‘Will Dad have to do one of these?’ Emma says suddenly, at the same time as my sister says, ‘Do you think they give them media training before this sort of thing?’
‘No,’ I say to Emma, and, ‘I don’t know,’ to Maria.
I focus on the band of text running across the bottom of the screen, giving the details of the case once again, then find myself recoiling as a photograph of Caroline Harvey flashes up. I haven’t been expecting it – so far the media haven’t shown her picture, focusing instead on little Eve, and the sight of her takes me by surprise. Maria too stiffens beside me, and Emma gives a barely audible gasp.
‘Suffolk Police have today released an image of Caroline Harvey, believed to be the resident at Number 43, Woodmill Road. Miss Harvey was found dead in her flat on the night of August 10th, and baby Eve is thought to have been in her care when she was taken. The incident has provoked a new report on safety surrounding babysitting, with MP Nicola Roland speaking out about precautions young women should be taking when alone in their houses with children. On average, it is thought that…’
The newsreader’s voice is echoing around the room but to me it seems blurry. All I can focus on is the woman: her huge hazel eyes, the way her dark hair falls to her shoulders.
‘She looks a bit like you, Mum,’ Emma says, and Maria takes a long sip of her vodka before standing, presumably in order to get a refill.
I cannot stop the mental images from coming: Caroline and Callum, their bodies twisted together, him holding her, kissing her, whispering in her ear. The image on the TV changes to a still of the harbour, the newsreel across the bottom now talking about divers in Ipswich marina and the timeframe; about how concerns for Eve are growing by the minute. There is footage of them draining the water, of men in white suits and waders, the muddy banks of the Ipswich docks. It is nightmarish, surreal.
But all I can see is Caroline. Caroline and my husband. Have I made a mistake, keeping quiet all these years? If I’d confronted him years ago, would it ever have gone this far? Would baby Eve be missing?
Without warning, my stomach contracts and vomit rises in my throat. I clap a hand to my mouth and Emma turns to me, horrified, as sick spills from between my fingers.
‘Maria!’ she shouts, and my sister comes running, takes one look at me and rushes back to the kitchen, re-emerging with a tea towel and a bowl, the big wooden one I chop salads in. That seems like a different life now – a life in which I chopped salads and drank tea and made love to my husband. My husband who had an affair with Caroline Harvey. My husband who may or may not have killed her. My husband who may know where baby Eve is.
I vomit again, not caring when the liquid splashes onto my shirt. My sister leans over me, dabs at the mess with a wet towel, her hands gently pushing against the fabric and my skin.
‘It’s all right, Siobhan, it’s all right,’ she is murmuring gently, as sweat beads along my brow and my hands go clammy. ‘It’s all going to be all right.’
But it isn’t going to be all right. I know it isn’t. Not even my big sister can fix this one, can get me out of the hole I am in.
Chapter Sixteen
Ipswich
10th August: The night of the murder
Caroline
I don’t know why but I’m nervous about tonight, about babysitting little Eve again on my own. Even though I said I didn’t mind, even though I do want to help Jenny, I can’t stop my eyes from flicking to the clock every couple of minutes, as six o’clock draws closer and closer. I think it’s the thought of the night stretching ahead of us, just me and Eve, of all that responsibility. What if I drop her and she hits her head? What if I feed her the wrong thing? What if she falls asleep and doesn’t wake up?
I know I looked after her on that first night at Rick and Jenny’s, but that was different. I didn’t have time to worry about it, I didn’t have a choice. Whereas this time I’ve had all of today to obsess over it, all of yesterday too, ever since Jenny phoned and asked me for the favour.
‘Rick’s driving me mad,’ she’d hissed down the phone, her voice low, as though maybe he was in the next room. I don’t know why she didn’t just go upstairs – their house is big enough. There’s nowhere to have a private conversation in my flat, literally nowhere to go.
‘He’s distraught about his bloody mother, keeps saying he doesn’t know what he’ll do if she dies. I mean, Caro, she’s in her late seventies. He’s got me and Eve. And she’s a miserable old bag anyway, truth be told.’ She’d sighed heavily.
‘Well,’ I’d said, ‘some people are really close to their parents, Jen. And seventies isn’t that old.’ I think of my dad, rotting away in the house in Stowmarket, unable to talk about anything he’s feeling, and my mother, buried six feet under in the local churchyard. Some people, I said. Not everyone. Not me.
‘I know, I know. I suppose it’s because I never have been, I can’t understand it. I’m a bitch, I already know, you don’t have to tell me.’ She gave a little laugh. I gripped the phone more tightly.
‘Anyway, it was lovely to see you the other night. We’re so grateful to you for staying and watching Eve.’
There was a pause, and I knew what was coming.
‘We were wondering – we’ve got to go to the hospital again, tomorrow night, they’re running some tests and Rick wants to be there. I said he should go on his own but – I don’t know, he wants me with him, I guess. Says hospitals freak him out.’ I could almost feel her rolling her eyes down the phone.
‘Is there any way – and do say no if you want to, Caro – that you might take Eve for the night again, babysit her for us? I mean, not for the whole night, of course not, just for a few hours? Say two or three? Maybe an eensy-weensy bit longer?’
I’d hesitated, thinking of that moment alone with her in the bedroom, of the beat of my heart in the darkness.
‘I could bring her over to you!’ she’d said quickly, and I could sense the pleading tone in her voice. ‘She’d be so easy, I promise, I’d make sure she had everything with her, everything she needs, all you’d need to do would be to pop her in the cot and check on her every now and then. You probably wouldn’t even need to change her nappy! Well, not unless it got really bad. I’d bring you wine as a thank you! Good wine, not that cheap stuff we used to drink at uni! What do you say?’
‘OK,’ I’d said, feeling the fizz of excitement go through me even as my stomach began to fill with dread, ‘OK, sure. I’ll do it. I’d like to.’ Immediately, I wondered whether I’d made the right decision, but I pushed the thought away, focused on what Jenny was saying, her gushing words of relief.
‘Amazing! God, you’re a lifesaver. Thank you, Caro. Honestly. Hey, I thought you were really good with her the other night.’
I snorted. ‘I didn’t do anything, Jen – she was asleep the whole time.’
‘Well, I know, but often with new people she gets really agitated, wakes up. It’s as if she can sense them in the house! But she was good as gold, you must have been a calming presence.’
It was the next words that got to me.
‘You’ll make a good mother some day, Caro. You know that, don’t you?’
Those words went round and around in my head for ages.
Anyway, so now I’m sitting watching the clock tick towards six, having a very small glass of red wine as I wait for Jenny and Eve to arrive. I’ll brush my teeth before they get here – I don’t want Jenny to worry. My phone buzzes and I reach for it; ever since the other day I’ve been scared of getting another of those creepy messages, telling me they know what I’m doing. But there’s only been the one.
Speak of the devil.
My family and I are going to France tomorrow. When I get back, I think it’s best we don’t speak any more. Please, stop calling me. Take care of yourself.
My heart gives a giant lurch because it’s him, it’s him in my phone, sending me a cruel little message before he jets off with his wife and daughter. I stare at the words, not quite
believing them. Before I can stop myself, I am typing out a reply, my fingers hitting the keys too hard, making typos because I’m writing so quickly.
I don’t send the reply; I type until I cannot type any more and then I screenshot it all, all the things I want to say to him, and then I delete the text. The cursor blinks at me knowingly. It’s healthy, I think to myself, what I’ve just done is healthy. I’ve written down my feelings, all the things I want to say, but I haven’t inflicted them on anyone else. I haven’t sent the message. Good girl, I think.
I read about that trick in an online therapy thread. Some people said you’re meant to actually write a letter, but surely a text is just as good.
The worst part, though, is his final line: take care of yourself. So patronising. So estranged.
I have been calling him, I think I may as well admit that now. Not a lot. Not as much as that message makes out. But in the last week, the week since I saw Jenny, I have a few times. I think it was seeing her and Rick, and Eve of course. It reminded me of what I’d lost. Or of what I’d never really had. And it reminded me of what he did to me. It made me angry. So I rang him, just a couple of times, usually late at night. He picked up only once, hissed at me down the phone. I was going to tell him about the text message, the threatening one telling me to keep away. But our conversation never really got going.
‘Is your wife there?’ I said, and that was when he hung up. I thought about going round to his house, forcing him to listen to me, though I don’t know quite what I wanted to say. I even thought about taking Eve with me, holding her on my hip, showing him what a good mother I could have been. Anyway, in the end I didn’t do either of those things, I just stared at my phone for a really long time after he’d hung up, reading and re-reading the message that I didn’t send.
There’s a knocking at the door and with a start I realise I’ve lost track of the time – it’s five to six and Jenny is here with Eve. Well, at least it’s a distraction. A focus.
I can’t wait to see Eve.
I get up, and go to open the door, realising too late that I haven’t brushed my teeth. Hopefully she won’t come close enough to smell the wine on my breath. I might have another one once Eve is down to sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
Ipswich
16th August
DS Wildy
The TV appeal went well, is the general feeling in the force, but these things are always a double-edged sword. They got coverage on the BBC and on the local news. Rick wasn’t great, a bit stiff and awkward, and he didn’t look quite as bothered as he should have, he was more on the robotic side, but Jenny Grant’s tearful face generated a lot of coverage, you can’t argue with that, and ever since they’ve been inundated with people thinking they might have seen little Eve. Malaga, one woman said, holding hands with a dark-haired man, but at the same time a teenager thought he’d seen her in Brighton.
‘She’s unlikely to be in both,’ Dave Bolton had said wryly, but they’d agreed to follow up both the sightings anyway, given the circumstances. On the down side, if Caroline’s killer is still out there, the appeal yesterday might have spurred him on. In Alex’s experience, appeals from the relatives either prompt a response from the kidnapper – a reaching out of sorts, or they lead to total silence and almost certain death for the missing person. There aren’t many other ways this thing can go.
Caroline’s flat has been thoroughly dusted by forensics, and the only prints coming up are those of herself, Callum Dillon and Jenny Grant. There are, however, traces of bleach around the surfaces; the kettle has been wiped clean, as has the sink and parts of the floor in the kitchen. Could be normal cleaning, could be someone covering tracks. The prints they have found are not enough – Callum freely admits to being in Caroline’s flat on multiple occasions over the course of their affair, and they know Jenny Grant dropped baby Eve off that night. If there was another intruder, they were very careful about where they put their hands. But Alex’s money for the murder of Caroline is still on Callum. They’ve been granted an extension to hold him in custody for another twenty-four hours, which his lawyer is not happy about, but part of the reason he knows the DCI doesn’t want to let him go is out of concern for Siobhan Dillon’s safety. Eight months ago, the Norfolk police across the border had let a suspect out on bail after a day and a half, and that night he’d strangled his girlfriend. Alex doesn’t like thinking about it. Nobody does.
His wife Joanne had asked him about the Eve Grant case last night; she’d watched the appeal and Alex could see a couple of crumpled up tissues stuffed down the side of the sofa on her side. She’d always been a very empathetic woman, but the idea of someone losing their child was unbearable to her. Alex had gone to sleep wondering if they were, in fact, perversely lucky not to have a child to lose in the first place. And then he’d hated himself for that thought.
Jenny Grant is back in the police station, without her husband this time. She is there voluntarily, claims she cannot bear to sit at home whilst Rick sits listlessly on the sofa, lost in a stupor of grief.
‘Has anyone come forward?’ she is asking one of the duty officers desperately. ‘Has anyone seen the appeal and come to talk to you?’
Alex can see her wringing her hands together, tiny hands, like a bird. Her cardigan hangs off her shoulders; even in the last few days she looks to have lost weight. DS Bolton approaches and puts a hand under her elbow, guiding her towards Interview Room 1, where they can sit down. For some reason, he doesn’t like her – said as much to Alex last night after the appeal went out.
‘There’s something weird about her,’ he’d said, frowning, ‘all that perfect yummy mummy stuff, and then leaving her daughter with someone she barely knows any more, someone she admits she wasn’t that close to. Someone even her husband thought was unstable. It doesn’t sit right with me.’ He’d sighed. ‘I don’t think she did it, clearly she wasn’t there, but I wonder if she’s keeping anything from us. About Callum, or Caroline.’
Alex stares now at Jenny’s fragile frame, the paleness of her skin. He follows his colleague into the interview room, and sits down, his eyes never leaving Jenny’s face.
‘I’m keen to have another chat with her whilst she’s here,’ Dave says under his breath, ‘find out what else she knows.’
Interview with Jenny Grant, 16th August
Ipswich Police Station
Interview Room 1
Present: Jenny Grant, DS Wildy, DS Bolton
16.30 p.m.
DS Wildy: Mrs Grant, what can you tell us about Caroline Harvey’s relationship status at the time of her death on 10th August?
JG: She was single.
DS Wildy: Indeed. And to your knowledge, she had no permanent partner, and hadn’t done for the last few years?
JG: [pause] Not a permanent partner, no. Not to my knowledge. But she had Callum, they were sleeping together. I told her it was unhealthy. That man is a misogynist. He was cruel to her. He might be dangerous. [pause] Detective, how is any of this helping to find my daughter? Do you think he did it?
DS Bolton: Mrs Grant, as you know, there is an extensive search team out looking for Eve as we speak; that investigation has taken up a large part of our resources and what DS Wildy and I are trying to do is establish any kind of motive for the individual who may have taken your daughter and murdered Ms Harvey. We are at present working with the assumption that this was one and the same person.
JG: So you’re saying it was him? Callum Dillon? You think he’s got my daughter? Did someone say that after watching the appeal, did someone see him?
DS Wildy: The appeal has turned up a few lines of enquiry, but nothing concrete so far, I’m afraid. However, there is still time. As for Callum Dillon, he is currently being held in police custody, Mrs Grant, but we are attempting to question him to find out if he knows anything about the whereabouts of Eve. Anything you tell us about him and his relationship to Caroline might help us to form a clearer picture about the sort of man he is.
JG: Have you actually asked him? Have you asked him if he’s got my daughter? [voice rising] I don’t want to sit here talking about him, I want you to ask him! I want you to make him tell you! Whatever he did to Caroline, I don’t understand how it can have had anything to do with my baby. She’s an innocent child. She’s a baby! [wrings her hands again, several times].
DS Bolton: Please, Mrs Grant, we do understand that this is very distressing. But we also do need you to try to answer our questions today as best you can.
JG: [pause, quietly] OK.
DS Wildy: Is it correct that Ms Harvey and Mr Dillon had been conducting a sexual relationship for the past eighteen months, and that you found out about this relationship by accident approximately six months ago?
JG: Yes, that’s right.
DS Wildy: Had you ever met Mr Dillon, or seen him and Caroline together?
JG: [pause] No. I’d never met him. I only knew about their relationship because I’d seen them together one night, round near her flat. I thought I recognised him, so I asked her who he was and she didn’t want to tell me. I got suspicious, and eventually she told me his name. At which point, I looked him up on Facebook and discovered he was married to Siobhan Dillon. And that the reason I recognised him was because I’d seen him in the local paper, some TV thing.
DS Wildy: You looked him up on Facebook?
JG: [pause] Yes.
DS Bolton: Do you make a habit of looking up your friends’ love interests on social media, Mrs Grant?
The Babysitter: From the author of digital bestsellers and psychological crime thrillers like The Girl Next Door comes the most gripping and addictive book of 2020! Page 12
