by Karina Evans
“If they see it, they’ll take it,” the receptionist replied. “That’s the only place the wall would take a hook, so I’ve attached it with string, see?”
“Ah, yes,” Isobel said.
The receptionist was around 60 years old, with dark brown hair. She wore a colourful smock dress over maroon tights and a string of large plastic beads around her neck. She smelt of a forty-a-day cigarette habit, which explained the wheezing. “You should give up the fags before they kill you,” the receptionist said to Isobel, noticing the packet of cigarettes she was clutching in her hand. The irony was not lost, and they both laughed, the receptionist’s sounding raspier and wheezier with each inhalation.
“I’m Cara, I own this place. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ll take you to your room; it’s freshly cleaned and I’ve been to the shops to pop a few new things in there for you. Other than our permanent fixture in Room One, you’re my first guest this season.”
“Who is in Room One?” Isobel asked, more through politeness than genuine curiosity.
“Olivia, her name is,” Cara whispered, facing away from the door of Room One, which was visible from the lobby. “She’s been here six months. She’s a carer. Funny thing, she is. Keeps herself to herself, mostly. Anyway, listen to me gossiping! Let’s get you settled.”
Cara handed Isobel her room key — Room Eight, right at the top of the building. “The best view,” Cara said as she readied herself for the steep stairs. “Honestly, stay here,” said Isobel. “I’m fine, I can find it myself.” “Oh, you are an angel,” replied Cara. “I’ll feed Monkey.” Isobel was perplexed. “Monkey?”
Cara emitted a deep, rumbling laugh, which quickly turned into a coughing fit. “The dog!” Cara cried when she finally recovered, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “Monkey. The dog.”
“Of course.”
Isobel climbed the steep stairs to her room, opening the yellowing whitewashed door. It was a small room, decorated in what seemed to be leftovers from the 1970s. A pelmet hung at a skewed angle at the top of the window. A faded valance was visible under the mattress, and the faux velvet headboard of the bed had definitely seen better days. Isobel cringed as she flung back the duvet to examine the cleanliness of the bed, surprised to see a crisp white sheet, clearly straight from the packet, judging by the telltale creases. The room smelled clean and, as Isobel wandered through the room and the adjoining bathroom, she felt vaguely touched by the effort put into making it as attractive as possible. The toilet paper was cheap, but folded to a point, and the bar of soap was pungent, but placed in a mason jar that seemed peculiarly modern in this dated seaside bed-and-breakfast. There was a newly opened reed diffuser on the back of the toilet, balanced carefully on a spare toilet roll (the end of which was also folded to a point), and a brand new towel, rolled perfectly and placed on the seat of the toilet — it was thin but Isobel felt touched — Cara had been so excited to have another guest that she felt it important to provide these items.
Isobel walked back into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Her phone rang, and she glanced down to see it was Bradley. “Already?” Isobel muttered as she jabbed at the End Call button. “Seriously, that guy.” She put her phone on the bed and unpacked her clothes and belongings, placing them neatly in a battered but clean chest of drawers next to the bed. She was glad she had chosen this relatively anonymous B&B to stay in during her time in Shorestone — funds would have allowed her to stay at the more luxurious hotel on the outskirts of town, but some delving led her to find out that it was owned by an old Shorestone family; the type of family, in Isobel’s opinion, that was the worst for gossiping.
Her phone beeped and Isobel sighed as she picked it up Call me, there is some post for you at the nick. Not sure who would write to you there?! Isobel frowned, thinking. It must be someone who didn’t know her address, probably some prisoner writing to accuse her of wrongful prosecution. She quickly tapped a reply: Nothing to hide — happy for you to pick it up and open it. Will send message to Sarge and he’ll release it. Scan and email over if important. Thanks.
Isobel threw her phone on the bed again, wishing that she could dispose of it permanently, perhaps by throwing the obtrusive device into the back of a rubbish lorry, watching it crush to smithereens between the huge metal claws. But before that, she had another call to make. She needed to speak to her kid.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Elizabeth, Isobel’s mum, answered the phone after one ring, as though she had been standing next to it. Calling the landline had felt comfortingly familair — stabbing in the combination of familiar numbers was both a comfort and a way of immersing herself back into Shorestone.
“Elizabeth Hester. Shorestone 776545?”
“Mum. I’ve told you to stop answering the phone like that. Nobody has done that since the 80s.”
“Isobel! Well, if you will insist on calling the landline like you’re a teenager calling to tell me you’ll be late home… not that you would ever have bothered doing that, of course —”
“Mum, please.”
“Oh goodness, I’m joking. It’s been so long. What have you been up to? Are you well? Margaret down at the shop said you are coming to visit soon, is that right? You could have told me, or called your daughter.”
“Scarlett never answers. You know that, Mum. I try. I call her twice a week; I’m lucky if I get past two rings before she cuts me off.”
“Isobel. It’s hard for her. She’s twenty. Barely more than a child. She is still hurt that you didn’t come back for her 18th.”
“Oh, goodness. She knows I couldn’t. Did you even watch the news? I was tied up catching a serial killer.”
“You abandon a kid and they carry that for the rest of their lives. She’ll come round.”
“That’s why I’m calling, Mum. I would like to speak to her.”
“You’ll be lucky! She’s in the kitchen, I’ll speak to her.”
Isobel heard the telltale clang of the old-style wired telephone handset being balanced on the radiator in the hallway. She could hear muffled voices and strained her ears to hear her daughter’s voice. Her daughter, her Scarlett, who she hadn’t seen for three long years.
The line crackled as someone picked the phone up from its resting place. Isobel held her breath.
“Sorry, I tried. She said she will meet up with you when you’re down. Maybe go for a drink or something?”
“I’m here now; I’m staying at a B&B. Ask her to call me, please. Same mobile that she ignores twice a week.”
“I’ll pass that on.”
“Thank you. Speak soon.”
“Don’t leave it so long next time.”
Isobel rolled her eyes. “What do you expect? You don’t exactly make me feel welcome when I call.”
“I try, Isobel. I try.”
“Bye.”
“Bye. Oh, Isobel…?”
“Yes?”
“Take care.”
“You too, Mum.”
Isobel held the phone to her ear until she heard her mum end the call, then stared at it, frowning, as though it would give her the answers she needed. Isobel found her mother’s constant flitting from blame to faux-care and back again exhausting; however, it confirmed that deciding to leave Shorestone all those years ago had probably been the right thing to do, however painful it had been for everyone. Getting no answers from the screen of her phone, she threw it back down onto the bed and continued unpacking.
Him
DS Isobel Hester
Shorestone Police Station
Dearest Isobel,
It appears as though Isobel has found her way home — back to the stunning town of Shorestone, whence she came. How delighted I am to welcome you back, Isobel. So delighted that I have left you a welcome gift.
I hope you enjoy her; maybe her survival will give you some clues. There shall be more where she came from, but next time they won’t be so lucky.
Regards
Him
His brai
n often felt as though it didn’t belong inside him; as though it were too large for its surroundings and, if he didn’t release the pressure, soon it would explode. This had been going on for some time, but steadily and stealthily, as though his own mind was slowly turning against him.
Each morning, when he awoke, he would question who he was and what he was doing; yet each morning, when he awoke, he would be a little less present. His world was becoming smaller, tighter, more focused, and reality was moving further away. When he tried to concentrate on anything — the news, his grocery shopping, his past and his future, it mattered so little. All he could see was Isobel and all he could think about was how to play and win at the game he had designed.
In the short times during which he had clarity, he could see how this could end disastrously — maybe even with his death, but through fuzz and blur he felt it was the only way he could get close to the woman he loved.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Isobel took a deep breath, shoulders back, tense torso, breath steady, and walked through the doors to the front office of Shorestone police station. She’d spent a few nights in the cells here as a teenager — petty crimes — a lipstick from the chemist, some shoes from the market, a sandwich from the local cafe. The offences had dropped from her Police National Computer record when she turned 18, and she had declared them in her police interview, impressing her interviewers with tales of how her murky past had led her to this path, how the death of her brother had made her see the value of intervention and support, and what better contribution to a community than the support of a police officer who truly cares and understands?
“DS Isobel Hester, Major Crime Team. I’m here to see DI Dominic White,” Isobel barked at the timid-looking front office clerk.
“Uh, yes, I’ll just… erm… hold on and I’ll find his extension number.”
“6720”
“Sorry?”
“That’s DI White’s extension number,” Isobel responded with a patience she didn’t feel. “6720. He is expecting me.”
The timid clerk called the provided extension number, nodding to Isobel when she got through to the right number. Isobel resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead diverting her attention to a ‘Missing’ poster on the wall. The photograph showed Ruby Dixon, a clean-looking, wholesome young woman, her hair brushed and shiny, her face glowing with natural beauty. She was sitting in an armchair with a tabby cat on her lap. The poster gave a number to call to offer information, if indeed there was any, with the hope of it offering clues about her disappearance.
Isobel turned back to the clerk on the desk, focusing on the name printed on the lanyard hanging around her neck.
“Heidi Wilkins — any relation of Toby? Do you have access to the custody system?”
“Yes, and yes. I’m Toby and Patricia’s daughter. You know them? What do you want me to look up for you?”
“I know everyone. Ruby Dixon, please. I’d like to see if she has a history.”
Heidi typed quickly, her deftness defying her nervous appearance. A few seconds later, she turned the computer monitor around to face Isobel. “Here she is — drugs offences, mostly. Possession times four, shoplifting times five.”
Isobel looked at the photograph of Ruby on the screen and then glanced at the poster.
“Right, ok, thank you. That’s really helpful. That’s all I need.”
A door opened behind them and Isobel turned to look at the man standing in the doorway, his foot holding open the heavy steel door. Dressed smartly in well-fitting suit trousers and a shirt unbuttoned at the throat, he exuded an air of casual professionalism.
“DS Hester? I’m DI Dominic White, the SIO for Violet Taylor, Millicent Norton and Ruby Dixon. I’m pleased to have you on board.”
“You can take that down for starters,” Isobel said, nodding towards the poster. “It might make her parents feel better each time they see her wholesome face on a lamppost or the local news, but I’ve seen the last image of her on the custody system and can tell you now, THAT is not the Ruby we are searching for.”
“Well, technically it is, DS Hester. With all due…”
“Due nothing. Put up the custody photo. If anyone has seen her in the last week, they won’t have a clue. Pre-addict Ruby is nothing like the Ruby who disappeared. Come over here.”
Dominic dutifully followed Isobel over to the front desk, where Heidi sat looking incredibly nervous. She pointed at the image on Heidi’s screen.
“Her, see. THAT is Ruby Dixon. Sunken cheeks due to tooth loss, she has lost probably around 150lbs in weight since the missing poster photograph, and she no longer wears smart shirts and waistcoats. DI White, we are looking for THIS Ruby, not THAT Ruby, you understand?”
Isobel glanced at Heidi, who was rubbing her thumbs and forefingers together nervously.
“Honestly, Heidi. It’s ok, really. I’m just making a point.”
“I’m fine. I’m always nervous.”
“Ah, ok,” Isobel turned to face Dominic. “So, DI White, will you change the poster?”
“Yes. Let’s go to the office, shall we? Before Heidi has a breakdown.”
Isobel glanced at Heidi, who was now fiddling with her lanyard. “Thank you,” Isobel said. “I’ll be on 6720 if you need me.”
“Got that, thank you.”
Isobel smiled before turning to follow Dominic.
“We’ve officially linked the cases,” Dominic informed Isobel in the lift on the way up to the CID office.
“Ruby is dead,” Isobel replied
“Sorry? No, that’s Violet. Violet is the body we recovered, Millicent is the GBH, rape, and Ruby is still missing.”
“He wouldn’t let her go. He has a lot to lose. In fact, he probably doesn’t even kidnap — he’s an out-and-out killer. She is dead, and we need to be digging up Valley Woods in its entirety to find her.”
“Valley Woods is huge — I don’t think I’ve got a large enough workforce for that. And what makes you think this? How do you know he hasn’t kidnapped Ruby?”
“Because if he were a kidnapper, he’d have kidnapped Millicent. And he didn’t. He tried — and failed — to kill her.” Isobel paused, trying to remain patient. “And, you’ll need to find the manpower for Valley Woods. We’ll do small sections at a time, but we need the entire area cordoned — nobody in or out. There’s most likely a body in there.”
Dominic looked both impressed and humbled. “Ok,” he conceded. “Makes sense. There’s a letter here for you, by the way.”
“Who from?”
“I’d have to open it to know that, and I’m a stickler for the law.”
They reached the office and Dominic picked up an envelope from a desk by the far window, which overlooked the car park. Isobel took it, gazing thoughtfully and turning it over in her hands.
“You’ll probably need to open it to figure out what’s inside,” Dominic prompted.
“Yes, it’s from the same person as one I received back in Hamhill. Odd.” Isobel put the letter back on the desk, pulling some gloves out of her pocket and putting them on before carefully opening the envelope.
“Right. We’ll need to send this to forensics.” Isobel showed Dominic the letter before bagging it.
“What does he mean?”
“Millicent is the gift. He didn’t, or couldn’t, kill her, leaving her able to tell us what happened.” Isobel chewed her fingernails thoughtfully. “I would think he’s probably panicking, but he’s trying to sound powerful and in control, as though he did it on purpose. The only way he can prove this is by killing again.”
Isobel
1998
Robert seduced her with flowers and meals out at restaurants, something no boy her age would have thought to do. They met by chance, buying cigarettes at a local off-licence, and Robert insisted on paying for them when Isobel realised she’d left her purse at home. At sixteen years old, Isobel felt like royalty; a night out at the local Pizza Palace a daunting leap from smoking cigarettes un
der the town’s dilapidated pier. When Isobel’s order arrived, it shocked her to see that the pizza took up the entire plate — a large pizza that, at home, she would have to share with her brother and father, while her mother crunched a salad topped with sliced egg. She stared at the menu for a few minutes, unsure what many of the toppings were, and opted for a Margherita as it was seemingly only cheese and tomato, both of which were familiar and less frightening than capers and feta. Robert ordered sides of garlic bread and olives (which she was too shy to refuse and hated every second of, piling them in her mouth in an effort to look like she knew what they were, shoving garlic bread in straight after to take away the taste and to help her swallow the unfamiliar flavours), and Isobel tentatively cut into her pizza wondering how she would finish such a huge load of carbohydrates. And if Robert went to kiss her, she would smell of garlic, an embarrassment she was unsure she could endure. Halfway through the meal, Isobel excused herself to go to the bathroom, rinsing out her mouth in a futile effort to get rid of the garlic smell which would surely put her new boyfriend off kissing her.
Thankfully, not though; Robert seemed not the slightest bit put off by Isobel’s garlicky breath as he stood up to greet her return to the table, pushing his tongue roughly into her mouth before guiding her back into her chair. The table served well to disguise Robert rubbing his foot into Isobel’s groin throughout the rest of the meal and although this excited her, she wasn’t sure that she felt comfortable with the feeling. At times she wanted to scream out that she was just sixteen, that there were stuffed toys lining the foot of the bed, that sometimes she took one of them and held it close to her, nuzzling into its comforting fuzzy fur and inhaling its decade-old scent. But Isobel was all about facades, and right now she wanted to be an adult. So, no, tonight was not the night to behave like a frightened kid.
