Under the Ice

by Rachael Blok

  ‘Why wouldn’t she?’ His voice is a whisper.

  ‘Well, if you lied to protect your wife, will your girlfriend not do the same, if she has a partner?’

  ‘But, it’s the truth! You have to believe me.’ Whitehouse is shaking now. His grip on the table, white-knuckled, steadied so he doesn’t fall from the chair, dizzy…

  ‘We don’t, sir. We have to do no such thing. You’ve lied once to us. You better pray that whoever you were with is going to agree. And we’ll speak to your work. If you have so much as exhaled near those children…’ Imogen stands.

  Maarten rises too. ‘Now do I have to ask you to wait at the station, or are you staying here this afternoon?’

  ‘Here, I’ll be here. There’s a woman next door… I’m sure she knows about the other woman… I know she’s been talking to my wife, and I was going to try to speak to her again… I went earlier, but she slammed the door in my face.’

  Maarten looks him up and down, seeking any clue that this isn’t true. That maybe he’s trying to throw them off the scent.

  ‘Please, please don’t say anything to Erin. It’s over now. I really regret it. It would tear her apart!’ The man’s lazy appearance now looks desperate, his boxer shorts and stubble now pathetic.

  The slick kitchen has two huge black and white prints in frames at the side, showing the married couple on their wedding day. He thinks of Liv, of her standing next to him. How she trusts him.

  54

  23 December

  Pulling into Tim Pickles’ estate, his head still hurts, more so now that he’s so close to where he took the blow.

  ‘You OK, sir?’ Imogen says.

  He is and he isn’t. They need to do this. Once Becky had gone missing, and he had been in hospital, Pickles had fallen off the suspect list. But something had come up.

  ‘You think it could be him?’ she asks.

  Sunny had double-checked with the hospital, and Pickles had discharged himself late the night that Becky had been taken. He’d gone back in at eight thirty a.m., to A&E, worried about a bleed, and had been observed for the day.

  ‘Not really. The CCTV Adrika has found looks like Becky walked into the park at eight forty a.m. She wasn’t seen again. Pickles was in triage at eight thirty, then in all morning. But it’s a funny coincidence.’ This whole case was filled with holes.

  Maarten looks out at the sky. Grey. Dark.

  Imogen turns the car into the street, and swears. ‘Fucking hell.’

  Maarten shakes his head. He’s seen worse, but this is pretty bad.

  Pickles is outside his house, locked up in a duffel coat, hat and scarf, and with bucket in hand is scrubbing spray paint from the front of his house: …urderer, …king …unt, Peedo.

  ‘You think they could have at least checked the spelling,’ Pickles says, as he sees them walk up the path. He drops his bucket and throws the sponge on the snow, all signs of the scuffle covered with fresh fall. ‘Want a drink?’

  The kitchen is cold as Pickles turns the kettle on. He doesn’t take his coat off.

  ‘Takes ages for this bloody house to heat up, and I only turned the heating on this morning. Too knackered last night.’

  ‘I thought you had a housemate?’ Imogen says. ‘Has he gone away for Christmas?’

  ‘Gone away full stop. We’re fine. I’ve known him for years; he knows I didn’t do it. But they’ve been coming and coming. Non-stop. Broken a window, someone put shit through the front door. That was when he left. Cleaned it up first, which was good of him. He didn’t need to. It’s not his fight.’

  Plonking coffee down, it splashes out on the wooden top but Pickles makes no move to wipe it up.

  ‘Not my fight either. Not any more,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Maarten asks.

  ‘I’m clearing off. Enough is enough. The school don’t want me back, but I haven’t ever actually been charged with anything…’ ‘Charged’ is emphasised, hangs long, sits above the steaming coffees.

  ‘I called my old school, where I boarded, and they’re recruiting. They said to lie low for a while, until whoever did this is caught. Should have done that in the first place, really. Much easier. I can be friendly at my old school. I can be myself.’

  Maarten sips the coffee, wondering how long it would take Tim Pickles to be himself again. Suspicion lingers. He’d seen suspects, tainted with unproven, unfounded guilt, change a tiny bit for ever. Shame and suspicion can lie thick. Fester.

  ‘Good,’ Maarten says. ‘But no travel just yet. You discharged yourself? Were you well enough?’

  ‘I have epilepsy. I’m exhausted for a few hours after a fit, but after that I’m fine. The attack’s seemed to exacerbate it, and I feel dizzy, the bruises ache. But I couldn’t stay in there another minute. They had me in a private room, but still, people peered in. Nothing like a suspect to drum up some business.’

  Maarten listens to his bitter tone. ‘You’re free to press charges against the men who attacked you. Come on in, and we’ll get the ball rolling.’

  Pickles begins to unbutton his coat, pulling his hat off. His face is still bruised, and Maarten can see his stitches. There’ll be worse under his clothes, under the dressings. And worse still in his head.

  ‘No. I’m not going to press charges. I just want rid of the whole thing. I’ll never stop being sorry that Leigh died. She didn’t deserve that. But I didn’t deserve this, and all I want is to leave here, and not look back.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can corroborate your presence here? At home, when Becky was taken?’

  Pickles sighs, sagging like a defeated man. ‘Yes, Alex was here. He dropped me at A&E the next morning and then left. But he was in the house.’

  Maarten listens as Imogen takes down the phone number, and leaves to make the call.

  ‘So where will you go?’ he asks. ‘When you leave?’

  ‘I called my old girlfriend. The one who went travelling? She’s spending Christmas in Santiago, in Chile. I’m planning to fly out tomorrow to join her. We didn’t end badly, so a month or so backpacking over there sounds about right.’

  Maarten takes a sip of the coffee. ‘You need to keep an eye on those friendships.’

  Pickles’ eyes are sharp: narrowed, like a rat. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, to you those friendships come easily, go easily. Young girls in your care, young boys. They look up to you. The young feel their friendships deeply. Those poor girls put their trust in someone who betrayed them horribly. There are rules in place about teachers not fraternising with pupils for a reason.’

  ‘Are you saying I’ve been grooming? After everything I’ve been through? That I’m as bad as the twisted bastard that killed Leigh and took Becky?’ The anger spits.

  ‘No, nothing like that. I’m saying be careful. Not for you, but for them. The young deserve to be treasured, to be helped, to be liked… but don’t stand in their way. Know when it’s time to step aside.’

  Imogen steps back into the kitchen and nods.

  *

  ‘That’s big of him, not pressing charges,’ Imogen says, sliding the car into reverse, and they turn in the street, Pickles standing on the lawn watching them go, bucket in hand.

  ‘Yes, it’s the right decision. He’d get a pay-out, but unless he needs it, there’s no point in leaving this unfinished. They’ll get what they deserve anyway, for attacking an officer. They’ll see their day in court.’

  ‘How is your head? If you need me to drop you home, and have a rest, I can?’

  His head is aching, thick, like he’s been wearing a swimming hat pulled too tight all morning. The throb starts at his eyebrows and comes in waves up and over. And his vision has its odd blurry moment. The moment this case is finished, he needs a few days off. Fresh air, hydration, rest.

  ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  55

  Jenny opens the door, and sees a retreating figure. ‘Erin?’

  Turning, as though caught out
, Erin glances around and stills. For a second, Jenny wonders if she’s here to shout at her because she wouldn’t speak to Connor.

  But Erin, instead, starts to cry.

  ‘Oh, Erin!’ Jenny moves out to the step, and stands in her socks, putting her arms around her.

  ‘No… your feet will get wet. Can I come in?’ Erin’s mascara is running, but this time she makes no move to wipe it away.

  ‘Well…’ Jenny begins, thinking of the walls, the shrinking room, the mess she hasn’t cleared away.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry; it’s a bad time. I shouldn’t have come…’ Erin starts to walk backwards, shaking her head.

  ‘No, it’s not that. I’ve got a bit of a clean going on for the in-laws. We might be better off at yours?’

  *

  Jenny glances at the half-empty bottle of wine on the table. ‘You started with something stronger than coffee, then,’ she says. Finn plays happily in his bouncing chair, easy to lift round from next door.

  Erin fills two glasses, pushing one to Jenny, and also puts a mug under the coffee machine, putting a capsule in and pressing the button.

  ‘You can choose,’ she says. ‘But I need a drink. Shit, Jenny… oh God, I’ve lost it all.’ Fresh tears spill.

  Reaching out, Jenny puts her hand on Erin’s. ‘Tell me,’ she says.

  ‘Well, I had an appointment the other day, for… for a scan.’

  ‘Wow…’ Jenny begins.

  ‘… and they’re not sure I can… I can conceive. I need more tests, but there’s a problem with some cysts… You know I thought I was pregnant, because I had been late… five days.’ Fresh tears.

  Picking up the bottle, Jenny tops her up.

  ‘Have you told Connor?’ she says.

  ‘Connor? Connor?’ Erin says, shaking her head. ‘Connor has fucked off. You know I hung around the police station for him for hours, while they unpicked the bundle of lies he’d been fabricating. He hadn’t been with his mates, hadn’t been to the work conference the other month… he’s been seeing some girl who he met at work.’

  Jenny sits back. Erin’s sobs grow louder.

  ‘I never thought he’d do that. Of all the things… we always swore, no affairs. I just don’t know why I ever believed him. I feel such an idiot! Such a fucking loser…’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘He’s gone to his parents, for Christmas. He said he can’t deal with me at the moment. He said the baby thing is too much for him. The stupid thing is that I know he wants to be a dad, but I think he wants it to arrive gift wrapped, with a manual.’ She takes a swig of wine, and despite the fact that it’s not yet noon, Jenny takes one too.

  ‘I’ve got to have an operation. They’re fairly hopeful – if I can have the cysts taken out, then they can give me a fertility boost with some injections, and then I should be able… but he said he’s sick of all the stress of it.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll come back?’ Jenny asks. ‘Do you want him to come back?’

  ‘He said he’s coming back. He said he just needs Christmas to unwind, kick back. He said it’s all been too much. And the girl meant nothing to him… I believe him. I think.’ She runs her hands through her hair. ‘I think that if I wasn’t so far on with this, then I would walk away. But I can’t.’

  ‘You could, Erin, if you wanted to?’ Jenny thinks of the bruise. ‘Does he… has he hurt you?’

  Erin glances up, surprised, then touches her cheek. ‘Oh that. No, he didn’t hit me… he didn’t actually do it but… Well, we had a row. He stormed out the room. I followed him and he was slamming the door behind him. I don’t think he meant for it to… But we’re fractured at the moment. There’s no other way to describe it. We’ve splintered, and I feel if I let him go, then it’s all gone.

  ‘We can start trying properly in a few months, and if I leave him, well… It could take years for me to meet someone. What I want, more than anything, is a baby. I want the baby more than I want him.’

  Jenny wonders briefly about Will. Does she feel the same about Will? They have drifted so far. But she does. Even despite all the tension. She would still choose him. She just has to trust that some peace will arrive, once all this is behind them.

  Erin pours another glass, and offers Jenny a top-up. She pulls out a box of chocolates from a drawer of their breakfast bar. The clean lines on the expensive shaker-style wood units are polished, something Jenny’s kitchen hasn’t been for a while. Jenny lifts the wine glass, heavy and etched.

  ‘Here, lunch.’ Erin rips off the wrapping. ‘I was going to give these to Connor’s mum in a hamper for Christmas. I can think of a better use for them right now.’

  Biting into a truffle, soft and rich, Jenny wonders what to say. She’s never really known Erin like this. She’s always been so… in control.

  ‘You know it’s not really true,’ says Erin.

  ‘What?’ asks Jenny.

  ‘You know, that I want the baby more than I want him. I want them both. I love Connor – he’s the perfect antidote for me. I used to laugh when he’d show me another number he’d got from a girl on a lads’ night out. His mates all thought I was really cool, the cool girlfriend, who didn’t tie herself up in knots if they went to a strip club. But honestly, I didn’t care. He loved me, loves me.’

  Jenny chews, watching Erin.

  ‘It’s a bit like, I allow him… no, not that, I’m not going to start excusing his behaviour. But because I’ve always been so driven, at work. I always sort the bills, the insurance… I struggle to let go. I just think that I’ll do a better job… and then we started trying for a baby, I couldn’t control it. Nothing happened. I’ve done everything right – wheatgrass shots, coconut water…’

  She drinks the rest of her glass, swallowing quickly. ‘He’s the relaxed one who makes me calm down. But not at the moment. At the moment I’m a mess, and I think it’s the first time he’s had to face up to being the grown-up.’

  Jenny lifts the bottle but it’s empty, and Erin gestures to the fridge. Pulling open the door to the Smeg, she stares in amazement at the rows of wine, fruit, Charlie Bingham meals. Her fridge is full of leftovers, stored milk.

  ‘Which bottle do you want?’ she asks.

  ‘Anything – anything white. Oh God, what am I going to do?’ She cries afresh.

  There is a knock at the door. Jenny walks to open it, glancing through the spyhole first.

  ‘Erm, Erin,’ she says.

  ‘What?’ Erin turns.

  Jenny pulls a face. ‘It’s Connor. It’s Connor outside.’

  56

  ‘Hello?’ Maarten answers the phone.

  ‘Sir, we’ve got some press on the phone, asking for a quote. They’re running a series of human interest stories on Becky Dorrington. They’re doing it with the support of the parents, to try to make Becky seem real, more vulnerable to her captor.’

  ‘Put them through,’ he says. He checks his watch.

  ‘Hello? DCI Jansen here.’

  ‘Hi, my name is Matt Peters, calling from the Guardian. We ran a story today about Becky and we are going to run another tomorrow. We’re touching on some vulnerable stuff – the fact that she’s so young, that she was anxious and not eating at school. Could we quote you?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I believe the latest press release went out this morning, so that’s the only official source you can use.’

  ‘And what about Mrs Jenny Brennan? Do you have a quote about her? We’re mentioning her jumping in to save what she thought was Becky. Any quote there?’

  Mrs Brennan. Again. It was harder than he thought to keep her out of profile on the case. ‘You can say that the Hertfordshire Police thank her for all of her help, and that anybody with any information should step forward. We are always grateful for the help of the public.’

  Maarten taps the phone with his fingers once the call is finished. Anxious at school – he’d just said Becky had been anxious. Her parents hadn’t mentioned that. There could be something… H
e calls Adrika. ‘Can you and Sunny pop round to the Dorringtons’ and ask them about Becky’s anxiety? Get some info?’ He needed to ask Nic too.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Oh, and the counsellor in Hong Kong – Dr Bhatti wasn’t it, can we chase him up?’

  Whoever did this is watching. Running the story is not a bad idea. They’re watching, and if a sociopath can be reached out to at any time of year, then maybe it is Christmas.

  57

  ‘Dr Klaber, it’s Jenny, Jenny Brennan.’

  ‘Hello, Jenny. How are you?’

  ‘I’m actually feeling a lot better. Will said you’d left a message.’

  ‘Yes, I just wanted to check in. No more clue finding?’

  She laughs. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I hope you have a good holiday, Jenny. Make sure you get some rest.’

  ‘Thank you. Really, thanks. I really do feel… well, I think it’s helping.’

  ‘You know where I am if you need me,’ he says.

  Should she tell him? She hasn’t told Will. It’s more than she wants to share with anyone, and she has managed to push it back, into the pockets in her mind. ‘They found my number on Becky’s phone.’

  ‘What?’ He sounds confused.

  ‘I found another phone. Another one – this one belonged to Becky, and they found my number on it.’

  There’s a brief pause.

  ‘And what do you think it means?’

  Surely, Jenny thinks, surely it means that… But she can’t put words in his mouth. If there is any way that it could mean anything else, then she’s desperate to hear it.

  ‘What do you think? Do you think it might mean that maybe I was there? That somehow, without knowing, without even having the first clue how… do you think that…’

  ‘What, that you murdered Becky Dorrington? Is that what you’re trying to say, Jenny?’

  She hasn’t said it aloud. She hasn’t finished the thought in her head.