‘Yes, and he knows something, I’m sure of it.’
‘We should go after him,’ I say, as Becky gets up, steadying herself with the aid of my arm, and brushing sand from her jeans.
‘We’ll never catch him, Mum. Anyway, he’ll clam up if you pressure him.’
‘How long have you been down here?’ I ask.
‘About an hour, it took me a while to work out why he wouldn’t speak.’
As we head back across the sand, picking up my flip-flop on the way, I take hold of my daughter’s hand.
‘How are you feeling after your sleep?’ she says. ‘You look loads better.’
‘Yeah, I feel it,’ I say, touching my head, realising even the fuzziness has gone.
Back at the cottage, I want to tell Becky about the piece of paper in Willow’s jacket pocket, and that I’ve visited Justin, seen an ambulance by his house. But I’m worried about the effect this is all having on her. I begin to wish Dad and Eleanor weren’t away, that I could take her to them.
Her phone blasts out. She grabs it. ‘Whoop, it’s Dad,’ she says, a smile stretching across her face.
I leave the room and head upstairs, listening to her laughter, her squeals of excitement as she talks about going to America, and I’m so grateful to Seb for making her happy – he’s doing a far better job of it than I am.
Chapter 32
AVA
2001
It had been almost three weeks since Ava was attacked. She desperately needed to tell someone – to offload some of her pain. Explain why she’d been cooped up in her bedroom, barely sleeping, barely eating.
Maybe her mum would listen.
Jeannette had never been an affectionate woman – Ava knew that much – but maybe she would help Ava to cope with the continual panic she felt simply looking out of the bedroom window.
She hoped too that her mum would understand how her mind refused to veer from that moment when she’d woken, cold and scared. How she now felt so vulnerable. Afraid. Powerless.
She would tell her mum about the pains in her lower stomach, the feelings of nausea – and pray she would understand.
She got dressed for the first time, in jeans and a chunky jumper, and padded down the stairs, gripping the banister as she went to steady herself. She’d been violated physically and emotionally. She had to tell someone before it ate her alive. Was her mother really the only person she could turn to?
She reached the bottom of the stairs, picking up on Peter’s muffled voice and the tinkle of Willow’s laughter behind the closed lounge door. Willow had slept cuddled up to Ava each night since it happened, but Peter had taken care of her during the day, seeming to believe that Ava was unwell. He’d even brought her food – sandwiches mostly – but she couldn’t eat.
Jeannette was outside hanging washing that would never dry in the freezing air, when Ava approached.
‘Oh, Ava,’ Jeannette said, clutching a damp pillowcase to her face like a security blanket, when Ava broke down crying, after telling her what had happened to her. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure, Mum.’
Jeannette didn’t move, and Ava felt isolated. Cold. She wished her Mum would take her in her arms and hold her there, stroke her hair and caress away the tears. But her mother didn’t seem to know how.
‘But if you were passed out, how can you be sure?’
‘I just know, Mum,’ she whispered, her heart thudding, as she pushed away thoughts of waking up with nothing more than her coat covering her body.
‘Well, we need to get you straight to the GP. You’ll need to have a pregnancy test and checks for gonorrhoea and HIV.’ She was talking too fast, her voice tense, her eyes not meeting Ava’s. ‘Who have you told?’
‘Nobody.’ More tears bubbled to the surface. Why couldn’t she see her daughter was dying inside?
‘Good,’ Jeannette said. ‘Nobody needs to know.’ She finally met her daughter’s eyes, and tilted her head. ‘We can keep this within our four walls this time.’
‘This time?’
‘Well, we couldn’t exactly sweep Willow under the carpet, could we, darling?’
‘For God’s sake, Mum. This is not the same thing at all.’ She took a deep breath and dabbed her tears with the cuff of her jumper. ‘Justin didn’t rape me. I thought I loved him.’
‘I know. I know.’ Jeannette bent and picked up one of Peter’s brightly coloured tops. She turned from Ava, and with quick sharp movements pegged it on the line.
‘Will you come with me to the police, Mum?’
Jeannette glanced over her shoulder, and fixed her eyes on her daughter once more. ‘It’s a bit late for that, Ava. You should have gone straight away. Let’s get you to the doctor’s, shall we? I’ll come with you.’
For a few moments Ava watched her mother continue to hang out the washing, before she headed away.
‘Ava,’ Jeannette called after her, and she stopped and turned – hopeful. ‘Don’t tell Gail. We don’t want to upset her before her big day, do we? It’s only three weeks away.’
Ava raced inside and slammed the kitchen door closed behind her.
As she passed the lounge, she heard Peter pretending to be an aeroplane, but she didn’t smile. She grabbed her coat from the rack by the front door, and pulled on her boots. She would catch a bus into Newquay. She would tell the police what had happened.
*
As she walked across the reception area of the police station, she spotted Gareth Jones talking to another police officer behind the counter. He turned and for a moment she thought he didn’t recognise her, but then a smile brightened his face, and he raised his hand.
‘Hello, Ava,’ he called over. ‘I’ve got that information on those courses. Hang on.’
‘No wait …’ she said, as he dashed out of sight.
She made her way to the counter where a young officer with bright ginger hair stood behind a desk. ‘How can I help?’ he said.
She knew instantly she couldn’t tell him. Not a man. Not a stranger. Her heart thudded. Why had she even thought she could? What could they do anyway?’
‘Nothing,’ she said turning to leave. ‘Thank you.’
As she opened the door, Gareth called her name. She looked back over her shoulder to see him walking towards her with a handful of papers. ‘There you go,’ he said when he reached her, holding them out to her.
She took them from him. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Now, make sure you have a good look at them, and let me know if there’s anything you don’t understand.’ He paused for a moment, narrowing his eyes as he looked into hers. ‘Are you OK, Ava?’
Within moments his kindly voice had reduced her to tears.
‘Sit down,’ he said, ushering her to a plastic seat in the corner. ‘Let me get you some water.’
Grabbing a plastic cup, he filled it from a water cooler, and handed it to her. But her hand shook so much, he took it back, and placed it on the table beside her.
‘What’s happened, Ava?’ he said.
She looked out through the window for some time, trying to form the words, trying to bring them up from the pit of her stomach, where they’d sat, festering. ‘I was raped,’ she said finally.
‘Oh, Ava, when did this happen?’
‘Three weeks ago – Mum says it’s too late to report it. That I should have come sooner.’
‘Well she’s wrong. It’s never too late to report rape.’ His voice oozed with kindness. ‘In all honestly, I’d have to say, yes, it would have been better to come sooner. But we can help you. Get you victim support. And if you can remember anything about the man—’
‘I can’t,’ she cut in. ‘He drugged me. Oh God.’ She got to her feet, a panic surging through her. ‘I shouldn’t have come. I wish I hadn’t.’ And with that she raced from the dreary grey building and onto the road where a thin icy rain fell from the sky, the sound of Inspector Gareth Jones calling after her fading into the distance, as she picked up speed,
heading for the bus stop.
*
Ava stepped from the bus, and as she walked towards home, the rain stinging her face, another message from Dexter popped into her inbox. She’d received several while shut in her room, closed off from the world. He’d asked over and over if she was OK. Where she had disappeared to the night they went to the cinema. But like his other messages, she deleted it.
There was another message too. It was from Justin:
Can we talk, Ava? Sorry about the way I’ve been. I’m an idiot. I know that now. But I want to be part of Willow’s life, even if it’s a small part. I should be coming into some money soon. Please call me.
She deleted his message too, looked up, and caught her breath – realising she was walking past the area where she was attacked. A cold chill ran through her.
She hadn’t taken in that she’d passed where it had happened on her way to the bus stop earlier, far too focused on racing away from her mother, determined to tell the police. But now she was frozen, looking through the trees, shivering as droplets of rain clung to her hair, her eyelashes, and dripped from her nose.
The box.
She took a deep breath, and pushed through the bushes, her heart thumping as she made her way through the wood.
The box.
Could the velvet box she’d seen that morning belong to the man who did this heinous thing to her – the terrible act that would stay with her for the rest of her life?
There was a sudden noise behind her, a breaking of twigs. She gasped, and her inner voice shrieked, ‘Run, Ava, run.’ But she stood still, unable to move. The twigs cracked again, as though someone was approaching from behind, then a movement in the bushes. She turned to see a flash of orange fur. A fox.
She clasped her chest, relieved, but her heart still thumped as she made her way further into the woodland.
And then she was there: the spot where it happened. Panic set in, and her whole body shook. This wasn’t helping her. She needed to get home, to the safety of her room. But as she turned to run, she caught sight of the velvet box.
She crouched down, picked up a thin stick, and poked at it like it was a decaying creature, before picking it up and prising it open. Inside was a silver bracelet. And she knew, as she snapped the box closed and pushed it into her pocket, whoever it belonged to was a monster.
Chapter 33
ROSE
Now
‘Mum!’ Becky’s shaking me. ‘It’s six o’clock.’
My eyes fly open. ‘Gosh, I must have been tired,’ I say, pulling myself to a sitting position on the bed, and stretching. I can’t believe I fell asleep again. Perhaps it’s my body’s way of healing after the attack. ‘Fancy going to the local pub for dinner again?’ I go on, knowing I’m incapable of cooking right now, and we may get to talk to some locals who remember Willow or Ava.
‘OK,’ Becky says. ‘We might see scary-man again.’
‘Maybe. Although why are we calling him scary-man, exactly?’
‘Because he freaked us out,’ she said. ‘He’s totally scarier than IT.’
‘Hardly,’ I say, laughing and getting up. ‘Nothing’s scarier than a psychopathic clown.’
We head downstairs, and I shove my feet into my flip-flops. Becky sits on the bottom step of the stairs and pulls on her Doc Martens, despite the heat.
I take the opportunity to stroke her hair, but she wiggles me away. ‘Mother!’ she says, flapping her hand as though batting away an annoying fly. ‘Leave the hair.’
Outside, the sun seems triple the size it should be, and I slip on my sunglasses and hat.
Once at the end of the road, I stop. ‘I’m going to make a little detour. Can you go on ahead? I won’t be long.’
Becky widens her eyes. ‘Why? Where are you going?’
I sigh. ‘If you must know, I’m going to Justin’s house.’
‘You know where he lives?’
‘Mmm. And … well … I’ve already been there.’
‘What? When? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘I’m already worried, Mum. I can’t believe you went there on your own. He could be Ava’s killer. Or have kidnapped Willow! Jeez!’ She spins on the spot, rubbing her forehead. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Her eyes are watery, her lip quivers, but she takes a deep breath. ‘So did he talk to you, mention that he’s Willow’s father?’ It’s as though she’s swept my stupidity from her thoughts.
‘Yes and yes.’ I bite down on my lip. ‘I was stupid to go. I know that. But I honestly can’t imagine him killing Ava or hurting Willow.’ I approach her with caution and link my arm through hers, pull her close. ‘Come with me now,’ I say, and she nods.
We’re silent as we head for the house and walk up the path towards the front door. I knock three times, as Becky hops onto the overgrown front garden. She leans on the windowsill and peers through the grubby glass.
‘Looks as though it’s deserted,’ she says, moving away. ‘Yuk,’ she adds, looking at her hands. ‘Seagulls’ poop, jeez, I need to wash this off.’
‘Yes you do,’ I say with a shiver, handing her a wet wipe from my bag, as she moves towards me bashing back a wayward bush.
‘This place is pretty gross, Mum. In dire need of a makeover, that’s for sure.’
I open the letterbox. ‘Justin,’ I call, but still nobody comes to the door. ‘Maybe he was taken away in the ambulance,’ I say.
‘Ambulance?’
‘Mmm, it was here earlier.’ I shudder, giving the house one final sweep, my eyes falling on the garage set back from the house. The word ‘killer’ has been spray painted on the door in huge letters.
‘Let’s go,’ I say. ‘This place gives me the creeps.’
*
When we reach the pub, Becky heads into the loos to wash her hands, after I’d insisted the wet wipe wouldn’t have removed all the germs.
‘Glad we didn’t scare you off,’ the landlord says as I approach the bar. ‘What can I get you?
‘A lemonade and an orange juice, please.’ I reach for two menus.
‘Leave the drinks with me,’ he says. ‘I’ll put them on a tab and bring them over.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, and pad over to the same table we sat at last time, passing an elderly man in a cap folded over a newspaper, a young border collie asleep at his feet.
‘What do you fancy?’ I ask as Becky appears, and drops down opposite me.
‘To be honest, I’m not that hungry,’ she says.
‘Oh come on, love. You must eat.’
‘I’ll eat later,’ she says. ‘There’s stuff in the fridge at the cottage.’ She looks deep into my eyes. ‘It said killer on the garage door, didn’t it?’ she says, her voice a wobble. ‘Do you think someone believes Justin killed Ava?’
‘Sorry to intrude.’ It’s the old man with the border collie. His pale blue eyes, sitting under bushy white eyebrows, are fixed on us, his Cornish accent strong. ‘Are you talking about Justin Havers?’
‘Yes,’ I say with a smile, eager to strike up any conversation with a local who might lead us to Willow. ‘We’ve just been to his house, but he’s not there.’
‘Avee met him?’ he says, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, and blowing his nose.
I nod. ‘Once, that’s all.’
‘Been in prison, he has. Armed robbery.’
‘Yes, yes he told me.’
‘Aye. Not surprising really. His mother died when he was sixteen, and his father turned to drink. He wasn’t a bad father, just never recovered from the loss of his wife – guilt played a part, he’d been a bit of a womaniser over the years. Sadly, the boy – Justin – got mixed up with those Bristow boys,’ he went on, as though I knew who he was talking about. ‘Went off the rails like a train without a driver.’
I think for a moment about Justin – the man I met, unsure what to feel. ‘Do you remember Ava Millar’s murder?’ I ask.
He takes a sip
of his beer. ‘I do. It was me who found her.’ He shakes his head. ‘Finding that young woman will live with me ‘til the day I die – all that blood.’
‘I’m so sorry. It must have been awful for you.’
‘Aye, it was indeed. Bostagel has never been quite the same since it happened – for anyone. It was as if the ground cracked under the bloody lot of us, sending splinters everywhere.’ He meets my gaze, his eyes watery. ‘There was talk that Ava was dead even before the knife went in, but I don’t know how true it is. Rumours, that’s all. But what I do know is Inspector Jones had a terrible breakdown at the time. Convinced Gail didn’t kill her sister, he became obsessed with the case. But I’m telling you this now,’ he taps his large, red nose, ‘those sisters never got on, and from where I’m sitting it was more than your normal sibling rivalry.’
‘What about Rory? He’d just got married, he must have been devastated.’
He nods. ‘Broken-hearted he was – poor chap. It was awful seeing him cry.’ He shakes his head, as though trying to dislodge the memory.
‘And Dexter?’
‘Can’t say I recall him too well. Bit of a mummy’s boy by all accounts, left Newquay to go to university after Ava died, if I remember. In any case, he had an alibi – couldn’t have killed the young woman if that’s what you’re thinking.’
The landlord appears and puts our drinks on the table. ‘So what’ll it be?’
I look down at the menu. ‘I’ll have the lasagne, please,’ I say, before glancing back at the elderly man, hoping our conversation isn’t over, but he’s on his feet. He nods my way, taps his cap, and heads for the door, his dog by his side. His newspaper tucked under his arm.
‘Lasagne,’ the landlord says, scribbling on his pad. ‘Good choice.’ He moves his eyes to Becky.
‘Nothing for me,’ she says closing the menu, and handing it to him.
‘I can’t tempt you with our beef and ale pie? Battered fresh fish?’
‘No, honestly, I’m fine.’
‘OK,’ he says shuffling the menus. ‘You’ve picked a lovely week. It’s been glorious again today, hasn’t it?’
Traces of Her: An utterly gripping psychological thriller with a twist you'll never see coming Page 15
