by Rachael Blok
‘Nic doesn’t know Leigh though? It’s scary when the world is suddenly not what it seems.’ He thinks briefly of the knock at his grandparents’ door. He’d been ten. The way the world can flip; and quickly it’s too dark to see which way is up and which is down. And the darkness can make it hard to care.
He would stand in front of anything to hold that back from his girls.
‘I don’t know; she seemed fine after the vigil, but then when we got home she had a huge meltdown. She won’t talk about it; she clammed up tight once the tears stopped, but she’s been into our bed once tonight already.’
She is already rolling back over, eyes closing.
‘Liv,’ he whispers, his hand snaking out.
‘Night, Maart,’ she says, already gone.
14
Jenny runs. Her heart beats, pumping the adrenalin so hard, close to being paralysed by panic.
She’s felt this way before; her muscles remember – thrashing, tight with frenzy. Her brain is working too fast to place it, but the fear and the damp are familiar, powering forward, lying in wait.
The lake lies behind her. Glancing over her shoulder she holds back a cry. The silver surface, tilting at the corner near the willow tree, flashes under the moon and blood pounds in her ears. It was the willow tree that had woken her. Its long fingers stroking her arms. A whisper on the wind: ‘Save her.’ Before then, she had been sure she was asleep, dreaming.
She’s holding a phone: a strange phone, a damp phone. She holds it outstretched, not daring to drop it but not wanting to pull it too close. She remembers picking it up, but she can’t remember coming here. Or leaving the house to go into the park. At night. In the dark. Only that something had called her here.
She swallows the fear like it’s food and runs again. Home.
The cold, iced wind like a competitor, outpacing her. Threatening to undo her, to unlace her.
‘Save her.’
She runs.
It’s hard underfoot. Compacted snow, earth, stones… She’s not wearing shoes.
Halfway up the bank, the cathedral hangs in the distance, looming larger as she runs. Her breath stabs, a lesion, and she can see the top of the lanes.
The air is dry, the sky clear. She’s not wet, just freezing.
The gate bangs behind her as she flees to the door, and her fingers fumble with the catch.
Standing in their kitchen, her heart races, her breath tight. And yet the table still holds the wine glasses from earlier. Will’s coat is slung over the chair. There are still four walls and nobody seems to have been disturbed. The house will not come crashing down.
Waiting for her heart to slow, to calm, she looks down at the phone. Its wetness, its heaviness consolidating, concrete. But where did she find it? She puts the phone in her handbag, hanging over the back of a chair.
A sip of water and then bed. She will wake in the morning.
This must be a dream.
15
16 December
The post-mortem had spoken of terror, ending in murder: no way for anyone to make an exit, least of all a fourteen-year-old girl. The smell clings to his nose, the back of his throat. Clinical, but not clean. The coldness of the room takes a while to shake off. The memory of the bruises, the thought of the blood, turns his stomach.
The psychological report had hypothesised that this was a first offence. The blows were random, flailing, but not a fatal force behind them. They were on the back of the head, as though the victim had been running away. Death had been caused by drowning. The bruises had come first. There was blood. The victim had fought back.
And there had likely been assault of some kind. Semen was found on the jacket, though not anywhere in her body. Hair pulled from the back of her head. Her bra had been ripped but she had not been undressed. Did he try to rape her? Did he kill her because she fought back? Maarten closes his eyes. His profession is a window into the darker side of human behaviour; into the acts that people are capable of after rejection. The violence, the rage. He shudders.
First offence. It felt like a first offence. But who?
Sneezing, repeatedly, Maarten leans back in his chair, picking up his hand gel and rubbing it in.
The weather is affecting every aspect of the town, but St Albans won’t begin to recover if they don’t manage to work through the case. Snow or no snow, the city is at an impasse.
‘We’re missing something,’ he says, walking out of his office and looking at the board. ‘It’s right under our noses.’
Imogen moves close to him after pinning on another photo of another interviewed schoolgirl: more information, no leads.
‘Are you going to charge Pickles?’
‘Don’t have enough. Sunny is going through his phone records, looking for Leigh’s number. And Adrika found a mention in her notebook a few weeks earlier, mentioning the lift to the pantomime. It seems the boyfriend wasn’t too happy she said she would go with Pickles, but there’s not much there.’
Imogen shakes her head. ‘It’s enough for a start, maybe? Sunny didn’t like him.’
‘Well, hopefully the interview today will turn something up. I thought about keeping him overnight, but no point. I told him to expect a car at one. Need to speak to the Hoarde family first.’ He checks his phone; there’s an email in from Rotterdam.
The notes from the post-mortem results have been added to the board. He skims again:
Death from drowning. Some hair pulled from head, suggesting struggle, and bruises around the head and wrist area. Attempted sexual assault but no signs of penetration. DNA from the blood and semen unconfirmed due to chemical contamination from the river water. Bruises and injuries to her body indicate she was physically restrained, possibly tied up for a few hours, as well as indicating resistance.
Imogen reads the summary of notes ready for the team briefing: ‘She’d told her parents she was going to meet a friend at around two o’clock on the afternoon of the thirteenth of December and never returned. A possible sighting in a black BMW at four o’clock. The date of the thirteenth of December is in her notebook, surrounded by hearts and question marks. The identity of the friend is unknown, no leads to the identity of the driver. Witness reports indicate that a girl of her age was seen in a black BMW being driven by a man. We have no licence plate.’
‘Good work,’ he says, thinking the opposite. They feel no further forward. They stare at the board, silent.
‘Anything turn up with the counsellor?’
Imogen shakes her head. ‘We checked with the school office and they had some records. It was a Dr Bhatti – he worked part-time out of a local clinic. The clinic had offered some free hours to local schools if the CAMHS wait list was too long.’
‘CAMHS?’
‘The NHS mental health service for children, sir. Overworked and stretched.’
‘How many sessions did she have?’
‘The school have a record of three. Looks like they were effective. I phoned his clinic but it seems he moved to Hong Kong about six months ago. They’ve passed on his details.’
‘Have we managed to speak to him?’
‘Not yet. Adrika is doing the follow-up calls. With the time difference it’s tricky, but she’s left a message with his office over there.’
‘Let me know. He might have some further info. What about the boyfriend?’
‘We’re following up. The mother says her son is still very upset, but she said we can speak to him again tomorrow if we need to. She’s trying to be helpful.’
‘Well, he’s no suspect but again it will be good to hear if he’s got any further thoughts. The mention of the phone is the best new lead we’ve got.’
Imogen shrugs and picks up her bag. ‘How is Liv? I haven’t seen her since our summer barbecue – it was so lovely to catch up properly with her. I only seem to speak to her when I can’t get you on the phone.’
Looking out of the window, Maarten thinks briefly about Liv. He had got home last night to an efficie
ntly wrapped pile of presents hidden in their cupboard. Christmas was happening without him.
He’d been late, again. After they had met for the vigil and he had gone back to the office. Her kiss had pressed hard against his mouth this morning. It rests on his lips now, dry. Home is no place of refuge right now; it’s a guilt pit.
Putting his fingers up to his mouth, there is a bitter taste. The smell of the autopsy hits him and his hand moves back to the desk, holding it firmly.
‘She’s fine. You’ll see her at the Christmas drinks, if we get there. It would be good to get together soon. Liv always asks after you both.’
The perfume Imogen is wearing smells different. He thinks of commenting but stops himself. It smells fresh. She’s only a few inches away.
‘Come to us for drinks if the work thing doesn’t pan out. Seb is difficult at the moment. I feel like he’s hovering around me. I wanted to collapse yesterday, but he’s trying to look after me, asking about the day… trying to give me dinner later today.’ Her phone on the desk buzzes and she reads the screen.
‘Liv’s the same. They care, Imo.’
‘I know. I could function entirely on my own at times like this. I think it’s the upbringing – bad foster home after bad foster home, until the last one – which was brilliant; like a home should be.’
‘But I thought that’s how you two started talking? Didn’t you meet at a support group for people in care? Surely he understands.’
‘I got lucky. He didn’t. Things are different now, a closer watch on the people in charge. Seb was in two homes. Imagine the stereotype of the worst-case scenario for a young child in care…’ She shrugs. ‘No physical scars for him, just the deeper ones.’
Maarten glances at her. His parents had died in a car crash when he’d been ten, but his grandparents had taken him in. No money to spare, but a lot of love.
‘The team are on their way now. I need a fag,’ she says. ‘I’ll nip out, before they all get back.’
‘You’re smoking again? But it’s been, what, at least six months – seven?’
‘Nine.’ Her face twists in rue.
‘What are you thinking, Imo? You were a nightmare. Have I got to go through that again?’
‘Nah… it’s just a blip. A quick one-off. A Christmas blip. We’re all allowed one of those.’
As she exits, the phone rings, and he answers. ‘There’s a Mrs Jenny Brennan down here, sir. She’d like to speak with you.’
He’d been thinking of joining Imogen, not to smoke, but to soak up the smell: erase the mortuary through the seeping, clinging smell of the tobacco. He stands to make his way downstairs to see the visitor.
The snow begins to fall.
*
‘Inspector Jansen?’
He doesn’t correct her use of his title, as he sits down. The desk sergeant had shown her into the interview room, and she holds something in a plastic bag, which lies on the table. Her face is familiar, as are her movements: jumpy, ill at ease.
‘How are you, Mrs Brennan?’
‘I’m fine. I have something. I wanted to give it to you, and not the front desk…’
He waits, as she pauses, but she doesn’t complete the sentence. Reaching for the bag, he opens his hand. ‘May I?’
She pushes it towards him, but doesn’t let go immediately.
He glances at the clock on the wall. They had to get going to the Hoardes’.
Inside the bag is a mobile phone. The battery is dead and it’s damp. The screen is small, and it looks similar to an old Nokia. He stares at it, heavy in his hand. Could this be the phone? Could it be this easy?
‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.’
‘I found it, in the park, near the lake. I thought it might be important.’ She turns from him as she speaks. There is a buggy next to her, and there are snuffles coming from under the hood. She leans to check, then turns back to him. ‘I found it in the park, when I was… walking. And I thought… well, I wondered if it was important. You know, to do with the case. With Leigh.’
Maarten wraps the bag closed, for evidence. ‘You found this, when?’
‘Yesterday.’
She looks at the floor as she speaks. She’s withholding something. Lying? She doesn’t seem the type. It’s more something she’s not saying, rather than speaking an untruth.
‘Well, thanks for bringing it in. I’ll hand it to our forensic team, and we’ll be in touch if it’s important.’ He stands. It will be checked. But from her point of view, an abandoned phone, found in that huge park, doesn’t seem to warrant the private room, the call for him. She still seems unfinished, as though there’s something to say.
But could it? Could this be the phone they want? His pulse picks up pace. But how could she have found it? It’s surely too much of a coincidence.
‘Is there anything else, Mrs Brennan?’ He sits again, slowly, giving her time. He needs to get going, but she seems to want him to peel something away.
‘Jenny, please.’
‘Is there anything else, Jenny?’
Her hands rub together; her palms meeting and parting in a clutch and a twist.
‘No, nothing else.’ She stands this time, and he follows her. Moving to the door as she wheels the buggy round.
Shaking her head as he holds the door open for her, he watches her pause at the display of leaflets near the door, then disappear out of sight. He shivers in the corridor. She had something to say, and the ghost of it hangs in the empty hall.
16
It’s just after ten as Jenny finally manages to leave the house, after nipping back after the station.
Lifting Finn, she kisses his cheek, and he giggles, blowing bubbles. ‘Shall we go out, my gorgeous?’
There’s some shopping she needs, and playgroup before lunch with Sam. Get out of the house. Will is due home early this afternoon for the appointment. She had picked a name – Klaber – from a brochure of local counsellors that had been on display at the police station, and it had jumped out at her – solid and clinical-sounding. She’d called first thing and there hadn’t been any appointments, but the secretary had put her through to Dr Klaber himself – she must have sounded upset, as tense as she feels. When she explained that living so close to the murder was taking a heavy emotional toll, he had relented: ‘I’m pretty much closed down for the holidays, but this is an exceptional situation. Come in this afternoon. And if you’d like to bring your husband, he’s welcome too.’
And when she had phoned Will, he said he would. He’d left that morning before she’d woken, but there’d been a cup of tea next to the bed, which is a first. Peace offering. Or tending to the infirm. Making an effort.
Finn smiles with his mouth open, waving his arms, fat in his snowsuit, and gurgles.
‘Let’s go and count the snowmen, little man,’ she says, as she manoeuvres the buggy backwards through the doorframe, and lifts it down the doorstep.
The lock bangs from next door, rattling back out again as the catch doesn’t take.
‘For fuck’s sake…’ Erin says, turning on her heel to try again.
‘Morning, Erin,’ Jenny says. She can’t ignore her, but her face flushes hot when she thinks of last night.
‘Jenny!’ Erin turns and smiles, and does it so brightly Jenny realises she’d been trying to avoid the hello.
‘Look… I’m sorry about last night…’ Jenny starts, feeling stupid. Not sure what she’s supposed to say.
‘Last night? What have you got to feel sorry for?’ Erin’s face clouds in confusion. ‘You fainted! God, I’m not surprised… it was really hot and you’re not sleeping much. It was late and we overstayed our welcome. You’re OK? I was worried you’d stood on some of that broken glass.’
‘Yes, I’m fine thanks…’ Will had made it sound much worse. His attunement to public shame must be turned all the way up.
‘If anything, I should be apologising to you,’ Erin says, dropping her head an inch.
‘Why on ear
th would you need to do that?’
‘God, you must have thought Connor and I were so rude… squabbling like children. And I drank so much; I feel like shit this morning.’ She raises her hand to her cheek.
Jenny can make out a red mark, faint now, lying beneath the make-up.
‘No, not at all,’ Jenny says, remembering the hissed whispers, the snipes from Connor. ‘Everything OK?’ She looks again at Erin’s cheek. ‘Did you… Has Connor…’
‘Oh, that! I bumped against the door last night. Just the wine.’ She shakes her head. ‘Is everything OK? Yes… no… We’re having a… tough time. We’re,’ Erin looks at Finn and smiles, ‘we’re trying for a baby at the moment. I haven’t really wanted to talk about it, but it’s not happening as quickly as we’d hoped. I’m trying to get Connor to eat a bit better, cut back on the booze. But maybe I’m trying too hard.’
‘Oh, Erin, I’m sorry. It’s not uncommon. I’ve got friends that it’s taken a year or so…’
‘Jenny, we’ve been trying for well over two years now.’ Erin begins to cry, but shakes her head and wipes the tears away from under her lids with the tips of her splayed fingers, preventing any mascara from running. ‘Anyway, we’re being positive. I’m having tests and going to start a round of IVF. The pressure of the year has been quite intense. I’m so bored with weeing on those sticks that tell you when it’s time, and then weeing on the sticks to tell me if it’s worked…’
‘Look, do you want to have a coffee? Have a talk?’
Erin takes a step backwards. ‘No, no…’ She checks her watch. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got to be at work. I’m running late this morning. I felt so crap from the wine I had an extra hour in bed. And Connor has lost his wallet, so I’ve got to meet him in town to lend him my credit card.’ Another backwards step, lifting her chin a little higher, smile in place. ‘I’m fine. Anyway, it was lovely to see you both. Let’s have a drink again soon.’
Jenny nods. Glancing with a hot heart at Finn, before watching Erin stride away, Mulberry handbag firmly in the crook of her arm.