by Rachael Blok
‘Fair enough. Let’s let her go today.’ He wonders if it’s the right thing to do. He can’t put his finger on it; she’s at the heart of this case, somehow. But the murderer?
‘Yes, sir. It won’t do us any good in the press to be seen hounding her, when she dived into the river, in front of the whole café. She’s given us a great lead. We look pretty hot to have recovered so much so soon after Becky’s been reported missing. And we haven’t enough to keep her today.’
Whilst less bothered about what the media say, Maarten silently acknowledges that the super will care a great deal. ‘You’re right, Sunny.
‘Pickles – can we do a follow-up, to just check he was definitely in hospital at the time of Becky’s disappearance? Is there a nurse or something who could confirm? It’s very unlikely, but we need to ensure we can rule him out completely.
‘Imogen, fancy doing the press release now?’
Imogen nods, but her zeal, her lack of sympathy for Mrs Brennan will be obvious to the press. He tilts his head.
‘Tell you what, Adrika, you speak to the press, and Imogen, you can start digging the back story for Jenny Brennan. Cover the husband too. Take Sunny with you. I’ll speak to her now.’
He glances out of his office window. ‘They’re jammed outside. I’ll go and tell Mrs Brennan she’s free to leave. Adrika, say something public about what a hero she is for diving in to save what she thought was a child, blah, blah. Her husband has some important legal friends. The lawyer in the room with her is well-known in London; to mobilise him so quickly takes someone very well connected. We don’t need the way ahead littered with complaints.’ He stands. ‘Good job, team. Everyone OK? We watch her – we let her go and we watch her. Pickles looks less likely now, unless they’re two separate crimes. Two strong suspects: Connor Whitehouse, and now we have Jenny Brennan. I’ll visit her. I’ll go and see her at home – see if anything slips, when there’s no one else there. We need to keep eyes on her.’
Time is pressing. They’re all exhausted.
*
Knocking gently on the door to the interview room where Mrs Brennan sits, he enters softly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘We’ve kept you for longer than we planned. I know it’s been difficult for you, but we’ll leave it for today. Thank you for coming in.’
‘My client is free to go?’ the lawyer says.
‘For the moment.’
‘I can go home now?’ she says.
‘Yes, your husband’s waiting in reception, and if you don’t have a car, then my officers will drive you back. We will call if we have any more questions.’
Maarten stands and puts out his hand. ‘Thank you for your help, Mrs Brennan.’
She looks at his hand, then looks at him, stands and takes a step backwards. Moving around the table, she walks out of the room, saying nothing. The lawyer steps forward, shakes his hand, and says, ‘Go carefully, DCI Jansen.’ He places some notes in his briefcase and, zipping it, he makes to leave the room. He looks once more at Maarten.
Walking behind them into reception, Maarten hears the end of Adrika’s short address to the waiting press. As Mr and Mrs Brennan leave, their baby in her arms, a round of applause breaks out in the crowd, and a path parts to the waiting car.
‘Gutsy thing to do!’ someone shouts.
It’s the perfect picture. Six days to Christmas and by then Becky Dorrington’s chance of survival diminishes.
He thinks of her. He prays she is still alive. That this cold hasn’t claimed her. That this beast hasn’t disposed of her.
44
20 December
The kitchen is hot as she flicks the kettle switch downwards. The heating is on, and yet the front room is cold. It is as though the house straddles two continents, rather than about seventeen feet. It’s only eight a.m. It will take a while for the warmth to penetrate. Finn had woken the whole house at five.
Will’s parents, who had ended up staying to help out, are in there, waiting for hot drinks and making small talk about the missing girl.
Just making it small, Jenny thinks.
She can’t think of the phone right now. She can’t believe…
She stares out onto the park where the snow is starting up again, and she feels sick. Another girl lying cold, waiting to be found. With all the suspicion, the questions, it had become about her. What about Becky?
Why is there so much stoic disappointment or such titillation in the wake of yesterday? Why not hot rage? It isn’t a soap opera. It isn’t craic. They’d come rushing at her once she had got up this morning. Felicity admittedly not as fast as Henry. He’d wanted to know the story, what had happened. The details of what she’d seen, why she’d jumped in, what the police had asked her.
Felicity, to be fair, was much more reserved. She’d said how sorry she was that Becky was missing, and how brave it had been of Jenny to try to save her. And still, Jenny had felt picked over, examined, assessed. Had it been sensible? Henry had asked. She’d just stared at him and suggested she make the coffee.
The kettle fizzes. Jenny bangs down the mugs and stirs them vigorously, rattling the spoon hard.
The phone. Her number. It doesn’t make sense.
She’d not thought about the dream. She had deliberately not gone over the memory, the image, of the girl, lying… outstretched. She’d not pondered on the chill she’d felt, how real it had been. She isn’t prepared to think about it. She’s not sure she would even know how to begin.
Her number. Her number on Becky’s phone. What is happening? Could…
‘No news?’ Henry is saying as she re-enters the room.
The local TV news is onscreen. A picture of the girl is staring out at them.
Jenny turns away and glances at Finn, in his bouncer, hitting the dangling toys that dance in an arc over the chair. Bending down, wiping his nose and the dribbles that leak onto his chin, which run almost constantly at the moment, she tries to breathe calmly. She can feel a surge of panic swelling. She taps one of Finn’s swinging bears for him, and as his smell reaches her, and his hand grasps hers, her pulse quietens.
Behind her, Will passes round coffees and the conversation continues.
‘So, tell me again. You thought you’d found the body, eh?’ asks Henry.
Jenny stands up, more in control of herself, and sits near the bouncy chair as Will passes her a cup. To talk of anything else but this.
‘Yes, but let’s hope the police have better luck. There’s still time left… it’s so cold outside, but hopefully they’ll find her…’
‘You know, Felicity once got lost out in the snow, didn’t you, Felicity?’
Felicity eyes Henry without reaction and smiles placidly, turning to Jenny. ‘Yes, dear, I did. And I turned up in the end, so all hope isn’t lost yet.’
‘What do you mean, Mum, you got lost in the snow?’
‘Well, much as it sounds. It was when you were very young.’
‘Your mother found it hard, didn’t you, Felicity, after William was born. Tricky for you to get the hang of nappies. One night, after putting you to bed, William, she went outside in the snow to post a letter, daft at that time of night, and couldn’t find her way back. Bizarre. I had to wake the neighbours in the end. Get some manpower onto it. Found her in a field, lying down. She must have fallen and just couldn’t get up. Bloody well nearly died out there in the cold. The doctor said she was very lucky, as hypothermia hadn’t quite got a grip. Stupid thing to do.’
Henry takes a biscuit and passes them to Felicity. He has looked back at the TV.
Neither Will nor Jenny say anything. Jenny glances at Will, to see what his reaction is. She’s never heard the story before.
‘Mum…’ Will leans forward. ‘I didn’t know… What happened?’
Felicity smiles again, glancing at Finn before speaking. Jenny notices that her hand holding the coffee cup tilts and wobbles, and she leans in to place it back on the table.
‘Well, dear, not everyone s
wings straight into motherhood like Jenny here.’
‘But were you…?’ Will gazes at her, his question as clear and desperate as if he was three years old, and not thirty-three.
‘No. No, dear, I wasn’t. I was tired. And sometimes the easiest thing in the world is to take a walk away. For a while. There was never any doubt I was coming back. I just lost my way. That’s all.’
The clock ticks ten long seconds and Will places his hand on his mother’s. Jenny doesn’t move.
*
‘Mum’s suggested they stay tonight as well,’ Will says, helping her carry plates through to the kitchen. ‘She wondered if you’d like it, an extra pair of hands. I thought maybe… given what’s been going on… not until Christmas, but until you feel better? You could go back to bed… She’s offered to take Finn out for a walk. Give you a break?’
Piling the plates by the sink, Jenny glances at him. His face doesn’t give much away. She wonders how much was Felicity’s suggestion, and how much Will’s. Normally, she would baulk at the idea. But, well, something has given way a little. Felicity doesn’t feel quite so… far away. Henry is Henry. Some things just need to be endured.
‘Yes, OK,’ she says. ‘But only tonight. I need to get the spare room ready for Dad.’ She relents. ‘But ask them for Christmas. We can all squeeze in.’
‘Oh good.’ Will looks relieved. ‘Look, I know you’ve been struggling, and I’ve been busy at work… But now it’s behind you. Well…’ He shakes his head, looks as if he’s about to say something else. ‘Let’s just move on, shall we?’
He bends over the granite worktop, leaning on his hands, turning his head to look at her.
‘I would have stood by you, you know.’
She looks at him, reaches out and touches his hand. She hasn’t told him about the phone. She hasn’t mentioned her number.
‘It’s over, isn’t it?’ he says. The words press down on her.
‘Yes,’ she says. It has to be.
Turning, he hugs her, and she can feel his arms tightening. She has forgotten how strong he is. ‘Good,’ he whispers, into her hair.
The tap, which she’d turned on to clean the dishes, is still running, and locked in his embrace, she sees the bowl fill and spill over the side. Soapy suds cascade into the butler sink, frothing and swirling. She closes her eyes to it, to the tide, the swell, the water. Nothing will take her from Finn.
Her hands curl into fists and her nails dig deep into her palms. First there’s a sting, and then there’s pain. She uncurls them and glances at her palm over Will’s shoulder. Small lines of blood track across the centre of the soft flesh. War paint.
45
Staring out of the window, at the iced cobbled streets and the outline of the cathedral which is just visible from the top floor of the police station, Maarten imagines the snow in Rotterdam: swept and dealt with; the streets broad, with tramlines running down the centre. Cycles bowling past. The city moving easily and quickly despite the snow. Its clean lines open, welcoming. Its skyline tall with bridges that soar.
The phone rings, and he answers.
‘Hello?’
‘So, you’re moving back? About time. I thought you’d been turned.’ Klaas’s voice comes down the line, and Maarten smiles.
‘Merry Christmas! Still filing paperwork while everyone else works?’
The loud belly laugh of Klaas Oomen sounds familiar as it crosses the wires from Rotterdam. ‘Look, Maarten, the interview screen will be ready in a few minutes. I told them I’d make sure you were set up, but we’ve got five minutes. Catch me up with this case of yours; it’s even made the news over here in Holland.’
‘Have they mentioned London over there, about me? The crash?’ Maarten says, not hearing Klaas, thinking about how he will react if they mention the crash in the interview; how he could stall.
Klaas’s tone is steady. ‘They put that to bed, Maarten. It’s behind you. It won’t come up today.’
‘Hmmm.’ He thinks back to the Met, of the paperwork, endless streams of paper to sign, to be approved. Days at home. Knots tied in every direction. If they did mention it…
‘Maarten – you’ll be fine. You’re the best at what you do. Your record is better than anyone’s I know. Now, this Jenny Brennan – have you charged her yet, or decided to listen to her?’
‘We’re back to Jenny Brennan?’ Maarten laughs. ‘You believe in dreams and ghosts now, Klaas?’
‘You know she might just be worth listening to. Perhaps she’s trying to tell you something and she can’t find the words. Why not humour the woman? Tell her you believe her, and see where it leads. Keep me updated.’
*
The interview is straightforward. A firm nod of agreement at the end. He hasn’t said in so many words, but he knows he’s intimated. He must speak to Liv. She’s been waiting for him to make up his mind. It’s not just his mind, though, he realises. He hasn’t been deciding what he wants to do. He’s been trying to decide what is best for them all: and it is that which has stalled him.
His grandparents had died before he turned twenty, and he had felt rootless. Here, there – Liv had given him footing, a grounding, and they’d moved closer to her parents after Nic had been born. But with this job offer, the yearn for Rotterdam, for his childhood city, to share it with the girls: Rotterdam. It’s time to talk to Liv.
Maarten closes his eyes: he can smell the sea, knitted into the air. The lights of Rotterdam tall, round, stretch above themselves. The city breathes. He breathes.
46
21 December
Morning, and yet the darkness is still thick. The street lamps stay on. The cottage feels Dickensian, facing out onto the cobbled lane, which winds its way up into the mist.
Jenny is wrapped in a throw. She hasn’t moved from the sofa since breakfast, and Finn is dozing. Henry and Felicity have driven home. Back for Christmas in a few days, Henry had started pacing in their tiny kitchen, and it had only taken a ‘Jenny, dear…’ from Felicity, for Jenny to nod in agreement, to conclude setting off first thing would make sense.
The knock repeats at the door. She had ignored it the first time. It will only be another parcel. The postman and the woman who delivers for Amazon had quickly realised she was the only member of the tiny lane who was at home during the day; she builds a small pile of their neighbours’ Christmas shopping deliveries daily by the door.
It sounds again.
Heaving up, she straightens her jumper and shifts Finn onto her hip. The door is heavy as she pulls it back against the frame, its wooden shape swollen in the damp.
‘Mrs Brennan, Jenny…’ DCI Jansen stands outside. He rises higher than their front door, and she can’t see the tip of his head.
She tightens her hold on Finn.
‘I’m not here officially…’ He starts again. ‘Well, I am, but there’s nothing new. It’s a follow-up. Not an interview, just a chat.’
The mist from outside swirls into the house. Its clammy fingers lick her arm, and she shivers.
‘Come in,’ she says, jamming the door firmly closed as he ducks down and steps heavily into the narrow hall, wiping his boots on the mat.
Turning back to their lounge, she says nothing. She leaves him to infer an invitation to follow, and he enters the tiny room. She returns to the sofa; sinking in and curling her legs beneath her.
Sitting awkwardly in the leather chair, by the white built-in shelves which line the alcove by the fire, he looks down. Hands folded.
‘So, you’re not here to accuse me?’ She breaks the silence first.
‘No.’ He half clears his throat, half coughs.
Staring out at the lane, the pools of light around the street lamps are like watercolours in the mist; she waits for him to explain. Nothing is finished yet.
‘I’ve come to listen,’ he says finally. ‘Again.’
She nods, but she’s not sure to what she’s agreeing.
‘So, if you want to tell me, then I’ll listen.’
<
br /> ‘I don’t think there’s anything to tell you that I haven’t already said,’ she says. The effort of speaking is exhausting.
His smile is soft, more in the eyes. ‘Well, let’s just say I might not have listened very well, the first time.’
Staring at the fireplace, she can see him from the corner of her gaze. The embers in the grate are grey, cold. Remnants of a fierce heat. Morphed to something else. She’s not sure where she is. She’s caught in this house, this street, this town. Now he’s here. Can she trust him? Will talking release the hold that seems to have fixed her, pinned her here? Is it death? Is it death that whispers through the cracks of the house?
Talking is easier since she’s been seeing Dr Klaber. The weight of it all, the strain of keeping it to herself has been lightened.
But she wants Becky to be found. Even through a simple choice of self-preservation, she wants it all to be over.
‘You need to promise that whatever I tell you, it stays with you.’
He nods.
‘I live here. You can’t hold me up for ridicule.’
The room is still cold, and she pulls the throw around her and Finn again. His small body, sleepy and warm.
‘Since that night… the night Leigh disappeared. I’ve felt… something.’
The light outside hasn’t made its way through the mist. The world is grey and thick. Opaque.
‘She’s in my head. Or at least, something is in my head. I keep thinking about her.’
‘And Becky? She’s in your head too?’
‘Neither of them are literally in my head; I’m not mad.’
He unbuttons his coat. It falls open, but he doesn’t take it off, and she doesn’t offer him a drink. She watches his face. It’s blank, expressing nothing.
‘And when you dived in, near the waterwheel?’
‘I’ve told you. I saw her. Well, a face, I couldn’t see features, just an outline, with black hair and those green eyes. For a second, I looked at her. I reached out for her but then I passed out. And then nothing.’