Under the Ice

by Rachael Blok

30

  The sound of the search helicopter is loud; Maarten feels the pressure burn at the top of his head, behind his eyes. The dogs roam the park, barking every now and again, from all directions.

  The city is out, illuminating the ground of the St Albans’ night. But they’re going to have to call it soon. The park is littered with torches, dotted like a huge open-air concert; the beams reflect up from the snow, amplifying the light. The air is bright like gold.

  ‘Jess, please. You’ve got to come home now.’ Kemmie Dorrington is almost crying as he pleads with his wife.

  ‘He’s right, Jess,’ Maarten says. This has been going on for a while now, but Jess Dorrington will not go back. Her back is rod straight.

  ‘Not until she’s home. How can I sleep?’

  ‘I’m going to call it off now,’ Maarten says. ‘We’d agreed until midnight, but we can’t ask anyone to stay out later. We will find her.’ The last bit he says with a conviction driven by desire and determination.

  ‘Please, Jess. Think of the baby,’ Kemmie Dorrington says, his features fragile in the dark. He is tall, broad – the strain clear; it buckles him. His hand falls to hers, and he tugs gently.

  ‘Oh…’ Jess’s hand moves to her stomach, and lies. ‘Oh, but… how can I leave her, Kem? How can I leave Becky out here, in the snow? If she ever needed me, then it’s now. She’s only a baby herself.’

  Maarten places his hand on her shoulder, as she begins to cry. ‘I’m calling it off soon. It’s late. It’s time for us all to go home.’

  ‘No, please… I need her back, if I can ever feel whole again.’

  Kemmie Dorrington’s hand slips, and Maarten watches them both begin to crumble.

  ‘You have to trust that we will do everything we can. Everything in our power – in my power.’

  He means it. Becky Dorrington is only nine years old. Nic had shown him that morning a comic they had made together: Becky had coloured in her figures bright and bold. She had jumped out of the page at him: her belief in the magic of stories, BB8 and the power of the stars. Her jokes had sounded from her characters, and her childish drawings, bold with life.

  She will have that life. He will return it to her.

  31

  It is cold, out here in the snow. Her feet are freezing. Is Will still here? She reaches out to him, but no, nothing. Moving further she grasps a willow tree, naked, its leaves long abandoned, covered only with the dust of frost.

  She is here again. She remembers. She must get back. It is too, too cold. Pulling her hands to wrap around herself, to warm her body, they rub across her nightshirt and she notices the blood. Long scratches of scarlet run in stripes. The trees have branded her.

  There was blood before, the very first time. But on her legs. Its liquid red had been hot, and she’d been afraid. The voice from the water had shouted. People had come running. Her dad had been there, and she had been cold, shivering. She could remember the taste of her tears on her lips. No one had held her hand as her dad had dropped her and run.

  Something lies on the ground. It glimmers. Picking it up, she clutches it to her chest.

  Home. She will freeze to death if she stays out much longer.

  And she mustn’t tell Will.

  32

  19 December

  At the station, going over the notes, Maarten glances at the clock: half past nine. Time to start. Imogen should have the woman settled in the interview room now. She had been unconscious when they’d pulled her out of the water yesterday. Then hysterical when they’d tried to talk to her. Crying, and then she’d been quiet, unable to complete sentences. She had clutched her baby and spoken of what she’d seen, mistaking the cardigan, swollen with water, for a body. Her words had gone round in circles and he hadn’t wanted to go to the hospital to speak to her, to hound her.

  Hopefully this morning they will get somewhere. They had to make progress with this today. The press are circling. Eyes have swivelled.

  He knocks and enters, preparing his smile.

  ‘Mrs Brennan, Jenny,’ he says, walking towards her with his hand extended. ‘Thank you so much for coming in today. I realise you must still be upset after yesterday’s ordeal. Is there coffee on its way, Imogen?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Imogen moves up a chair at the table, so they each sit on different sides, preventing it feeling like an interrogation. Earlier, Imogen had rolled her eyes at the idea that Mrs Brennan had thought she’d seen a body. ‘Bloody ridiculous!’ she’d said, but she’d be on her best behaviour. She didn’t put a foot wrong when it came to it – she knew how to handle people, how to get them to trust her.

  Mrs Brennan sits up and nods, acknowledging him and sinking back into her chair. She has dark circles under her eyes, and her fingers play with a pencil on the table in front of her. She smiles, but only with her mouth, and her eyes are full of suspicion. He’s not sure if he’s imagining it but she seems to pull away from him, leaning towards Imogen. She’s no pushover, he thinks. He will have to be careful with her. There is something delicate about her, and also some steel.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jansen watches her smile at the officer who brings in the drinks, and she briefly opens up, her face genuine and her gratitude real. She is quite beautiful, with a strong face. She’s intelligent; he adjusts his perceptions. He had written her off somewhat. She had been so washed out by the water yesterday.

  The interview progresses and Imogen prompts. The paper before them fills up with notes. The tape is running too.

  ‘I honestly thought I saw a body.’ Jansen watches her hesitate. ‘I don’t want to sound mad, but I thought I saw her face in the water. Does that sound crazy?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Imogen replies. ‘If you were expecting to see a body, then your mind would expect to see a face. It’s normal to remember something that you were anticipating seeing. Memory can be confusing.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jenny says. ‘She had green eyes, her eyes were green. The face itself – I don’t know – I couldn’t see her features.’

  She’s faltering. Jansen smiles at her again, encouraging her. There isn’t going to be much else. They just need to complete the statement. She’s not going to be able to add anything. She looks as though she wants to leave; she looks irritated. He can think of no other expression to offer, so he smiles again.

  She stares down at the table. He watches her hold the pencil in her fist, tight.

  ‘I’ve brought something else in,’ she says.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Jansen nods encouragingly, beginning to think out his statement to the press later, the right tone to take.

  Jenny places a shiny plastic purse on the table. There’s a picture of a droid on the front, and a girl, carrying a lightsaber.

  ‘I’ve no idea if this is anything to do with the case, but I… I found it in the park last night. Well, this morning really. Anyway, it is either something to do with the case or someone has lost it, so either way…’

  Jansen looks down at the purse. The edges are already curling from the damp. It doesn’t look expensive. Becky’s parents had reported a missing purse. Jess had stumbled over the description, breaking down.

  ‘Where did you say you found it?’ he asks. He keeps his voice casual, neutral.

  ‘In the park, under a willow tree.’

  ‘Can you tell us where exactly?’ Imogen asks. She has leaned forward, and her tone has become more clinical. The softness has disappeared.

  ‘No, not really.’ Jenny falters again. ‘It was quite dark.’

  Jansen nods to Imogen, who takes out a plastic bag, and picks it up without touching it. Why was she in the park at night? After yesterday afternoon?

  ‘Is there anything in particular that makes you think it belongs to the missing girl?’ He holds his interest back. His nerves sit on stalks. The purse radiates on the table. His desire to grab it and run burns his fingers.

  There is something about this woman; he can’t put his finger quite on it, but
she should not be dismissed. She sits quietly, holding a lit match, and she’s entirely unaware. He feels Imogen stirring, next to him, itching to begin.

  ‘Well no, nothing concrete. I suppose I just have a feeling.’ Jenny sits back and finishes. She looks exhausted. She shifts her shoulders as Liv did when her milk was coming in. She looks as though she’s been here longer than she wants.

  Imogen stands up; Jansen watches her close the interview, saying the right things. He stands too, putting out his hand once more.

  ‘We’re so grateful for your assistance. We’ll be in touch. Imogen here will show you out. If the purse does become important, we might need you to walk us through the section of park you were in, to check the ground. But we’ll let you know.’

  Once out, he makes a call, then races up to their floor.

  ‘Imogen, Mr Dorrington’s coming in to identify that purse. If it is the one they mentioned was missing, then we need to get out to the park pronto. We need to be ready to move. Get the team assembled.’

  *

  Later, as he nods to Kemmie Dorrington, who has come in to identify the purse, he’s poised. The wallet does indeed belong to Becky. At least, she had an identical one. And they swept it quickly. Only one set of fingerprints, other than those they had taken from Becky’s room. It had been Jenny Brennan who had handed it to them. So Becky and Jenny’s prints. Only those.

  Kemmie had leaned against the wall with one hand, holding himself up.

  ‘Maarten…’ he had said, faltering. ‘Please… Becky.’

  It’s too coincidental. To find a phone and a purse, crucial to the case. And for her husband to have been one of the last people to see the car that they believe the girl was carried away in. It fits too perfectly. And murderers often can’t keep away – she’s been hovering round the case from the start.

  He addresses the team before they leave for the park. ‘Assume they’re involved. We need to move carefully, but get digging: background checks, references – everything. Arrange for Mrs Brennan to meet us there, with her husband; we’ve got nothing more so they’re just helping us right now, but be alert. Watch out for anything.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel right, sir. I’ll get going, but I wouldn’t have pinned it on her. She’s a mother, and well, she just doesn’t seem capable,’ Adrika says. ‘I’m not planning to have children myself – not something I’ve factored in. But I can’t imagine being able to hurt them, once you’ve given birth.’

  ‘Just because she’s a mother doesn’t mean that she can’t be a monster. Who goes out walking in the middle of the night, in a park, and miraculously finds evidence? And she was the one to spot the clothes in that river…’ Imogen says. ‘It’s got to be her. She’s our one. Parents aren’t infallible. They’re not sainted beings.’

  ‘Yes, there’s something there, whatever it is… The husband maybe? There’s something lurking in that house.’ Maarten stands. His irritation with himself, with not knowing, rises and falls. He’s exhausted.

  ‘The evidence seems to be pointing to her,’ Sunny says. ‘We can’t ignore it.’

  The team clears out of the office and Maarten climbs into the car; Imogen takes the wheel. The snow is starting up again, which will cover the tracks they need to follow. She turns the keys in the car.

  ‘Make it quick,’ he says.

  33

  ‘Who was that?’ Jenny looks at the expression on Will’s face as he puts the phone down.

  ‘It was the police.’

  ‘Oh? What did they want? Have I forgotten to sign something?’

  They’re eating biscuits and drinking tea. It is almost lunchtime but Finn is having a nap and Jenny can’t be bothered to waste the time making sandwiches. If Will was at work she’d just eat toast or cereal or something: apples, yoghurt, hummus from the pot with a spoon. The effort of doing any more is too much. They can always go out later, when Finn wakes. She’d only been at the police station for an hour in the end, so almost the whole day is left.

  It hadn’t been too bad. She hadn’t liked Jansen any more than the first time, but it had been easy. She’d told her story and then they’d driven her home.

  ‘Jenny, what did you give them?’ His expression has changed. The rising tension, seeing his face, forces her ever so slightly upright.

  ‘I gave them a purse I found, in case, you know, it was useful.’

  ‘What? When? When did you find a purse?’

  Jenny closes her eyes for a second. She knows it’s coming and she’s too tired. Her limbs still ache from the pull of the water yesterday.

  ‘I found it last night, I think.’

  ‘You think? What do you mean, you think? When last night?’

  ‘Well… I went for… a walk.’

  He stares at her. They’re sitting round the wooden table in the kitchen. The tea is hot and she takes a sip. It’s snowing, and the flakes fly at the window behind Will. She hopes Finn wakes up. She needs an excuse to leave the room. If she just walks out, it will be worse.

  ‘When? When did you go for a walk? We didn’t go to bed until almost midnight. When the fu— when on earth did you go for a walk?’

  ‘It must have been after you’d gone to sleep…’

  She should have said a run, she silently curses. She should have said she’d woken early and gone for a run. That would make sense to him. Impress him, even.

  ‘You went for a walk, in the middle of the night, in the park, and you found a purse?’

  ‘Babes, I don’t really know. I was sleepwalking, I think. I kind of, woke up, outside. I don’t really know any more than that. I was in the park; I was scared. I saw the purse and picked it up. I thought it was lost property… I didn’t really think it was important.’ That bit was a lie. She remembers seeing the purse, and it had shone, gleamed from the ground. As if it had been placed there just for her.

  The big clock ticks loudly. Will looks at her, then past her. Then round to the side. He stands, walks over to the kettle and fills it, turning it on. He walks to the window as it begins to boil, heating water rattling against the limescale.

  When he speaks, he does so staring outwards, watching the snow. His arms are resting on the granite work surface, palms down, leaning forward. Leaning away.

  ‘Jen, is there anything you want to tell me? Before the police come?’

  ‘What?’ She feels confused. What is he talking about?

  ‘Anything?’ He turns round and looks at her, leaning back against the worktop, folding his arms.

  He has picked up a peeler, gripped within his fist. His hands ball tightly either side of his body as he wraps his arms. His clench, tight; Jenny watches a slow drop of blood fall to the floor. She doesn’t breathe, unable to pull her eyes away. Another – the peeler must be biting his skin – forms, clinging to his skin, hanging. Then it drops, round-bottomed, and splashes on the floor. She forces her eyes upwards.

  ‘What do you mean? I’ve told you. I know it might sound a bit odd, but people often sleepwalk. I don’t really know why… but there isn’t anything to say about it.’ She desperately thinks, thinks hard. Is there anything else to say, to make it sound plausible?

  ‘Jenny.’ He strides back to the table, wiping his empty palm on his trousers, pulling the chair out next to her. He swings it round, sitting so that the back of the chair is between them, legs astride the seat. ‘Jen, you were outside in the middle of the night, finding evidence in a possible murder investigation, evidence the police haven’t been able to find. Jenny, you saw the clothes for the girl, Christ, you can describe the girl! You bloody well gave them part of a description of her! You told me – green eyes… I checked the press details and she does have, guess what, green bloody eyes. What the fuck, Jen! You’re going to be top of their bloody list! That’s what the call was about. They’re coming here. They want us to meet them and take them into the park, to go over your footsteps! Jen, do you understand?’ His voice isn’t actually shouting, almost but not quite. Still, the words slam against
her. Battering.

  ‘Will…’ she says. It’s all she can manage.

  ‘No, don’t say anything. We will say you couldn’t sleep, you thought a walk would help… a bit of air. You were only out for five minutes and then you made yourself a drink, and came back to bed. That sounds more reasonable. Make sure you mention the drink; it’s what people would normally do. In a normal situation.’

  He sits more upright. His tone is calmer. He pushes the chair back and stands, pulling her chair out for her. Helping her up. ‘OK, I’m not a criminal lawyer, but I know enough to tell you not to say anything. You’ve handed in the purse, so that’s great, that’s the right thing to do. They can’t pin anything on you for handing across evidence that you’ve found, but nothing more. If you have any… visions…’ Will stalls and stares away, fingers curling stiffly, arms held out at a slight angle. The hand holding the peeler finally releases it and it clatters to the floor. He looks back. ‘Anything else, you say nothing. You show them where you walked, you show them where you found the purse, but anything else, you stay quiet.’

  Jenny is shaking. She feels light-headed.

  Will looks out of the window. ‘I can see them, across the park. They’ve already started the search. They’ll be here in a second. Jansen, and the other one, Deacon I think it is. We’re going to help them, but say nothing else, and if we need to, I’ll phone Azeem from work. He can come and advise you if they start questioning you. He’s top of his game. You say nothing. You understand? I’m not going to call him now, because it would seem suspicious. Like we had something to hide.’

  Jenny wants to steady herself, but there is nothing to lean against. She’s in the middle of the kitchen, and she’s afraid if she takes a step forward, towards the kitchen counter, she will fall.

  Will is a hair’s width out of reach. The distance of the thin edge of the blade of a knife.

  34

  ‘Get a team out to work up from the bottom. We’ll go and walk with her, from the house. We’ll trace her route. Watch her, Imogen, watch her. She’s got something to hide. No question. And her next-door neighbour is Connor Whitehouse. Watch her like a hawk.’