by BL Pearce
“She’s through here, dear,” said the nurse, opening the door to a bright common room.
Valerie, her mother, sat in an armchair by the window knitting. Jo watched for a moment as her forefinger twisted the wool around the protruding needle, before pulling it back. Then it thrust out a second time like a fencer lunging forward in a dual. A cup of tea sat untouched beside her.
“Hi mum.” She moved into the woman’s frame of vision.
The woman turned and smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It was the glazed look Jo remembered. There, but not fully present.
“Hello, Jo,” she said. “Long time no see.”
“Yes, I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you for a while. I’ve been busy at work.”
“A policewoman,” Valerie murmured. “Who would have thought?”
Jo took a deep breath. Her mother always wound her up, even when she didn’t intend to.
“I’m looking into Rachel’s death, mum.” She pulled a chair up beside her. There was no point in small talk. There was nothing to say. Her mother wasn’t interested in her life, in who she was seeing, or her job. Because she wasn’t Rachel.
That got her attention.
Her face lit up and she leaned forward. “Have you found out who took my darling girl?”
Jo recognised the flicker of hope in her eyes. The need to know what happened. She saw it in the mirror every time she thought about her sister.
“Nearly, mum,” she lied. “I just need to clarify a few things. Do you feel up to helping me?”
Valerie gave a tired nod. “Can’t remember much, it was so long ago, but fire away. I’ll do my best.”
It was a start. After Rachel had disappeared, Valerie had sunken into a depression, unable to look after herself, let alone a ten year old. Then her father had walked out, preferring to live on an oil rig in the North Sea than endure the horrors at home, and so Jo had ended up with her grandparents.
“Okay, thanks.” She composed her thoughts. Where to start? She didn’t want to send her mother into a catatonic state with the first question.
“Was Rachel upset about anything before she disappeared?”
“Upset? What did she have to be upset about? She was beautiful, clever and she had lots of friends.”
A perfect life. Except it wasn't.
“I remember her staying at home more in the days before she disappeared,” Jo said, watching her mother for a reaction. “Her friends said she didn't want to go out, turned down invitations to parties and get togethers. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“Nonsense,” said Valerie, but something about her expression made Jo push on.
“Come on, mum. I know there was something wrong. What was it?”
“Oh, dear. It was so long ago. Why is this important now?”
“Because it might have a bearing on the case.” She only just kept the exasperation out of her voice.
“It doesn’t. Rachel hadn’t been feeling well, that’s all. She’d been fighting off a virus. It was nothing serious.”
Was that all it was?
“What happened to Uncle Hubert?” She changed the subject.
Her mother twitched involuntarily and dropped a stitch.
“Whatever made you think of him?” She fumbled with the needles.
“I don’t know. I remembered he used to come over a lot when dad was away. We were always going over to their house for barbecues, do you remember? Then Rachel disappeared and you stopped seeing him.”
“I was too distraught to see anyone after she disappeared.” Her voice was a whisper. Jo thought she’d pushed her too far, but she had to know. Although her hands trembled, she remained compos mentis.
“Were you and Uncle Hubert having an affair?”
Her mother didn’t reply, just stared off into the past.
That’s a yes, thought Jo.
She took a deep breath. Her next question could push her mother over the edge.
“Was he abusing Rachel?”
Her mother blinked, but the tears welled up in her eyes.
“Is that what happened, mum?” Jo asked gently. “Did you find out and break up with him? But it was too late for Rachel, wasn’t it? The damage had been done.”
“She was pregnant,” whispered Valerie. Tears overflowed and cascaded down her face.
Jo had never seen her mother cry before. She usually shut down in a sort of glazed numbness, cocooned from the world. This was better.
“Rachel told me one night when I tucked her up. She said it had been going on for months. I was furious. I wanted to kill him.”
Jo felt the rage bubble up inside of her and she took her mother’s hand.
“Then what happened.”
“I went round there and screamed at him in front of Margaret and the children. I couldn't help myself, I was so angry.”
“That’s understandable,” Jo said. “What did he do?”
“He denied everything. Told me it was all rubbish and that Rachel was lying.”
Jo glimpsed a flicker of indignation, although it didn’t burn long enough to ignite.
“What happened?” she whispered.
Valerie shrugged. “Hubert stormed out. I ran home to make sure he hadn’t gone there, but he was too much of a coward for that. I never saw him again.”
“Dad must have been furious.” Her father had been away at the time. What happened after his return was sketchy at best. Jo had flimsy memories of him coming and going, and then he wasn’t there anymore.
“I’d never seen him so angry. Of course, I didn’t tell him who was responsible until he got home. That's when he confronted Hubert.”
Jo’s eyes widened.
Go Dad.
“They had a massive fight. Margaret had to call the police. They both spent the night in jail.”
There’d be a record of that somewhere.
“Why didn’t you tell the police about her pregnancy?” asked Jo. “About Uncle Hubert?”
Valerie shook her head. “I didn’t want everyone to know. I was so ashamed.”
Jo put her head in her hands.
“Mum, how do you know it wasn’t Hubert who took her?” He had more than enough of a motive.
She shook her head. Rachel disappeared the day of the fight. Both your father and Hubert were in police custody.
A nursing sister came to check on them and enquired if they’d like some fresh tea. After that discussion, Jo was tempted to ask her if they had anything stronger.
“Tea would be lovely,” she replied.
When she turned back to her mother, Valerie’s face was wet with tears. Moved, Jo shook her hand. “I can’t believe you never told me any of this.”
“You were too young to understand.”
“But what about when I was older? I had a right to know.”
Valerie didn’t respond. Had she pushed her too far? Caused all those painful memories to come flooding back. Hopefully, her mother wouldn’t have a relapse.
“Hubert should have been prosecuted,” she muttered. “Men like him are predators and need to be locked up.”
Valerie nodded, but the glazed look was coming back. Jo saw her mother zone out and she knew that she’d lost her. Telling her youngest daughter the truth had taken it out of her. There was no point in continuing the conversation.
She got up to leave, kissing her mother on the forehead. “Bye mum, I’ll come and see you again soon.”
No response.
She sighed. Maybe it was better if she didn’t. Her mother couldn’t cope with remembering.
Then, she recalled Michael Robertson.
“Mum, do you remember a boy who Rachel was friendly with? Tall, skinny, with glasses?”
No response.
“Okay, never mind. I’ll see you soon.”
She left her mother sitting there like a zombie, the knitting in her lap, and went to speak to the nurse.
46
“I’ve got the DNA results back,” said Liz.
Rob clutched t
he phone. “Yes?”
“Not your perp, I’m afraid. It belongs to her father, Cole Nolan.”
Fuck.
“I’m sorry, Rob. I know you were hoping for a lead.”
She didn’t know how much. He sighed heavily. “Thanks, Liz.”
He collapsed into his chair. Fuck. How was it the killer could murder and bury six girls and not leave a shred of evidence?
“She was ten years old,” said Jenny, beside him. Most of the team were in now, only Evan was missing. “What kind of monster rapes his ten year old daughter.”
Rob shook his head. It was beyond comprehension.
“We’ve got him, though. Got his DNA under her fingernails. I’m going to have a word with the prosecutor.” That, he could act on, at least.
“I hope a jury convicts him and he spends a very long time behind bars.”
“And is put on the sex offenders register,” added Celeste, who’d been listening in.
“How are you getting on with Father Ed?” Rob asked her.
She rolled her eyes. “I keep wanting to call him Father Ted. He’s Irish too, which doesn’t help.”
Rob managed a grin.
“The family moved around a lot as you know. His father was a project manager for a supermarket company. Every time they built a new store, the family would move.”
“Couldn’t have been much fun for little Ed.”
“No, eventually the father retired and started his own company in Liverpool.”
“And Ed went off to become a priest.”
“That’s right. He doesn’t have a criminal record, he’s DBS checked and according to his Facebook profile, he’s a pescatarian.”
“Good to know.”
Rob glanced at the whiteboard. “Doesn’t really fit the profile, does he?”
“Not really,” said Mallory. “Any history of violence?”
Celeste shook her head. “No domestic abuse charges laid against his father, no social disturbances, no hospital visits. Apart from the constant moving, Ed appears to have had a happy childhood.”
“Still, he could have been in Manchester when Jo’s sister disappeared,” said Rob. “He’s the right age.”
“The company doesn’t have those records anymore,” Celeste confirmed. “There’s no way to tell exactly when he was there.”
“Speaking of profiles,” said Mallory. “Have you updated Tony on the sexual angle?”
Rob nodded. “I tried calling him last night, but he didn’t pick up. I’ve left a message on his voicemail. Are you coming with me to the vigil tonight?”
Mallory grinned. “Do you want me to?”
“Yeah, Jo was going to come but she’s away. I think the two of us should be there, just in case the killer returns to the burial site.”
“It’s a known fact that arsonists and serial offenders often go back to the scene of the crime,” piped up Will.
“Do you think we should go too?” Jenny asked.
“If you can spare the time. The more eyes we have on the ground the better.”
In the end, the entire team went to the vigil.
They positioned themselves in a semicircle outside the church, but didn’t speak to or acknowledge one another. The idea was to keep an eye out for anyone who looked suspicious. Particularly men in their mid to late forties, strong, but socially awkward. Loners.
Father Ed stood on the doorstep under the porch light wearing a smart black suit with a clerical collar. The massive oak door to the church was open behind him, and inside Rob could see rows and rows of candles.
The vicar waited until just after eight, then held up his hands. A hush fell over the crowd.
“Welcome,” he bellowed, his voice striking a rich timbre. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy lives to come and pay your respects to the six teenagers who were buried in Bisley Woods. Tonight, we are honouring and remembering our friends and loved ones with our candlelight of hope, unity, and love.”
Rob let his gaze roam over the participants. They stood together in groups, eyes on the vicar, candles at the ready. He couldn't spot anyone who didn’t look like they belonged there. Every middle-aged man was accompanied by a woman and or a teenager. Husband. Father. No loners.
“I don’t see anyone suspicious, do you?” Rob whispered.
Mallory shook his head. “No, not from where I’m standing.”
Before they’d left the police station in their separate vehicles, Rob had told everyone that if they saw anything suspicious, to take a picture with their phone. It wouldn’t be unusual in a crowd of teenagers, many of whom were filming the vicar’s introductory speech and taking snaps for their Instagram Stories.
The vicar was finishing up now. “As Leonard Cohen, world renowned poet and songwriter, said “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” May the light of our candles, both here and online, bring comfort and solace to the friends and families of those who were found here.”
“Bravo,” said Mallory.
“I didn’t know this was being broadcast online?” Rob turned around, looking for a cameraman or a film crew.
“There, to the left of the church.” Mallory pointed.
A dark shadowy figure aimed a camera mounted on a tripod at Father Ted.
“The killer could be watching this from his living room,” hissed Rob.
“And give up the thrill of being here in person?”
Yeah, Mallory was right. It would be so much more of an adrenalin rush to be here in person.
“Let’s split up. I’ll meet you back at the car in half an hour.”
Rob strolled towards the left, trying to blend in. He realised, ironically, that he was exactly the type of person he was looking for. Male. Alone. Reasonably fit and strong.
He surveyed the crowd but saw mostly families and groups of teens. Could the killer be with someone? Did he have a partner? A family?
He wondered what Tony would say about that.
Now the speech was finished, the youngsters lit their candles and held them up, talking amongst themselves. Organ music emanated from the church and some people went inside, probably more out of curiosity than for any spiritual reason.
Seeing the vicar approaching him, Rob moved away from the group of teenagers he was standing beside. “DCI Miller, so glad you could join us.”
He nodded. “Great speech.”
“I try to pander to my audience.” He grinned. “The youth of today aren’t interested in the old ways. We have to jazz things up if we want to keep their attention.”
“It’s a good turnout,” Rob remarked.
He beamed. “Yes, we paid for a social media marketing campaign to target friends of the deceased. Worked like a charm.”
Rob was impressed.
“Do you know much about how the victims died?” he asked.
The vicar leaned forward. “Only what I read in the papers.”
“They went peacefully. There were no signs of violence or a struggle.”
“Praise the Lord.”
Indeed.
Could he know more than he was letting on? The vicar remained passive and engaged.
“I’m glad they are at peace now,” he said.
“Well, they will be once their bodies are returned to their families.”
Father Ed nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go and make sure no one’s burning down my church. All those candles are a health and safety nightmare.”
He strode back into the candlelit interior. If he was their killer, he was damn good at hiding it.
47
Jo caught the 20:55 train back to London. Staying in Manchester overnight wasn’t appealing, not after the conversation with her mother. The train was preferable to an empty hotel room. Alone with her thoughts. Besides, she had everything she’d come for.
After she’d left the home, she’d gone to the storage unit where her mother’s belongings were kept and had a good root around. Eventually, she found w
hat she was looking for.
A taped-up cardboard box with Rachel written in black marker pen across the top. It was all she had left of her sister.
She remembered packing the box with her grandmother. In her sister’s room with the pink chandelier and matching curtains. Her mother had been “resting”, which Jo had later learned was the code word for sedated.
“Is there anything here you’d like to keep?” her grandmother had asked her.
The ten year old Jo wasn’t into girly things, so her grandmother had packed what she thought Jo might appreciate one day. Books, drawings, magazines, some items of clothing, a fluffy pillow, a favourite teddy bear her sister had been loath to part with.
Jo knew, because she’d unpacked the box when she’d first looked into her sister's disappearance. Back then, she’d been a nearly qualified DC, passionate and idealistic. She’d opened the box hoping to find a journal or a diary, some clue as to where her sister had gone or who she’d met the evening she vanished. There had been nothing, so Jo had taped the box back up again and left it in the storage unit.
Now, she was looking for a reference to Michael, the mysterious boy who’d befriended her sister in her time of need. The boy who’d been by her side when she’d turned her back on her friends. Who the hell was he?
Instead of lugging the box with her, she’d bought a cheap pull-on suitcase at the station and transferred all the books, papers and magazines into it. The clothes, fluffy pillow and teddy bear she’d left in a charity recycling bin. Maybe they’d bring comfort to some other lost soul.
As the train raced through the night, Jo went through the contents of the box. She took each piece of paper, smoothed it out and studied the picture. Rachel had talent. Most of her drawings were of pastel wildflowers, fantastically green trees or picturesque landscapes, but they were good. She might even frame one.
One in particular caught her eye. It had religious overtones, which was surprising. Rachel had never been spiritual. An angel with large fluffy wings rose above a field of flowers. Spring flowers. The sun shone around her, or maybe it was a halo, she couldn’t tell. The expression on the angel’s face was one of blissful serenity.
She continued browsing. It was weird looking at the world through her sister’s eyes. Everything was perfect. The books were teenage romances with happy endings, the magazines were old favourites like Just Seventeen and Smash Hits, and the photographs were family snaps. She peered closer at the characters, hardly recognising them.