by Rachael Blok
Shaking her head, Jenny grimaces. ‘Can we do that after? I think I’ll need a drink. Let’s do this bit though, just in case.’
The park is grey as they enter. A huge crowd has turned out for the re-enactment. The media moves at the right and left of the public. Jenny can see Jansen up near the front. Matt is over to the right, and he waves as she catches his eye.
‘Who’s that?’ Sam asks. ‘He’s fit.’
‘He’s covering the case,’ Jenny says, trying to sound casual, but she can feel her face heat up.
‘How do you know him?’
‘I bumped into him…’ Jenny starts, and although that was exactly what had happened, she knows it’s now something more and it’s tied up in this feeling, this connection (haunting?); she can’t talk about Becky. Not to Sam.
‘Did you indeed? Well, I bet that wasn’t unpleasant.’
The snow underfoot has begun freezing. They pass the cathedral and the crust of frost breaks as they plunge off the path down the bank towards the Watermill Café. The narrow path that leads through the park, past the willow tree, skirts the edges of the lake. They won’t need to go there, and Jenny is pleased. She had visited it countless times, felt a pull there. But now, after what her dad had said… well. The bells chime the hour behind them: ding-dong dell.
‘Fuck, there’s Tessa.’ Sam nudges Jenny.
The crowd have spread out a little. Tessa and John Hoarde are up, almost at the front, just behind the police and the Dorringtons; space rings their unit: respect and fear. John walks with his arm through Tessa’s. She leans on him, and her other hand is held by her sister. Tessa stumbles every now and again, but cuts such a slight figure, barely perceptible.
Jess and Kemmie Dorrington are up at the very front. They hold their heads up, searching forward; desperation and hope stream like banners above them. Their child’s fate still unclear. Still hanging.
Pulling her eyes away, Jenny forces herself to move with the crowds. The wind is fierce as they tip over the hill, and she pulls her hood even further over her head.
‘Jenny!’
Looking up, she sees Dr Klaber. He looks as surprised to see her as she feels to see him.
‘No Finn today?’
‘No, Will’s got him. Hi… I didn’t know you’d be here?’
‘I told you I do Parkrun here sometimes. A few of us thought we’d come down, you know, to support it. You never know what you’ve seen, do you?’ He waves over at some people on the left. Looking, Jenny can see a few more of the police up at the front, ahead of them. DI Deacon and the other woman – Jansen had called her Adrika – are up, with phones out.
‘I better get over there,’ Klaber says. ‘I’m giving some a lift back afterwards. I’ll see you after Christmas?’
She nods and he smiles.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he says, disappearing into the crowds.
‘And who was that?’ Sam digs her elbow into Jenny’s side, and despite herself, Jenny laughs.
‘That’s my therapist!’ she whispers, aware of eyes turning at the noise of the laugh, pulling her hood back up.
‘Jenny Brennan. You’re a dark horse. You never mentioned he was so attractive.’
‘Is he?’ Jenny catches a glimpse of Klaber’s back. ‘I suppose he is. Will came with me the first time, but not since. It’s made a real difference… at least I think it has. I feel… I feel more able to say how I feel.’
‘That’s a start… and once this murder is behind us, I think we’ll all feel better.’ Sam shivers, wrapping her arms around her coat, stepping even closer to Jenny. ‘I know you and Will live much closer to the lake, but I don’t mind telling you, I don’t like it when Ben’s home late now. If he’s not due back until after I’m supposed to go to sleep, I double-, triple-check the door… I slept on the sofa the other night until he got back. I was sure I heard something.’
The crowd surges together as they turn the corner past the clump of willow trees. Jenny sees Matt pause and take a photo. Jenny thinks of Sam’s reaction, and with a glimmer of schadenfreude, feels less extreme about her own.
‘Not long now,’ she says.
Sam smiles a reply, tucks her arm into Jenny’s, and then grimaces as the snow begins to fall in fat, white flakes, that fly towards them, obscuring the view.
*
Cold bites as the slow tread of the crowd moves towards the waterwheel. Jenny rewraps her scarf, but it’s wet, and it clings damply to her face.
Jansen has stopped up ahead, and is explaining that this is where Becky’s clothes were found; that the police suspect that whoever took Becky was disposing of the evidence of his crime. He reminds the crowd that there is a glimmer of hope that Becky is still alive. The profile the police psychologist had created was one of a man who wanted power and control over a younger girl, but may not have planned to kill her. A man with the capability to kill again, but perhaps not the desire.
Jenny shakes her head. The dampness is spreading upwards, inching in and under her hood. She reaches up and rubs, finding a drop of water on her cheek.
And another.
Stepping back, she bumps into someone behind her, and stands on someone’s foot.
‘So sorry,’ she mutters, feeling another drop.
Sam raises her eyebrows, seeing her movement.
‘Will’s on the phone, back in a minute,’ Jenny mouths, lying, and pushes her way through the throng. Faces blur as she ducks her head down; she can feel drops down her back, trickle, run, drip…
Breaking out at the edge of the thick push of the crowd, she pulls open her coat and rubs at the back of her neck. The sensation of cold water is overwhelming, her throat begins to close, but… nothing. There is no wetness on her fingers, but still she can feel a trickle: its cold, damp path burns.
Breathe, breathe, breathe… she thinks. Sweat, perspiration, a glow… it won’t be water. Memory, now, takes hold like a physical state.
And then the whisper. Out beyond the willow tree.
Her head whips quickly. But nothing, it’s nothing.
Eyes catch hers. Connor and Erin are up front, a good ten people away from her, but Erin lifts her hand and waves. Connor stares, stonily: looking, but not acknowledging.
‘Sorry, love,’ says a voice, as she feels something bump her at the back.
Her hands tremble; she turns, feeling pushed in, and the crowd begins to surge forward, following Jansen, as the walk begins again.
A whisper. The whisper, the rustle sounds again, breathing out: ‘Save her.’
‘Who’s there?’ she says, blindly looking, but she can’t hear her own voice. Her throat is thick, filled now with a thick warm air, clogging, cloying.
The faces come towards her as she pushes out to the edge. She ducks her head to avoid making eye contact with the swarming crowd, and arms brush hers as she squeezes out.
Something raises its head, appears as a picture, a card held aloft carrying a photo, before disappearing. What is it?
The rustle is louder. The noise of the crowd dims, and she begins to feel dizzy; spinning and winding, her feet are heavy, pulling away from the crowd as she fights to surface, to breathe. The main mass of people move ahead of her. She’s alone. Except for… something.
It’s not just a whisper. There’s a noise. The rustle isn’t breath. The wind, the sound of the trees…
The park fades. The cold air becomes icy; it stings. She reaches out to steady herself – there’s the willow tree. Its branches wave like arms, covering her, hiding her.
The bells are ringing. The cathedral bells. Ding. Dong. Ding-dong dell.
‘Save her.’ The whisper is against her cheek. She’s here again. And the voice, which sounds like milk, calls her. But there’s something else, between her and the lake.
Her face is brushed by the willow, its twigs scratching and coarse. Someone is here. Someone is frightened.
She needs to pull away, to get out of here. Banging her hands to the sides, her fists move aside the wa
ving branches, but she feels caught. Her pulse races. Her mouth makes no sound as she opens it to scream – like a dream, but the panic is real.
And there is the cry again, soft like a footfall, up ahead, beyond the branches, beyond the willow tree, closer to the clump of trees that stand towards the exit to the park: ‘Save her.’
Only it’s not. Of course it’s not. That’s why he had sounded familiar. That’s why there has been a pull.
The musk is sweet and pungent, moist. Dead leaves, rushing water… the chill like a sharpened blade.
The dark is physical. It moves, shakes. It lives. The weight is oppressive. Hot, cold.
Jenny peers forward, one step at a time. Is she alone? She can hear a breath, a whimper, a shout.
Now she remembers. In the depths of the night, she’d come for her mother, to hear her call her name: ‘Jenny, Jenny!’ And before she had reached the lake, she had run into the willow tree, and heard it. Heard her. Heard him. Beyond the willow. In the black of night, she had heard the rush of water.
‘Hello?’ she calls.
The opaque air, the darkness. This time, in answer, there is the voice. The whisper. Guiding her forwards. Encouraging her to lean even closer to the ground, to reach out.
And then she’d been scared, because he’d shouted. And she’d run. She’d run so fast she had felt as though she was choking. The wind against her, like cold breath.
She’d searched for one voice, and found another.
Not ‘Save her’; the cadence was wrong. The girl behind the trees had been calling a name. The cold wind had delivered it, and the rustle, the rush, of the water. And Jenny hears it echoing round in her head, with the smell of the willow, the sound of the water, and the lake, lying ahead, like an invitation.
The world darkens.
Jenny pulls out her phone, head dizzy and thick, and types a text: PACKAGE.
62
The jolt of the words, bold, leaping out from the phone, sends Maarten spinning out from his role at the front of the crowd. He had prepared Imogen and Adrika: were anything to arise, he would need to step out and one of them could take over. Sunny is at the back.
PACKAGE. It buzzes again, its repeat spurring him forwards. He tips his head at Adrika, who is closest, and he slips round the edge of the crowd, moving back up the hill.
The trees that line the curve of the path heave with snow, bent to accommodate the weight; their branches bulging with expectancy, of load; the sharpness of the icicles, the sparkle of the frost; the night-time shadows and light from the moon mix to cast a melancholy shade: bright and subdued, sparkle and fade.
Leaning against a tree, up ahead, Jenny is alone. Bent, following the curve of the branches. The weight upon her clear to see, but when she turns to face him, her face full, she passes it to him, and she drains before him.
‘I’m not sure what happened to me… I don’t know… The whisper… there was running water. It’s the sound… and the bells. There were bells – I know that whatever I saw, I heard bells, so it must be near here. The sound of water and cathedral bells. And him. He’s here too. I can feel it… he’s here.’
He sees her eyes scan the crowd, a mass moving downwards, below them, away from the cathedral.
She stands, lifted, lighter.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks, although he can see something has changed.
‘I panicked – I was certain I knew something, but now, I’m not so sure. I think I saw something, when I was sleepwalking. I think I saw something that I didn’t really understand. But it was near here. You’ll look again?’
‘Round here?’ He sweeps the park in his gaze.
‘Yes… I… I think… I think I saw Leigh on that first night, with him. And I know something, I’m just to wait for it to bubble up. I think…’
He watches her stumble; it’s still locked her up, whatever she’s reaching for.
‘I have been so afraid of it being me, just me who knows. I spoke to my dad today… Well, it doesn’t matter, but I thought maybe I’m haunted… But maybe I’m just obsessed – obsessed by something I didn’t realise… I heard running water and drips. You must be able to find her. She can’t be far… He comes here. He came here with Leigh. The rustle I’ve heard, been hearing – the rush of water. But I can’t hear it now. Maybe I dreamt it? And there was something else: “Save her” – I keep hearing it. But somehow it’s wrong. Those weren’t the exact words. And I’m sure I knew what it meant, but I passed out… my head is aching… it’s all confused…’
He nods.
‘I’m going now.’ Her voice is tired.
Looking hopefully, expectantly, trustingly at him, he nods again. What else can he do? He can’t make her stay. Her hand is bleeding. She must have fallen.
‘OK, I’ll get on it. Anything else?’
‘No,’ she says.
Maarten nods. He is already pulling out his phone, making the call.
‘Can I go, now? Did it help?’
He tilts his head forward. ‘Thank you,’ he says.
The dial tone sounds as he watches her move up the hill. Her friend joins her as they turn up the path towards the cathedral, and they link arms. Moving up towards the moon.
63
‘Thank fuck that’s over!’ Sam takes a gulp and checks her watch. ‘And we’ve got about half an hour. I told Ben I wouldn’t be back until four thirty, so got time for another at least. Happy Christmas Eve, my lovely!’ She winks, and clinks Jenny’s glass.
Jenny’s arms lift almost of their own accord; she feels as though she’s shed two stone. She’s given Jansen everything she can, and she’s free. She’d seen Connor again on the way out of the park. He’d waved. Conciliatory. There was a way forward, out of this. It is over. She can go back to Will, and they can start again. Buy a house. Would they stay? Now she knew her mother had drowned here? She hadn’t died here – she had died at home, in Tonbridge. She was buried there. But is she closer to her mother here? Is that why she had felt so out of kilter, positioned on the tip of a pin, since moving?
‘Let’s leave the lake until the New Year,’ she says. ‘Once they’ve caught him, no shadows.’
The pub is warm and bright, Christmas songs play through the speakers and groups of drunk office workers sit nearby, wearing paper hats and talking too loudly, clearly been here for some time already.
‘Are your in-laws here yet?’
Jenny checks her watch. ‘They will be. They were arriving at about three. Luckily my dad’s there. He’s great at smoothing things over.’
She glances at her phone as it buzzes on the table. Will has texted: Mum’s offered to look after Finn so I can come and join you for drink. I’ve sorted a bottle for him. See you in 10?
‘Will’s on his way here,’ she says, surprised.
‘Great!’ Sam says. ‘Let me call Ben. His mother’s over from Trinidad so we’re taking full advantage while she’s here; I bet he’ll come out too. About time we let our hair down.’
64
‘Anything?’ Maarten shouts over to the other side of the room, where Sunny and Imogen are marking and crossing on the pinned drainage maps: every conceivable place where you could hear rushing water, near the lake and the river running from the waterwheel, close enough to hear the cathedral bells too. The search has been ongoing since Becky had gone missing, but they’d moved further outwards, the lake area had been covered.
‘We’ve a team phoning round and one team has left already to start searching,’ Imogen calls.
Nothing else had come from the re-enactment. Whilst Maarten believes in his bones the killer had been there, they don’t have anything to search for.
But if they can find Becky. If they can complete the search and find her, then finding him will be easier. Maps, pinned on the walls, span the room, and pens are already crossing off various points further up the river, leading out from the lake. He can see Imogen at the far side of the room, going over the photos on the board. She picks up a packet of cigarettes
, a lighter, and heads out of the room.
Announcing another search had been hard. He’d had to say he’d had an anonymous tip.
The super’s face had been grimed with anger: the lack of advancement, the re-enactment. He had hissed at Maarten in his office, promising a call to Rotterdam, to take him off the case. The usual calm, the structure had vanished: ‘Do you know the pressure I’m under? This has been going on for almost two weeks and still we’re no closer! An attack, men in jail and no closer to the killer. Sort it out, Maarten. It’s a waste of funding right now. We need real police investigation. If we’re going backwards in the search it had better be for a bloody good reason… or Rotterdam will receive an up-fucking-dated reference.’
The faith, which he has placed entirely of his own accord, in Jenny Brennan is being tested.
‘Sir!’ Adrika’s shout is loud, and she runs through the room, knocking a chair which spins to the side. ‘Sir!’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve got him on the phone – Dr Bhatti, you asked me to chase. He couldn’t remember treating Leigh, so he had to locate his old files, and he found them… But he didn’t. He didn’t treat her.’
‘What you mean? We’ve got the data here – three sessions, with a Dr Bhatti, on the school premises. CRB checked, and it’s all here.’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t him. The CRB checks happened ahead of the appointment and then his move to Hong Kong was speeded up. He asked a colleague to take over; someone he trained with.’
Maarten sits like stone. ‘But the signature is his name?’
‘I know… which means this colleague must have lied. This other counsellor must have lied. Maybe he thought he could get away with it, as Bhatti was moving abroad. And it’s not photo ID on the door. They take a driver’s licence photocopy, but when it comes to actually signing in on the day, there’s no photo check. He has lied, and lied deliberately. And there’s more.’
‘What is it?’
‘When I asked the Dorringtons about Becky’s anxiety, they said she had been tense since her SATs last year, and it was making her stressed in school. She wasn’t really eating properly, so they have had a few recent counselling sessions. The name of the counsellor who Bhatti passed the case to is the same name as the counsellor that the Dorringtons went to privately with Becky. It fits, sir. We’ve found it. It’s the link.’