leaving it sealed, it may be possible for the flap of the envelope to be examined for DNA, assuming the sender licked it closed. At least if the envelope remains sealed, any fingerprints or DNA attached to the photograph itself should be preserved.

  Jack hasn’t mentioned Rick’s appearance at my door, and I suppose if he meant what he said last night, then maybe he feels nothing needs to be said about it. I always knew that Mila would come first – as she rightly should – in his life, and actually, our working relationship will probably be stronger without the romantic element hanging over us like Damocles’ sword.

  The silence of the car journey gives me time to once again reflect on who is behind the sending of these photographs to me. My conversation with DC Knox in Manchester effectively rules out a member of Faye’s family, and there is still no evidence to suggest that Faye and Cormack were taken by the same people, even if that is what the voice in the back of my head is screaming. And if it isn’t Faye’s family, the possibility that the pictures are from Cormack’s family also feels unlikely. So who does that leave? The person who did take them? But why would he – and yes, I am assuming it’s a he responsible – want to highlight what’s been going on under everyone’s noses? Is it for some kind of twisted fame like Tina Neville? If so, why target me and not just contact the police directly? It just doesn’t add up in my head.

  Could there be an unwitting witness out there who was somehow embroiled in these abductions and murders? Again, I’m not convinced. If I’d witnessed someone being killed and secretly buried, I’d go straight to the police, rather than anonymously sending cryptic messages to a writer who may or may not receive them. There’s just too many elements of this that don’t make sense, and it’s giving me a headache. I crack the window on the car as we pass through Richmond and Kew, the Thames already snaking beside us, its mixture of pollution and hidden secrets as cloudy as my head.