by Karina Evans
“How old are you then?” he asked.
“Sixteen, but I feel older,” she replied.
“I’m 37 — is that ok?”
“You married?”
“Divorced.”
“Ok. That’s cool, then.”
Later, they walked along the seafront and he led her under the pier; the same pier she had sat under, listening to music and laughing with kids her own age, and he pushed her down and she didn’t say no, but she didn’t say yes. She wanted to get rid of her virginity anyway, and so even though it wasn’t in the slightest bit pleasurable, that administrative detail was now complete. Maybe it would be better next time, she thought, but it wasn’t; in fact, the next time he was rough and it hurt a little. So she went back for another try, and that time he held her arms down and when she asked what he was doing he said, “Oh, don’t you like it, I’m so sorry.” She shrugged and went back a fourth and a fifth time, returning a sixth time just a day after her big brother died the most trite of drug-addict deaths. That day Robert held her afterwards, a feeling alien to Isobel who was by now used to the roughness of their time together. He offered her a whisky, poured from a carafe on a rickety bedside cabinet; a smudging of lifestyles, perceived and real. Perhaps to make her feel better, that day he was honest. He had split with his wife after ten years of marriage because she couldn’t handle his eye for young women, he told her. “I don’t mind your eye for young women,” vulnerable, grieving, sixteen-year-old Isobel said. “I don’t mind at all,” and Robert thanked her for her generosity. “I have a future,” Robert replied. “Helen, my ex, is selling the house and I’ll get half. I’ll buy a flat overlooking the sea: you can stay if you like? Overnight, so we can wake to seagulls and the crashing shoreline.” Isobel agreed that this was a wonderful plan, and Robert held her closer, trailing his fingers lazily up the inside of Isobel’s thigh. This tickled, but Isobel was too shy to say, so she gritted her teeth and tensed her body till all her muscles cramped together.
Isobel grew fond of Robert and would imagine their life together — lazing quietly in bed, listening to the sea. Robert allowed Isobel to talk about her brother Archie as though he were still alive — about the things he loved to do, about the cannabis and the speed and the E and the trips and, finally, the heroin. About how Isobel had known but hadn’t told her parents, because she had wanted to protect him, her big brother; the love of her life. And Robert said, “Iz, you can tell them. Tell them you knew he was taking drugs; they deserve to know the truth, and you deserve the weight to be lifted.” Isobel thought he was being sweet and protective until, in hindsight, when it all kicked off, she wondered whether it was because he wanted her parents to kick her out and then he would get her, trapped by her heart and her hands, all to himself.
Isobel didn’t get to find at out — she wasn’t able to stay at the flat Robert bought eight months later; she was busy giving birth to the baby Robert calmly told her to just fucking get rid of before he pushed her into the hallway and closed the flat door in her face. He loved her, he said, but not enough to give up this life he had built in his mind, this life that involved Isobel and Robert, Robert and Isobel; Iz and Rob, Rob and Iz, in his lovely little flat with no room for a kid. So he would live alone forever, or she could return when she had got rid of that fucking kid.
Isobel named her little girl Scarlett, after the redness she saw behind her eyes as she clenched them closed to push her unwanted baby into the world. It was a lonely world and postpartum hopelessness drove Isobel to distraction, as she worked her way through town, shouting at anyone who crossed her, leaving her baby in grotty bedsits with unsavoury types while she drank with the locals. She couldn’t bear to be away from Robert and so she replaced him with Mark from the Red Lion, with Joe from the workshop, with Lucas from the cafe. And when she was done sleeping with everyone and creating chaos in her hometown, Isobel ran, leaving Scarlett with her shellshocked parents and a trail of broken marriages and social workers behind her.
CHAPTER NINE
The forensic scientist shrugged. “Nothing at all,” he stated, glancing apologetically at the letter as though it would feel let down by its own lack of evidence. “I mean, the paper is ten-a-penny, despite being reasonably good quality — I found it for sale in every Google result it turned up; including online marketplaces. It would take the rest of your career to get the sales records. They sealed the envelope with water, not saliva. The ink is running low, and my colleague in digital forensics traced the ink to HP, which churns out huge batches of inks. The printout was from a printer of the same brand, pretty much in every home office across the country. I’ve written up the report for you —” he handed the file to Isobel, who held it by her side, disappointment etched on her face.
“Thanks. I think.”
“Any time,” the scientist replied cheerfully.
Isobel walked back into the office and over to Dominic, who was standing in front of the evidence board, clutching a thermos of coffee. He turned when Isobel reached his side. “Anything?”
“Zilch. Not even a bite. Apparently, I could trace the paper, but I’d be here for another twenty-five years doing so. So yeah, long-shot didn’t pay off this time. I’ve added the letters to the file.”
1998
“You knew?” Elizabeth had hissed. “You KNEW he was taking drugs? You… you… didn’t think to mention it?” She had paced around the bedroom as though standing still would cause this revelation to settle and become true. If she just kept moving, if she just kept walking, she could keep it from becoming a reality. A reality that may cause her to lose not only her precious son but also her daughter.
Isobel had remained silent and still, opposite in every way to her imposing hulk of a mother who was swelling with rage as she paced. Isobel shrank, smaller and smaller, into the middle of her bed, scrunched into a ball, her head down, looking at hands that appeared unfamiliar, too large, unfeminine, covered in invisible blood. As though, since her big brother’s burial, they didn’t belong to her after all.
“Why… what on earth possessed you to hide such a huge thing from me? Isobel! Answer me, or so help me god, I will call your father up here.”
Turns out her father heard the call from god and all Isobel could remember about that evening, all those years ago, was the tirade of anger, the sound of a slap slicing the air as it flew towards her face, and the feeling of hopelessness as her world shrank smaller than ever before.
CHAPTER TEN
Him
He knew it was only a matter of time before she weakened and came to find out who was killing the whores of Shorestone; quite a catchy title for the film of his antics, he thought: The Whores of Shorestone.
He had it on good authority that Isobel was in Shorestone — the local gossip vine had always been one of the most productive things about this forsaken town, and he had overheard the owner of a local B&B talking to a shopkeeper about how desperate business was these days, almost a stream of consciousness, reliant on the other party listening and being interested. Nobody wanted to come down this way, she had said. Because they all thought a psycho would murder them. The shopkeeper had nodded and the B&B lady had continued. First the Hamhill Killer in the nearby town of the same name — couldn’t they find something more inventive? They had both shaken their heads with disappointment at this lack of imagination. And then the horrific murder and attack in Shorestone! Barbaric. She had visibly brightened at this before lowering her voice to talk about her business. She was oh-so-grateful to have a long-term guest in Room One and yesterday a new one had turned up — a police officer from Hamhill. Lovely lady, although quite curt, but she had warmed to her immediately. No nonsense type, you know. Tall with beautifully cut blonde hair, quite a stunner. Intelligent. Called Isobel, she is. Not sure of her surname, but she is definitely called Isobel. Not that Isobel Hester, the other woman had replied; she left this town in quite a mess when she left — it was a few years before you got here; I think? Abandoned her kid — le
ft the poor mite with no parents, yet the kid took her father’s name — absence is far easier to swallow than abandonment, I’d have thought. Edwards-Walsh. Scarlett Edwards-Walsh.
He had suppressed his joy, but really, it had been the best news he’d received in a long time. Isobel was home. It was time for him to get to know her again.
23-year-old Millicent Norton’s pale face was a testament to her trauma. There were black smudges under her eyes; at first glance appearing to be make-up, but as Isobel got closer, she realised they were indicators of grief and exhaustion, rather than a cosmetic mishap. Her curly hair spread over the hospital pillow, its darkness a stark contrast to the light blue of the pillowcase.
“Don’t be long,” the nurse had warned, “She has been through a lot.”
“Millicent? I’m Detective Sergeant Isobel Hester, do you need anything? A drink?”
“No, I’m fine.” Millicent shifted uncomfortably on the bed, wincing as she moved. “I’m… I’m just keen to get this over with. I’m sorry.”
“Ok, I understand. So… are you happy to answer a few questions about the night of the attack? With your help, we should be able to put together a picture and release some details to the press.”
“Sure, yes, I’ll… I’ll do what I can. I can’t really…” Millicent’s voice wavered, and she swallowed to steady her voice. “I can’t remember a lot. I was just walking home.”
“Ok, shall we start there? Where had you been that night?”
“Ok, I had… I had been to my boyfriend’s house — he lives quite close to me, just… just a five-minute walk from my house, usually. I had left him with his flatmate; there was a football game and they… erm… they had said they wanted to watch it and I felt in the way and I just —”
“Take your time, Millicent; there’s really no hurry.”
“Ok, so…” Millicent took a deep, determined breath, pushing words out with the painful shudder that followed it. “I left Isaac, my boyfriend, at his flat. I’d said something silly, like, ‘Just watch your football then and don’t come looking for me when some psycho takes me on the way home,’ and so I’d walked out and heard him walking to the front door, so I ran because I kind of wanted him to think I’d been taken, you know? Kind of crazy, right? So, I deliberately got a move on and I ran down the stairs in the building… he lives in a flat, you know? So I ran, and I ran round the corner, and it felt good to have one up on him. He can be a bit of a dick, you know, like, a bit controlling but distant all at the same time? You know the type? So, I ran, and I deliberately took a different route so he couldn’t find me; it was a longer one, but took me through the alleyways between North and Stanley Street and then between Goodwin and Market Street? There’s no light there, is there? Usually I’d take the main road as the alleyways freak me out a bit, ever since… anyway… but I was determined to play this stupid game. So, I stopped halfway down the Market Street alley to get my breath and I remember feeling kind of exhilarated like I’d won the game and I was breathing heavily, sort of bent over to catch myself and I was facing the end of the alley, but still bent over with my hands on my knees and I felt something touch me, behind me, touch between my legs and I turned and —”
“You said ‘ever since’. What did you mean?”
Millicent looked down at her hands. “I… I used to hang around the alleys a lot. I had friends there. I was attacked once.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Just… well, it didn’t seem worth it. I was ok, so, yeah. It wasn’t the same guy, anyway; the first guy was shorter and fatter.”
“How long ago was the first attack?”
“About six months… just before I met Isaac and stopped hanging about the alleys.”
“Ok, and is there anything else you can tell me about the person who attacked you the other day? You said you turned around? What did you see?”
“I… I’m not sure —”
“Go on, Millicent.”
“It was weird, odd, he had no face, and he had a hood up.”
“No face? You mean, it was dark and you couldn’t see his face?”
“No, it was dark, but I could see his face… well, I would have seen his face if he’d had one. It was dark, and he had his hood up and he had no features. No nose, I swear, and his mouth was distorted, like he’d melted and he had no face. He had no face.”
“What happened next? I know this is hard, but could you tell me?”
“I sort of turned my upper body to look, you know, and he kind of kicked my legs out from under me and I fell, and I screamed so loudly, but it was late and I was in that part of town, that manky bit, you know? Stanley Street, no-one hears you scream; that’s what they say, isn’t it? I know it’s true because nobody came, and I kept screaming and screaming and then I felt his hands round my neck and I panicked, kicking out at him, but I couldn’t scream anymore. And then I thought I’d better get this over with, whatever it is and I stopped kicking him and he stopped squeezing so tightly and I thought it might be ok — that he had changed his mind or something, but then I figured out why.” A tear rolled from Millicent’s eye.
“Why was that, Millicent?” Isobel pressed.
“Because he wanted me alive when he raped me, I guess. He let go of my throat and ripped down my leggings and kept touching me and forcing his hands between, you know, my privates, and he pulled everything down and I remember it hurt so much, not because he was raping me, but because I was so twisted up. My legs were caught in my leggings and my ankles were crossed and he’d pushed my legs in the air and my knickers were tangled and everything was digging in everywhere, and he was raping me but all I could think was that my leggings were digging in.”
“You’re being so brave, Millicent, so brave, thank you so much. This will really help us make sure he doesn’t do this to anyone else. Can you remember anything else? Did he try to kiss you, or speak to you?”
Millicent exhaled, words pouring with her breath. “No, he didn’t speak, he didn’t kiss, he had no face, he didn’t smell of anything… that was weird. Like he was on top of me and my face was turned to the side but I could hear something like breathing but quieter than breathing like no air was really coming out and it didn’t smell of anything. His breath didn’t smell of anything, not coffee. Not fags, not beer, not bad breath or good breath, just nothing. It was like he was nobody.”
“And then what happened, Millicent? How did you get away?”
“Then he put his hands back on my neck, around my throat. And he squeezed so hard. My eyes were hurting and there was no room left in my throat, you know, but then a guy came out of his back door from one of the houses running alongside the alley. His security light came on and the other guy… the attacker… he got off me, let go of my neck, got up and ran.”
“Did the man in the garden see you or your attacker?”
“I couldn’t move. I felt so weak. I felt sick. I tried to scream, but I could only whisper. I gave up and laid there. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t sit up, like he’d paralysed me, and my head hurt so much each time I tried. And then I heard his voice, the guy. It felt like a lifetime, but I could still hear whoever jumped me running away, so might only have been seconds. The guy climbed over the wall and took his jumper off and laid it on my legs and over where… where the man had… had —” Millicent tentatively inhaled and exhaled. “… because he didn’t want to move me to pull my leggings up and he said I deserved some dignity. I couldn’t say anything, I physically couldn’t speak… and he was so kind. He called the police and said I was dying and sat stroking my hand and just looking at me until they got there.”
“Do we have a statement from him?”
“He went just as the police came down the alley. He climbed back over. I’m not sure which house it was.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”
“No, don’t. He saw nothing, anyway. There’s no point.”
&nbs
p; “Sorry?”
“I said don’t. Don’t contact him. There’s no need — the guy had run and garden guy hadn’t seen him so there’s no point. Please don’t.”
“Why don’t you want us to contact him? Did he have something to do with the attack, Millicent?”
“NO! JUST DON’T. PLEASE. PLEASE DON’T CONTACT HIM.”
“Detective? Detective? Please leave now. Millicent needs to rest.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“She said he had no face?” Dominic repeated as he read through Isobel’s interview transcript.
“Yes, no face. Although, clearly that’s unlikely.”
“What would make him appear to have no face? Tights?”
“No, tights would just distort his face — she was adamant that he had NO face. No features.”
“Right. Ok. A mask, maybe?”
“Perhaps. It would have to be made from an opaque material — soft, to mould to his face.”
“Yes, there was a lot of bruising on the body — some pretty old. Plus an old rib fracture, old nose break and self-harm scars.”
Isobel thought for a moment. “Ok. Any joy on any of the girls’ social media channels? Links between them?” She glanced over at the wall of the office, where they had placed a board with details of the investigation. Ruby, Millicent, and Violet’s faces all stared at her, almost with hope. “Physically, they aren’t that alike, although they are all similar in age: Ruby and Millicent both 23 and Violet was 27.” Isobel immediately thought of her almost-21-year-old daughter Scarlett and shivered, realising the difficulties she would face as she tried to both repair their relationship while also dictating to her where and when she was safe in the town she had grown up in.
