Genius. Her heart leapt. That was the solution. If she couldn’t dig, she would take advantage of someone else to do it for her. If she was careful, and lucky, they might build over the body and that would be the end of any worry about being found out. She swiftly climbed the gate.
As she got closer, she heard the hum of traffic, and on the lip of the first rise she could see the road, with two lanes in each direction, bisecting the countryside about half a mile ahead of her. It was one of the new motorways, she realised, the first time she’d seen one. From here she could see the building site more clearly too. It was right against the motorway. They must be building a new access road, or perhaps a petrol station.
It took longer than she thought to get there. She’d had to find a place to cross the little stream at the bottom of the valley, and then fight through a wooded section on the other side. Nervously, she skirted a field with cows in it. Then, quite suddenly, she was at the perimeter of the site. There was a little wire fence – nothing more than a marker really – and beyond it the ground was churned and levelled and cut through with the tracks of the machines. She could see some men working, but they were still quite distant. The part of the side she was approaching seemed deserted. Pushing back tendrils of honeysuckle draping down in the shadow of a tree, she entered the site.
She could see access roads, already sketched out with marker poles and, judging from the compacted state of the ground, already in use by the construction vehicles. The sweep of road nearest had a bend, and around the edges of it was a rough bank of loose earth and stones, presumably kicked up by the passing traffic. That was her answer.
Once again, she took out the trowel. With a final rueful thought at how far this was from the peaceful resting place she’d imagined for the child, she started to dig. This time, the earth did her bidding. The soil was crumbly and loose; the only problem was stopping more loose clumps from tumbling into the hole as she dug it. After a short while she found a way of using the slope of the banking to her advantage, and soon she was making quick progress.
Only when she was absolutely sure that she’d done enough did she stop to open the main part of the bag. Easier though the digging was, she’d still been working for a good fifteen or twenty minutes and she could feel her T-shirt damp with sweat up and down the length of her back. Her upper arms ached, and her fingers too, and when she rocked back on her heels, she found she had to pause for a moment to recover her breathing.
The smell that seeped from the bag as she worked open its drawstring top took her by surprise. She hadn’t noticed any smell this morning, hadn’t expected any now. But the body was two days old, and in a confined space, warm against her back, nature had begun to take its course. It was an earthy smell, pungent, though not yet particularly strong, and it caught her in the gut. As she lifted the thing from the bag, she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking, and in her haste to be rid of it, she dropped it and it rolled a couple of turns to come to rest where she’d intended.
Working as quickly as she could, she scooped the loose earth and rubble back into the cavity she’d made. Gradually, the reddish soil obliterated each trace of the white sheet. She took a few moments to arrange the final layer of clods and stones, to try to make the disturbance as inconspicuous as possible, before roughly wiping the trowel on her jeans and putting it back in the backpack.
She’d done it, and there was a sense of relief, even a grim satisfaction. But she knew too that this wasn’t how it should have been for Mary. Her mind flashed to her dad’s funeral, the impatient horses snorting steam into the morning air and the black-clad huddles round the open grave. There was dignity there, certainly, but that wasn’t what was right for Mary either. Mary ought still to be pink and warm, sticky and gurgling. Mary deserved her life.
August 2017
Helen
Helen was woken abruptly from a sleep she’d thought would never come. There was a dull ache in her head, probably courtesy of the tablets Veena had produced from her handbag after Nelson had dropped his bombshell last night. The blood in her temples was throbbing in time with the ringing on her phone, and she answered the call just to make it stop, without thinking who could be ringing.
It was Kelly Edwards, an old uni friend. She’d just seen the papers and was horrified to learn Barney was missing. She wanted to let Helen know she was there for her. If there was anything she could do …
Helen muttered something incoherent and killed the call. Her phone screen was crammed with missed calls and messages – a dozen or more colleagues and friends. People she’d never been able to make time for since the move to Chiswick, all now wanting to help her. Or, more cynically, wanting a piece of the action.
Helen glanced at her bedside alarm clock. It was almost half past ten in the morning. She was shocked at how Veena’s pills must have knocked her out. Blearily, she reached for her tablet to check what was online. It was the headline story on the BBC website. Man suspected in Harrison abduction case. Below the careful headline, breathless text explained that Simon Gardiner was now the prime suspect in the mysterious disappearance of Barney Harrison. There were links to further articles about the death of Mary Gardiner and the trial of Katherine Clery, about the family that abandoned Clery when she had served her sentence, and about her decades of living under an alias as Barbara Kipling.
Helen flicked between the different sites for a few moments, too dazed to take it in properly, then, almost blindly, she fumbled her way to the stairs. One of the junior officers, DC Hemmings, was stationed by the door. She was in uniform today, presumably for the benefit of the press, and she gave Helen an embarrassed half-smile.
Darren, Neil and Veena were sitting around the kitchen table. They had newspapers spread out in front of them and Helen winced as she caught sight of the front pages. Many of the papers were not as careful in their headlines as the BBC.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked, but they all looked as bewildered as she felt.
‘We’re trying to work out where they’ve got it all from,’ said Veena, with a sigh. ‘It’s not the sort of detail that can be pulled together overnight.’
‘Amy?’ Helen said it almost to herself. ‘But why would she?’
Veena shrugged. ‘We worked out who your friend was, yes. We’re looking into it.’
‘And what about Barney?’ Helen snapped back. ‘Are you any further forward with working out where he is?’
Veena shook her head. ‘I spoke to DI Nelson this morning. The interviewers aren’t getting anything out of Gardiner at all. The DI’s got people searching his house, of course, and looking into any other locations he might have had access to, but so far we’ve come up blank.’
‘Same old story,’ said Darren, bitterly.
‘We’re doing everything, Mr Harrison,’ said Veena. Neil put a hand on Darren’s arm. To Helen’s surprise, he didn’t explode. Even Darren was being worn down.
The doorbell rang. Helen looked at Veena, expectantly.
‘There’s been press all morning,’ she said, not making any movement to get up. ‘We’ve got a couple of extra uniforms in to deal with them.’
But a moment later the young woman from the hallway stuck her head nervously round the door.
‘There’s a Sonia Maguire here, Sergeant – says she’s Mrs Marsden’s sister.’
‘Tell her to wait,’ said Veena. ‘I’ll speak to her in the dining room, find out if it’s a blagger.’
‘No,’ said Neil, speaking for the first time. ‘I want to see her. Tell her to come in here.’
The young officer turned to Veena for approval, and after a pause she nodded her assent. They all waited with eyes on the door for a long few moments.
It was uncanny. Sonia Maguire was Barbara in a different life. The same height and proud, almost stiff, bearing; the same dark eyes and high, rounded cheeks. Although visibly anxious, she also looked healthy, and seeing her standing there was a sharp reminder of how much Barbara had deteriorated over the last few
weeks – probably even months, if Helen thought back. She realised she’d been too preoccupied with her unravelling marriage to really notice.
Despite the similarities between the sisters, though, there would have been no chance of confusing them, even when Barbara had been well. This woman’s hair, though dark like Barbara’s, was cut short. She wore tight jeans, bright lipstick and a top that pushed out her chest.
Neil stood up, pushing his chair back noisily, but then was unable to move any further. The woman stepped towards him.
‘You must be Neil?’ she said, her words wavered slightly, but even those few words were enough to show that warm, confident voice was something else she shared with Barbara.
He nodded, and somehow, they were in each other’s arms, tears streaming down both of their faces.
‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve wanted to meet you.’ Sonia sniffed the words out, hugging, and patting and gazing at Neil as if trying to convince herself he wasn’t an illusion. ‘You meant everything to her, you know, right from the moment she first told me that she’d met someone. You saved her, Neil, you … you …’ She couldn’t finish. He helped her to the table, pulling over another seat.
Gently he introduced Helen and Darren without asking any of the questions that must have been gnawing at him. Darren brought Alys in from where she had been doing jigsaws in the sitting room and Sonia cooed over how pretty she was and brought out her phone to show a picture of one of her own granddaughters who was the same age. Helen felt the ache of Barney’s absence like a knife wound.
‘I had to come,’ she said, eventually. ‘When I read today that the little boy who’s gone missing is her grandson, and it said in the papers she might be dying. They gave the street name too and I suddenly realised I could find you. Katy never told me her address.’ She glanced up at Neil. ‘She never even told me her married name.’
‘I’m not sure that I can blame her.’ Veena stood up from the table as she spoke. ‘From what I’ve heard she came in for some pretty shabby treatment when she came home.’
Sonia’s temper flared dramatically. ‘Well if you lot hadn’t decided to charge her instead of the paedo then she wouldn’t have been in gaol in the first place!’
‘Mr Gardiner was charged, as I understand.’ Veena’s voice remained cool. ‘And when it got to trial, the jury decided that Katy Clery – not Mary’s father – killed Mary Gardiner. I’m sure you’ll appreciate it was well before my time in any event.’ Veena tactfully withdrew to go and check on the officers at the door.
‘We’ve all been trashed in the papers …’ Sonia was telling Neil. ‘I was scared if I didn’t come quickly you wouldn’t let me over the doorstep at all. I do hope they find the little lad, but I suppose if they’ve got Gardiner it’s only a matter of time. We’ve had the little boy in our prayers anyway, before we even knew it was … well, you know …’
She gestured around the table occasionally, or glanced at Helen or Darren in a token of inclusion, but really it was only Neil she was talking to. Why not? Helen thought. They’d lived with each other’s ghosts for decades.
The pictures of Gardiner stared out at her from the front pages. Wild-eyed, with his mouth set either in a snarl or a thin pressed line depending on which shot the editor had chosen, he looked exactly like the monster the press wanted to portray. It didn’t mean anything, she tried to tell herself. It was just about selling papers. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to imagine her son in his hands. She simply couldn’t let herself go there. Not yet.
The talk between Neil and Sonia had turned to going to see Barbara. Neil had planned to visit that morning – would have been there already if Veena hadn’t stopped him to brief him on the press stuff. Sonia wanted to go but was uneasy about how Barbara would react. Neil, with a confidence Helen didn’t share, was trying to persuade her it would be fine.
Helen got up to get a glass of water and some paracetamol and Simon Gardiner’s eyes followed her around the room. On impulse, she turned to Darren.
‘How about taking Alys to the park?’ she asked him.
‘You want some space?’
‘No, no.’ He’d misunderstood her. ‘I mean both of us – go for a walk, try to clear our heads a bit.’
He nodded slowly. ‘What about the cameras?’
‘I’m not sure, but I can’t stay cooped up in here forever. Could you have a word with Veena while I have a quick shower?’
June 1962
Katy
The body in the cot was lifeless and unmoving.
There was no injury to see, but she looked horribly wrong nonetheless. It was her stillness, and a cold tinge just creeping onto the surface of the translucent baby skin at her temples. Perhaps you could have thought she was just sleeping, were it not for the second child lying next to her – her breath catarrh-filled and grunty, her face hot and sweaty in sleep. The contrast of the pair of them together was like the fork in the road; if Simon had only seen sense, if he’d only been able to stop, if only … if only Mary could still be as warm and real as her sister. There had been two twins and now there was one. Mary Gardiner was no more.
‘My God, my God, my God.’ Simon’s hands gripped the cot railing in terror. Katy looked at him, but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes from his child. He was always so controlled, so certain. It frightened her to see him like this.
‘We have to do something,’ she said. ‘Shall I phone for an ambulance?’
‘No!’ Finally he turned to her. ‘Don’t you know what this means? They’ll say it’s murder. I’ll get life for it. God help me, Katy, I might even hang.’
She’d never seen his eyes so wide, his face so panicked.
‘It was an accident. I’ll tell them – the police, anyone!’
He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. ‘And that’ll make it better, will it? That I was here with a little underage tart at the time? I don’t think so!’
‘Simon!’
‘I’m sorry, love, I’m not thinking straight.’ He paused to pull her towards him, but the embrace lasted only an instant before he took her by the shoulders and bent to speak. ‘This is what we have to do. No one at home knows you’ve come here, right?’
Mutely, she nodded.
‘You take Mary. I’ll push the sash open as far as it goes. It’s a warm night; it won’t seem strange. Anyone could have got in, a … a burglar … even a dog or a fox, for God’s sake. Take her and hide her. I’ll go to bed and Etta will wake me when she gets in and realises something is wrong. I’ll find somewhere to bury her.’ His voice started to crumble. ‘I’ll find somewhere peaceful … and good … Oh, my darling Mary.’
He was already rummaging in a chest in the corner of the room. Eventually he produced a thread-worn sheet, laid it on the top of the chest and lifted Mary from the cot, his hands stroking – almost pawing – at her hair and face as he carried her over. Katy hung back a little, uncertain, and watched from the doorway as the father deftly wrapped his daughter’s small body, like a bag of chips being wrapped in newspaper. Fat tears dripped from his face as he worked, soaking into the thin, soft fabric. He gabbled about the woods; not really a woodland but a bit of waste ground by the canal with a few trees where the kids played. She could hide the child there, he said. It would be just until tomorrow, until he could come and bury her.
Katy recoiled when he finally held the thing out towards her. Her heart was thumping and she could taste bile in the back of her throat.
‘Take her,’ Simon urged, thrusting the bundle towards her with outstretched arms. ‘Katy, please, I need you.’
Perhaps that was what made her do it. He’d never needed her before. Wanted her: yes, desperately. Loved her: perhaps, in a way. But now a giddy surge of power rushed through her, propelling her to take the chance – to make him need her, perhaps forever.
She stepped forward and held out her arms.
Almost before she’d got the measure of it – the stone-weight heft of the child and the slipperiness of
the fabric – Simon was hurrying her downstairs and towards the kitchen door. The weight of the bundle was surprising. Katy shifted it in her arms again, worrying that she would trip on the stairs, the way Simon was harrying her. A sweat broke across her forehead.
She would go out the back way, as usual, Simon gabbled. He opened the door, but she paused. A look of exasperation crossed his face and for a moment she was back at junior school and he was her teacher again, professionally irritated by a messy composition or a simple error in a page of sums. But the expression was gone as soon as it had appeared. He bent and kissed the bundle, the sheet where Mary’s head was, and then turned to kiss Katy too.
‘Thank you, love, thank you. You’ll be at practice tomorrow?’
She nodded.
‘We’ll speak then. Stay safe, Katy, and not a word, remember. If they hang me it’ll be on your head.’
She crept out and did what he’d asked – stumbling in the dark to get to the middle of the woods and pushing the bundle into the thorny undergrowth. Even when she pushed it as deep into the bushes as she could, she could still see the white of the sheet in the gaps between the bramble stems, and it would be worse come daylight. She tried again, rolling up her cardigan sleeves to stop the thorns catching on the wool and getting long scratches to her arms for her trouble.
Eventually she turned, sitting on her bottom on the dank mossy ground and edging her feet forward towards the brambles. Her left hand skidded slickly through a patch of fungus as she pushed forward, and she let out a cry, wiping the slime furiously on her skirt. Stretching her legs forward into the undergrowth, she was able to kick with her feet to move it further in, all the time willing herself not to think of what she was actually doing.
Something screeched in the darkness, startling her, and she was disgusted to feel the warm wetness of her pee spreading down the insides of her legs. She was crying properly now, frustration and despair coming out of her in great sobs.
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