I turned back to my own words, finally noticing something that had become so painfully obvious that I was angry at myself for only just seeing it. It had leaked into every word, every page.
Suddenly I couldn’t be in here any more. Jerkily, I got up, pulled my jacket on and grabbed my cigarettes. I was outside before I could stop to think what I was doing, the air refreshingly chill. I’d known something was growing between us, between Erin and me. That this was more than just blowing off steam. That it was more than just looking out for her. But I hadn’t admitted it.
I had feelings for Erin. Romantic, not just sexual feelings. This was new, and entirely unexpected. I’d had physical relationships before, but nothing with any kind of emotional resonance. And I didn’t know what to do.
I lit my cigarette and smoked it quietly. I’d chosen a spot where I could see the entrance to the hotel since I couldn’t stand under the awning to smoke, and the trees overhead rustled with wind and dripped rain onto my shoulders.
The night was quiet. There was only the faintest hum of traffic, the leaves above my head. I listened to the sounds of myself: the beat of my heart, the way the cigarette seemed to fizzle on my tongue as I smoked it. It might have felt peaceful, once, but the shadows stretched and the quiet felt like an echo of something else. Something louder. Something like absence. The way a quiet room changes when another silent person enters.
I glanced towards the hotel again, but nothing had changed. The unmanned reception desk was dim. There were few cars in the car park, only the four I’d noticed earlier. I counted them again, just to be sure.
I’d have the cigarette and then I’d go back inside to deal with how I felt about the book, about Erin. I’d been stupid to come out at all. Whoever had broken into Erin’s house, who had killed Monica and kidnapped Jenny, was still out there. They had probably killed Dana.
Could it be Dana’s son? I was frustrated by how little I knew about him. There were hundreds, thousands, of Peter Woods. It wasn’t exactly uncommon – if it was even the right name. I thought again about the message Adam had sent. I’d been thinking about it on and off for the last twenty minutes. His mother, he’d said, had thought that the Wood children were strange.
I’ve been thinking about it. The older boy, Peter, was a bit weird. Mum said he never spoke to her. But his brother was so cheerful. I remember him. By the way, I’ve managed to find this address. I think it’s the right place.
I’d doodled the address next to my laptop, then googled it. Dove Manor. It was near Stanshope, which fit what he’d told us before. I’d wondered whether I ought to wake Erin up. But she needed to sleep. We could see if the detectives knew anything about it tomorrow.
I wanted to get Erin away. Maybe we could join Erin’s mum in Skegness; anywhere would be better than here. I’d been too exhausted, too numb, to suggest it a few hours ago, but it was stupid for us to still be here.
I knew Erin wouldn’t want to leave. It was as though she was determined to see this through, no matter how dangerous it was. And I… I could do more to help her, to protect her, if I was with her.
I shivered. The jacket I’d grabbed wasn’t thick enough, or waterproof, and I was starting to get cold. I wondered what time it was.
I finished my cigarette quickly and was just scrubbing it under the sole of my shoe when a noise stopped me.
I glanced up. There was a man, standing just outside the doors of the hotel, dressed in dark clothes with his hood pulled up against the chill. I couldn’t tell whether he’d recently arrived or whether he was leaving. He peered into the empty reception area.
“There’s nobody there,” I called.
He turned, spotting me with surprise and lowering his hood. I stepped from under the leaves of the tree, glad it had stopped raining.
“You have to phone the hotline or use a machine to check in.”
He came a little closer. We met just before the shadow of the trees. I kept my distance, wary after the last few days, but he gave me a shy smile.
“Are you a guest?” he asked. “I’ve never stayed in one of these.”
I didn’t answer. Instead I inched round him, towards the entrance.
“Do you think you can help me?”
“Sorry?”
“To check in,” he clarified. “I’m useless with machines.”
He let me lead the way to the hotel. It wasn’t until we were almost at the doors, just out of the little awninged space where the red light of the CCTV camera blinking was the only splash of colour, that I realised what had made me uncomfortable.
He had no bags – and there were no new cars in the car park.
I spun, but just as I did I felt something crash into my skull. Stars speckled my vision and my knees buckled from the impact, pain ricocheting through my neck and shoulders. I sprawled onto the tarmac, palms skidding painfully.
I was too stunned to even move when he hit me again.
THIRTY TWO
12 NOVEMBER 2016
Erin
WHEN I DREAMED, IT was of Alex.
We sat on cold ground. My arms were no longer bound; a piece of rope had been there, but it had fallen away. I reached up, gingerly taking hold of the piece of cloth around my face. When I peeled it back I was greeted not by darkness, but warm, buttery daylight.
I blinked. The room was thin and long and all of the walls on one side were made of glass. A veranda. No, a big, long conservatory that looked out over a garden.
I turned my head, wary of the pounding inside my skull. Everything was too tight and it ached. Alex was there. He was there and he was okay. His cheeks were pink and shiny, his blond curls stuck to his forehead. He smiled reassuringly.
“Look at these,” he said. “Jilly, look at these.”
On the floor – polished wood, so shiny that it looked like the surface of a pond – there was a plate of sweets. Cakes and chocolates, little pink and yellow fancies and a few small sandwiches, cut into triangles.
“Where are we?” I asked. It was my seven-year-old voice, high and scared. I remembered the girl in the basement. She was dead. But this place was nothing like that dark place. Alex only shrugged.
“We’re in the upstairs. He said it’s so we can see what happens if we’re good. We’ll have to go back down there later so they can clean up after us. But for now we’re in here, and maybe later we can come back. If we’re good.” He frowned.
“Did they hurt you?”
“Hurt me? No.”
“What’s going on, Alex?” I begged. I wanted to kick the plate of sweets away. “Why are we here?”
“Dad doesn’t care that we’re gone, Jilly. But we can stay here if we follow the rules. If not they’ll dig a pit and throw us in.”
“Why doesn’t Dad care?”
Dream Alex shrugged and stuffed two fancies into his face. He was trying to be brave, trying to stop me from being afraid.
“Who are they?” I whimpered. He gave me a little yellow slice of cake, slid it right onto my grubby palm. Like an offering.
“We have to be good to each other. And to them.”
“Dad will find us. He’ll come and bring us home. He’s not a wimp.”
“What if he doesn’t come?” Alex asked. “I don’t think he will. And Mum won’t come without him.”
“Alex, you’re scaring me.”
“Good.”
When I woke my mouth tasted sour and my head ached. I rolled onto my side, unconsciously reaching for Harriet’s warmth.
Her side of the bed was empty. I groped sleepily in the darkness, the only light the small, winking battery on Harriet’s laptop. I turned the bedside lamp on, expecting to find Harriet in the armchair, or even asleep at the desk. She wasn’t.
I got up. Checked the bathroom. Empty, lights still on, as though she hadn’t been gone long. I sighed, rubbed my hands over my face to push back the dreams. She must have gone out for a cigarette.
I checked my phone. It was almost four in the morning. Perhaps
she’d gone to get a snack from the machine in the lobby.
Taking opportunity of her absence I wandered over to her laptop, casually grazing a knuckle over the track pad. The screen blinked to life.
I sat. The words in the open document swam for a second as I forced myself to focus.
It was a chapter from her book. The book I hoped she might have given up on. It started with I first met Jillian Chambers on a cold day in November. She wasn’t supposed to be there. I had arranged to talk to her mother, and I was nervous. But when Jillian turned up things went from bad to worse. She was angry at me, I think, for interrupting her life.
She seemed closed off. Sad. Sometimes she makes everybody in the room feel like they’re waiting for her to say something harsh, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I felt my belly hollow out. Was this what Harriet thought of me? I forced myself to read on.
I first realised there was something wrong with Jillian that night. I was worried about her. Not because she was rude, but because she seemed frightened. Selfishly I chalked it down to my unexpected presence in her life – but I quickly learned there was more to it.
I scanned further. The mouse skated across the screen. I let the pages scroll. Two chapters more. Still the words Jillian, the Father, jumped out at me. Then, a few rare interviews, chapters with headings that were names I recognised: Jeremy and Michael, George and Jacob, Morgan and Paul, Charlotte and Hazel, Randeep and Jaswinder.
And then, Erin, Erin, Erin…
“It’s all about me…”
The whole second half of the book. It wasn’t notes about the other families, the other victims. Not like Harriet had told me it would be. Instead it was page after page of me.
I stopped reading. Stopped scrolling. I slammed the laptop shut, the rattling sound jarring my bones.
My heart battered in the cage of my chest. I was angry that Harriet had misled me. She’d told me the book wasn’t about me. And yet… I realised I was also glad. Grateful. That she might have the courage to tell the story that I couldn’t.
It had been almost half an hour. Where was she? I glanced around, looking for her handbag, her keys. They were still on the bedside table, where she’d left them. I stood up, kicking aside the plastic desk chair. I checked the bathroom again, even though I knew she wasn’t there. I tried ringing her phone, but it went straight to voicemail. Beside her laptop I noticed an address, scribbled hastily. A chill ran through me. Dove Manor.
I felt sick. She couldn’t have gone without me, could she? She wouldn’t. Not without her keys. We’d driven here together.
I’d made it to the door before I spotted what was folded just underneath it. A plain white sheet of paper. My skin prickled as I realised that it hadn’t been there when I went to sleep. I bent slowly, retrieving the folded sheet from the carpet. I unpeeled the two halves slowly, terror making my bones sluggish. I didn’t recognise the handwriting.
I didn’t think. I was already dressed in leggings; I shoved my feet into my trainers, which were cold and felt like cement blocks on my feet, and grabbed my jacket and my phone. I was out of the door and in Harriet’s car in less than five minutes, my heart in my throat the entire time.
The words of the note spun in my head. I knew it. I knew it was all a game. I knew something was off. The looping words convinced me I’d been right before, about the Father. About Peter Wood.
Why haven’t you come to visit me yet, Jilly? I left you all of the clues. Perhaps this will help. I’ve invited your friend to Dove Manor for a tour. I think you should come too. Come alone or I’ll kill her.
THIRTY THREE
Erin
IT WAS STILL DARK. Half four in the morning just rolling around. I’d had too much wine to be driving. It was completely, impossibly unsafe, but I couldn’t wait. Not without knowing if Harriet was in danger.
I only had a decent idea where I was going, blind hope driving me onwards. Dove Manor. Adam had said it was near Stanshope, so that’s where I headed. I didn’t have enough battery to get me all the way with Google Maps, and now I was in the middle of nowhere with five per cent and no directions. I knew it had to be somewhere on the other side of the woods Harriet and I had walked through only days before. And with a name like Dove Manor, it probably wasn’t far from the River Dove. I just prayed that I could find it in the dark.
I also had no idea what I was doing. If I managed to find the house, what then? I should have called the police, Wendy, anybody, but even the thought of it sent a bolt of fear right through me.
If I turned up with police, sirens… he’d kill Harriet.
The note had made that clear. This had been his plan all along.
That was why he’d stalked Jaspreet and Molly. Why he’d killed Monica, taken Jenny and sent those fingers. It was why he’d broken into my house. To prove what he could do: he was unstoppable, and he cared nothing for human life. If I called the police and he found out, he would kill her. I believed him.
I could barely think through the fear. So I put my foot down and drove faster.
The country roads were narrow, trees and hedges closing in tight. I headed uphill, the valley and town below spreading like a stain, hollow yellow lights flickering. I started to doubt myself. Was this the way we had come before? I was sure I recognised the roads, but now I couldn’t tell. I was about to pull over, to waste precious battery on scouring the map again, when I saw it.
It was a wooden signpost staked into the wet earth, in the image of a bird. A dove, complete with an olive branch – or what might have been, once, but the old wood was weathered and rotten and most of the branch had been chipped away by wind and rain.
In the darkness it was a portent. It was fortunate that I had even seen it, and something in the back of my mind trembled. I knew I’d seen it somewhere before. I pulled to a stop. There were no cars around, no people for miles. What the hell was I doing? Risking everything for Harriet, a woman I’d only known two weeks?
But I knew it wasn’t just about Harriet. I wasn’t just afraid for her. I was fucking angry at whoever was doing this. If I ran now, like I’d been doing my whole life, then this might never end. So far the police hadn’t exactly proven themselves – and Harriet had. The anger inside me grew, directed at everything. I wasn’t going to run away, but I didn’t have to play completely into his hands either.
I got out of Harriet’s car and dug around in the back, looking for something useful. There was a battered, empty gym bag, a small tool box – and a hazard triangle. That would do. I got it out and laid it at the base of the signpost. At least this way somebody might know to come and find me…
I got back into the car feeling nauseous but ready. The track was just about wide enough to drive up and there were no fences to keep me out. It was overgrown, my headlamp beams bouncing back to blind me. Water ran down the path in rivulets, from the rain in the night, the current so strong there must be a ford nearby. Vaguely I wondered if it might flood.
Something tugged at the back of my memory. Sounds, rather than sight. The sound of car wheels through water, the sound of panicked breathing, the steady tap of a restless thumb against a steering wheel. And then, another memory. Slick mud, flood plains marshy under my exhausted body as I dragged myself beyond the water.
Overhead, now, the trees were a cage of darkness blocking out the setting moon. The car crawled and my body was wild with panic. Then, there. A large ornate iron gate with gold spikes at the top. A shiny new padlock.
This was the right place. It had to be. The lock confirmed it. This was all part of the game. I was meant to be here, but I couldn’t go that way. Like an aggressive, dangerous session of hide and seek.
I got out of the car and the greyish brown leaves squelched underfoot. The air smelled of rotting wood and earth, damp as more rain started to coat everything in a fine white mist.
I was going to have to find another way in.
What on earth had Harriet been thinking, leaving the hotel room by hersel
f? I was tormented with visions of her hurt, and they made my belly clench. And then anger again, white hot and slick like oil settling on water. How dare this man treat us like pieces on a chessboard.
I grabbed my phone, for all the good it was with its battery still draining – I’d switched everything off, put the brightness way down, but still it was seeping away, every minute that passed another moment closer to being totally, absolutely alone.
I left the car where it was, just off the path. The leaves were mulch under my wet trainers as I headed right, along the length of the fence that flowed out of the gate where an old track was still faintly visible among wild trees and undergrowth.
I kept my breathing even, my footsteps as regular and as solid as I could make them. It was still dark out, and the fresh rain was making it hard to see. I didn’t want to use the flashlight on my phone in case it drained the battery to nothing. Or in case I missed something outside of its narrow band of light.
As I rounded a slightly firmer curve of the fence, one hand trailing against the metal and the other outstretched for trees and long tangled branches, I noticed something. I’d reached an impasse, a greyish black wall that stretched high into the trees. I stopped, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. My forehead was dripping, water sneaking down the back of my jacket. I looked to the right.
The wall stretched into the darkness, but somewhere up ahead I could just make out something else. A patch of stone that was darker, like an opening. I hopped and wobbled my way over the uneven earth. I stumbled, catching my hand against the stone wall, cursing as I felt it bite into my skin. My weak ankle tilted and for a sickening second I was going to fall, but it held.
I sucked at the patch of skin on the pad of my thumb where the rock had sliced it. The blood tasted metallic and hot, the sensation in my mouth almost welcome as I realised how thirsty I was. Still drunk, too. Everything had the soft edges of drunkenness, even my panic. I knew that I wasn’t thinking clearly, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
The Final Child Page 25