by Tania Carver
‘Right. Mickey. Is your boss the younger one? There was a father and son.’
Mickey nodded.
‘Then don’t say was. He’s still alive.’
Mickey nodded again, clearly unconvinced.
Jessica decided to change the subject. If he had come to help, he would be no good in this state. ‘So why are you here?’ she asked.
‘I just thought … ’ He shrugged. ‘Just wondered if you could do with some help. It’s my day off.’
‘Join the club,’ she said, the ghost of a smile on her face.
‘Well, anything I can do … ’
She looked at him. He was a bull of a man. Muscular, physical. More like a rugby player or a boxer. But there was a softness to his eyes. An intelligence and compassion that Jessica found appealing. Very appealing.
‘Well … ’ It was her turn to shrug. ‘More the merrier, I suppose. You can fill us in on your boss. Phil Brennan?’
Mickey nodded.
She smiled. ‘Welcome aboard.’
Mickey was introduced to Deepak Shah and shook hands, but any further conversation was cut short by the approach of a blue-suited forensic officer. Jessica turned to him.
‘Well? Anything?’
‘No kid,’ he said. ‘We’ll look in more detail, of course, but there’s nothing there to indicate that a child was in that blast. Unless, you know … ’
‘Unless it was right at the centre, I know,’ said Jessica, swallowing hard. ‘Well keep looking.’
‘We will. It’s early days, but we think we’ve identified the area in the cottage where the blast originated from.’
‘Cooker? Fire?’ asked Jessica.
The forensic officer shook his head. ‘Neither, we don’t think.’
A shiver ran through Jessica. ‘You mean it was started deliberately?’
‘Let’s keep an open mind,’ he said, and walked away.
Suddenly the desperate, clichéd plot of a TV cop drama didn’t sound so ridiculous after all.
7
As Anni’s words sank in, Marina felt even more numb than the painkillers had left her.
‘What d’you mean, you couldn’t find her?’
‘I mean we couldn’t find her,’ said Anni, fidgeting uncomfortably in her seat, like her skin didn’t fit right and was too itchy for her body. ‘We looked everywhere, but no sign … ’
‘Everywhere. You looked everywhere … ’
‘Yes. We did. In the cottage, outside … ’ She moved about, unable to settle. ‘We found some of her things. Clothes, toys. Or what was left of them. But no Josephina.’
‘I’ve got to … I’ve got to go … ’ Marina tried to swing her body over the edge of the bed, put her legs down, her feet on the floor. Her breath caught in her throat. She pulled air in sharply and gasped. The movement sent more pain spasming round her body. She fell back, hard.
‘Marina, you should stay there.’
‘I’ve got … got to go … my baby, I have to find my baby … ’
‘But we’ve looked … ’
Marina once again tried to get up. Failed. ‘Then … Look again.’
‘We—’
‘I’ll come with you. I should be there. You need me. Josie needs me.’ Ignoring the pain, Marina eventually sat up. ‘She’s got to be there. She’s … I don’t know, maybe she crawled out, got away from the cottage. Maybe she—’
‘We looked everywhere, Marina. Honestly.’ Anni’s voice low. Calm yet authoritative.
Marina felt a pain far worse than her physical injuries move through her body. A fear, like lead spreading in her veins, poisoning her, weighing her down. Removing her contact with the normal world. ‘Maybe she … maybe someone’s got her, seen her and taken her in, looking after her … ’ Marina reached out, gripped Anni’s sleeve, twisted the fabric, pulled hard, her voice teetering on the edge of hysteria.
‘We’re looking into every possible lead.’
Marina dropped her hand away, felt herself getting angry. She had heard Phil speak the same way. ‘Don’t talk to me like that, Anni, save it for the punters.’
Anni recoiled, shocked.
Marina sat up. The room spun, but she ignored it and concentrated on the other woman. Locked eyes with her, made sure she understood what she was saying. ‘Josephina, Josie … She must be there. Must be. Must be somewhere.’
‘We’ve looked. Everywhere.’
‘Then look again.’
Anni sighed. ‘We have.’
‘But somebody must know … If she’s been there, if she’s … if someone’s got her, taken her in … if … someone must have seen, someone … ’ Marina fell back on the bed, exhausted. ‘Oh God, oh God … ’ The pain subsided and the room slowed, stopped spinning. ‘I know,’ she said, her voice suddenly weak. ‘I know. I’m sure everyone’s doing their best … ’
‘Mickey’s gone to join them,’ Anni said. ‘He’s up there now with the local team.’
Mickey Philips. The detective sergeant in the Major Incident Squad they were all a part of.
‘Oh God … ’ Another thought had struck Marina. ‘She might be … ’ Her voice wavered, broke. ‘The cottage – she might be … ’
‘Mickey’s there,’ said Anni, her voice dropping. ‘If she’s there, he’ll find her. Wherever she is.’
Marina nodded. Kept nodding. She didn’t notice the tears until she felt Anni’s arm round her.
‘Oh God … ’ The lead weight in her veins increased. Her heart, her whole body felt heavy, the fear paralysing her. ‘Oh God … ’
The two of them sat like that, a still life of grief, while time became a vacuum.
The mood was broken when the curtain at the front of the cubicle was pulled back. Marina looked up. A tired-looking female nurse entered.
‘How you feeling?’ said the nurse. Her voice sounded distracted, professional interest only, but her eyes held compassion, albeit with black circles beneath them.
Marina stared at her. She couldn’t begin to answer the question.
‘My husband … how … how is he? Where is he? Can I, can I see him?’
‘He’s still in surgery,’ said the nurse. ‘They’re doing all they can.’
‘Oh God … ’ The heaviness again, the weight pressing down on her.
‘Any news? Anything you can tell us?’ Anni spoke as one professional to another.
The nurse gave her a level look. ‘They’re hopeful.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘The fire set off an explosion,’ said the nurse, checking Marina over. ‘Luckily he wasn’t too near it, otherwise he wouldn’t be alive now, but he was hit by flying debris. Head injury. They’re operating now.’
The nurse’s words left Marina feeling cold and numb.
‘His mother’s doing well. She doesn’t look as bad as they first thought.’ The nurse paused. ‘I’m sorry about his father, though. Apparently there was nothing the paramedics could do for him.’
Marina said nothing. Couldn’t speak.
‘You’re in shock,’ the nurse said. ‘We’re just waiting for a bed to become free and we’ll move you to that. We’d like to keep you in overnight. Plus I’m sure you want to be near your husband.’
She looked between Marina and Anni. ‘I’ll pop back soon as I can.’
She left, closing the curtain behind her.
Anni said nothing. Marina stared ahead of her, the pattern on the curtain dancing and swaying before her eyes.
Anni’s phone rang. She jumped. ‘That might be Mickey,’ she said. ‘Give me a minute.’ Looking relieved to have a break, she went outside the cubicle.
Marina didn’t move, just stared. Straight ahead, unmoving. Her daughter’s eyes, that was all she could see. Her eyes. Her smile. Her hair.
She felt a sudden urge to scream, to pound the walls, smash her head against them. Let it all out, try to express the inarticulate, raging emotions she was feeling. But she fought it. For now.
Anni stepped back inside
and resumed her seat.
‘Any news? Josephina? What’s happening? What’s … ’
Anni shook her head. ‘Nothing yet. I’m sorry … ’
Marina sank back. ‘No. No. She has to be there. No. She must be.’
‘They’re still searching. They … ’ Anni sighed. ‘I know. But … ’
Marina said nothing.
‘Look, I’ve got to ask some questions, I’m afraid.’
‘No.’ Marina shook her head, closed her eyes.
‘Please, Marina. I know it’s difficult. But we’re here as a favour. Because it’s you and Phil and you’re in the job. The local force have turned a blind eye. Look, you have to help us. If there’s anything … ’
‘No. No.’ Marina looked at Anni. Saw the other woman was not just doing her job, but also trying to help. ‘Just … ’ She sighed. ‘Give me a minute. Five minutes.’
‘OK.’ Anni nodded and stood up. ‘D’you want anything? I’m going to get a drink. Bar of chocolate. Famished.’
Marina barely heard her.
‘OK, then.’ She left the cubicle.
Marina lay back and stared at the curtain once more. Heard music, recognised it. The old Joy Division song, ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’. Absently she wondered where it was coming from.
Then realised it was a phone.
She looked round. Anni’s bag was on the floor beside the chair. She bent over the side of the bed, feeling her head spin, her sides ache as she did so. No. The sound wasn’t coming from there.
She lay back down once more. The song kept playing. She looked round. Her own bag was on the other side of the bed. That was the source.
Frowning, she reached down, picked up her bag. Rummaged through it and brought out a phone. A cheap black smartphone that she had never seen before. Puzzled, she answered it, put it to her ear.
‘Hello … ?’ Her voice small, quizzical.
‘Marina Esposito.’ A voice she didn’t recognise. Electronic, distorted. Neither male nor female. But audible.
‘Yes … ’ She looked round quickly, as if someone was standing nearby, could hear her.
The voice made a sound that wasn’t a word. Marina just knew the person was smiling. ‘I believe I have something of yours.’
A shiver convulsed the whole of Marina’s body. She couldn’t answer.
‘Something you’ve lost.’
‘Wuh – what?’
‘Something by the name of … Josephina.’ The voice relishing the pronunciation of the name.
She gasped. Began to tremble. ‘Where is she? I’ve got to … got to—’
‘Shut up and listen.’ The voice harsher now, colder. ‘If you want to see your daughter alive again, then just shut up and listen.’
8
The gate closed behind him. He had imagined the scraping of metal against metal as the key was turned and the bolts drawn back. The old hinges would squeal in protest as another one was let go. Then the door would slam shut, hitting its rightful place in the frame and staying there, seemingly immovable. The noise of its closing would be heavy and final, echoing slowly away to a deafening emptiness.
But it wasn’t like that at all.
The gate had just slid open, like in a garage or factory, and he had stepped through. Then it had slid closed behind him, the whirring electric motor stopping when it was in place.
Leaving him standing, staring at the street before him. Cars went past. Quicker than he remembered them, different shapes too, colours, all metallic. Futuristic but recognisable. People walked the pavements. Men, women, old, young. Some still wore suits, but some, mainly the women and the younger ones, wore things he found alien, different. Like clothes from a parallel dimension.
He stared as a couple of women went past pushing babies in chairs. No jackets, just light T-shirts, jeans. They were young, looking better than he remembered. Talking and laughing like the world was a joke.
He watched them go, saw the sway of their hips in their jeans, felt something stir within him. Deep and primal, long-suppressed. Something he had ignored for years. Something else he had told himself didn’t exist. But watching those two women walk up the street, something within him connected.
He kept looking at them. And noticed something odd about their skin …
Tattoos. On their bare shoulders, their arms. The sight of them killed whatever was rising inside him. Loads of prisoners had tattoos. Done to kill boredom. Crudely formed and badly spelled. But these women’s were different. Elaborate swirls. Pictures. Florid, curling writing. Deliberate marking. How much had the world changed that young women needed to mark themselves like that? They couldn’t be as bored as those on the inside. Not with the whole of life around them.
He watched them walk on. Stayed where he was, reluctant to step away from the prison. Not knowing where to go.
Before he left, he had been given an address. A halfway house, a hostel. Somewhere to stay while he got on his feet again, they said. He had the address in his pocket, together with his discharge grant and his travel warrant. He had told them he would go there. He was expected to.
But now, standing there, he didn’t know what to do. Where to go.
The world outside might not be silent and empty. But his head and his heart were. Time had slipped again, twisted. He could have stood there for a few seconds or a few years. He had no way of knowing.
He looked behind him once more. Sixteen years of his life that place had taken. That and others like it. The factory gate was back in position, like it had never moved. Someone else would take his cell, his books, his clothes and toiletries. And he would be gone. Forgotten about. Like the ripples in a pond after a stone hits it. Dying away to nothing.
He shivered, despite the morning’s warmth. The thought depressed him.
Dying away to nothing.
While he was trying to decide where to go, a car pulled up at the side of the road. Tooted its horn. The sudden noise made him jump, but he didn’t move. The horn tooted again, accompanied by a hand waving from inside the car.
Puzzled, he looked behind him, wondering who they were waving at.
The hand beckoned towards the car. He realised the person was gesturing to him.
He took one step forward. The driver nodded in encouragement, beckoned him further. While he was thinking, another car honked its horn. Was that for him too? He looked at the driver. No. He was just frustrated that the first car had parked and that oncoming traffic had stopped his journey from continuing. A line of cars began to appear behind the first one. The driver kept beckoning, insistent now.
Not wanting to be responsible for a traffic jam or for any anger, he walked towards the car.
The driver leaned across, opened the passenger door. He got inside.
‘Well close it, then.’
He did so. Looked at the driver. The driver laughed.
‘Remember me?’
He said nothing.
‘The recognition of friends is not always easy, Doctor … ’ Another laugh. Why had he spoken those words in a terrible Chinese accent?
‘Know where that’s from? Yeah? No. Course you don’t. Never mind.’ The driver looked him over. ‘That all you got?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Suit yourself.’
He put the car in gear, flicked a V sign at the driver behind, his eyes flashing angrily, and pulled away from the kerb.
‘I know you. You’re … ’ He struggled to find the name. ‘Jiminy Cricket.’
Jiminy Cricket smiled. ‘Guilty as charged.’
‘Where are we going?’
He laughed. ‘We got a lot to do. But let’s get you sorted first. Don’t worry. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.’ Another laugh. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’
9
Marina’s head spun with more than pain. She listened to the voice, forced herself to understand what it was saying, let the words cut through the white noise in her mind.
‘Josephina … ’ He
r daughter’s name gasped out. ‘Where is she? Is she hurt? Where—’
‘Be quiet and listen.’ The voice was sharp, authoritative.
Marina said nothing. Listened. But all she could hear was the rushing of blood in her ears, her breath in her chest, like Niagara Falls had exploded inside her head, gushing and rushing.
‘You have to do something for me. Then you’ll get to see your daughter.’
Marina couldn’t speak. She didn’t trust herself with words.
‘Understand?’
‘Yuh-yes … ’
‘Good.’
‘Why?’
Silence.
‘Why … who—’
‘I told you. Be quiet. Listen.’
She did so. Tried to scan the voice to see if she recognised it. She didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t even know if it was male or female.
The voice continued. ‘You’ve got to go somewhere, and do something when you get there. Understand?’
‘Yes … ’
‘Good. In your bag is a book of maps.’
The voice stopped talking. Marina took that as her cue to look for it. She grabbed for the bag on the floor at her side. Rifled through it. There it was. An atlas of Essex.
‘One of the pages is marked,’ said the voice. ‘Open it.’
The book was brand new. One deliberate crease down the spine. She picked it up and it fell open at the marked page. A circle had been drawn in one of the grids. Underneath, a name.
‘Go there.’
‘And … and do what?’
‘Ask for … ’ There was a pause. ‘Tyrell.’
‘And then what? Will Josephina be there? Is she—’
‘Do as you’re told.’ The voice had been neutral until now. But those words were edged with ugly emotion. A sick thrill of control.
‘Where’s my daughter? I want to hear my daughter … ’
‘Just do what you’ve been told.’
Marina searched for words but didn’t know how to respond. She was a criminal psychologist, trained to deal with these kinds of people, an expert on what to say in such situations. But she had only ever dealt with this in an abstract sense, come at it from a position of professionalism. This was happening to her. It was real. Her emotional state was already fractured, her head like a junkyard. And all her training had dissipated like steam off a hotplate.
