by Emmy Ellis
And no Kane between them.
Where was he? Already investigating having heard the stones at the window?
She raced down the steps, skidding at the bottom, gripping the newel post to swing herself around.
The living room—empty.
The kitchen—empty.
Ohfuckohfuckohfuck…
Tempted to turn on the lights to see if she just hadn’t seen Kane in her panic, she decided against it, the darkness giving her some kind of protection somehow, as though if she couldn’t see Jez outside, he shouldn’t be allowed to see her silhouette inside through the curtains.
She breathed deep and walked the kitchen pace by pace, slowly, looking intently into every corner. Then the living room. The hallway. Back up the stairs. Into each room, finally ending up in hers.
Her phone screen lit up with that bright rectangular beam again a second before the ringing blasted out. It seemed so loud, so JEZ IS CALLING, and she let out a yelp, lunging for it then jabbing her finger to answer, raising it to her ear.
She ran back downstairs, thinking to escape via the back way, his silence on the other end ominous. She took a deep breath in the hallway, then…
“Time’s up, Char. I’m coming for you.”
TWENTY-TWO
Kane stood in the living room of a house that should have had a teenage daughter in it but didn’t. Debbie Vine hadn’t come home this evening at ten when she usually did, and her parents had called the police at eleven after contacting Debbie’s friends to find out she hadn’t met them at the park as planned—because she was meeting a new boyfriend instead.
The mother, Ursula, hunched on a black suede sofa with a balled-up Kleenex in her fist, her eyes red and puffy, her bottom lip quivering. Her husband, Xavier, sat beside her, pressed close, his arm across her back, fingers curled over the top of her shoulder. A pitiful pair, two people distraught, their guts undoubtedly churning, nerves strung tight, their world crumbling, nothing they could do about it.
Kane sat on the edge of a chair opposite, Alastair standing by the living room door to his left, notebook in hand, instead of Richard, who hadn’t answered his phone when Kane had telephoned him after getting the call from Chief Winter about Debbie going missing. Richard was probably out of it after a date with the bottle. No surprise there.
“Some of these questions may be uncomfortable, and I’m sorry, but I need to ask them.” Kane smiled, sympathetic, and hoped the mother would hold up during the interview. Her mind would be all over the place, full of unsettling images, scenarios no mother wanted to imagine, but he couldn’t not ask.
Standard procedure didn’t give a shit about emotions.
“It’s fine,” Xavier said. “Anything to help.” He bobbed his head several times as though giving extra confirmation.
Kane cleared his throat, glad he didn’t have or want kids. Glad he’d never have to go through this terror. “You’ve said you weren’t aware of Debbie having a boyfriend. Is she the type to have said so?”
“Yes,” Ursula said. “She’s already been going on about Ben—a friend of hers; he’s one of the lads she was meant to be with tonight. She’s had a thing for him…God, got to be coming on two years now. She was going to ask him out this evening. She told us that at dinner, didn’t she, Xav?” She looked at her husband.
He nodded. “She did, so for Ben and the others to say she was meeting a different lad… Well, it doesn’t make sense.”
Kane agreed. “No, it doesn’t. So…do you know exactly what message she sent to her friends or just the gist of it?”
“I’ve got it here.” Ursula picked her phone up from the arm of the sofa and swiped the screen. “One of the girls sent it to me as a screen shot. It was a group chat. Debbie sent the message, then everyone else replied, but Debbie didn’t respond to any of them.”
“Alastair, can you send yourself the screenshot, please,” Kane said.
Alistair stepped forward to take the phone then returned to his spot by the door.
“Who did she send the message to—their full names, please,” Kane asked.
Xavier rattled them off, addresses, too—clearly parents who made sure they knew who their daughter hung out with and where they lived, something they’d undoubtedly done in case such an event as this happened, never thinking it would.
No one ever thought it would.
“Thank you,” Kane said. “What I’m interested in is why she wouldn’t have said goodbye as usual.”
Ursula closed her eyes and shuddered. She opened them again, fresh tears spilling. “I made a joke about her making the tea.” The last two words came out as a wail, going up an octave, and she wedged the tissue to her nose, hand shaking.
“What do you mean by that?” Kane asked.
“She offered to make us a cup of tea,” Xavier supplied. “She’s never done it before, it’s out of the ordinary, and Ursula cracked a quip. You know, like: What are you after? It’s what you say, isn’t it?”
Kane nodded. “How did she react to that?”
“After Ursula pointed out that Deb didn’t even know how to make tea, Deb stomped off upstairs,” Xavier said. “We heard her running a bath, her hair dryer going on. Then she was humming and singing.” He swallowed, closed his eyes briefly, swallowed again. “So we were relieved—she wasn’t that angry if she was singing, was she? We thought she was all right. We thought…”
“Okay. So she didn’t leave angry—although she didn’t speak, she just left. Did you see her leave?”
Xavier shook his head. “No. Just heard the door shut. By the time I got up and went into the hallway to open it, the street was empty.”
Kane nodded absently. “So it’s possible no one else saw her either…”
Ursula let out a choked sob. “Someone must have. Look at how everyone was out there over Mrs Smithson…or gawping out of their windows. One of them will have seen Deb, won’t they? Please say they did.”
Kane couldn’t, and he cringed at what he was about to ask. “This one might be difficult.” He paused. “Do you know whether Debbie was sexually active? I ask because teens and sex…they mistake it for love, and it’s a strong motivator to do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do.”
He waited for the outburst of: No, what a terrible thing to say! What kind of girl do you think she is?
It never came.
“I’m not sure,” Ursula said. “I’d like to say no, but you don’t know with kids these days, do you. The friends she meets with—from what I’ve seen they’re good kids, don’t get into any trouble, so I’d say none of them are experimenting yet. But…this new boyfriend… I just don’t know. And the worst of it is, I wanted to be the sort of mother my child told these things to, knowing she didn’t need to be embarrassed, that I’m here for her no matter what, and if she’s having sex and didn’t tell me… I’ve failed.”
“No, sweetheart,” Xavier said, squeezing her to him. “Kids are secretive. We were, remember? They keep things hidden.” He looked at Kane. “Clearly.”
Normally, in this situation, the questions Kane was asking would fall to uniforms, who would also check the house and garden to see if the missing person was hiding somewhere—or had been hidden—but in light of Mrs Smithson being murdered in the same street, Winter had asked Kane to attend the initial questioning.
The invented letter to Charlotte… The wry thought strolled into his head in heavy size tens that maybe he’d tempted fate—that a second neighbour was possibly now in trouble. Or maybe Debbie had just got caught up with her new boyfriend and was testing the boundaries. The fact her phone wasn’t being answered, though—that bothered him. But it could just be she’d switched it off, rebellious. After all, what her parents and any other adult might think of as a simple joke about the tea could be a massive slight to a teen. Hormones, discovering their identity, searching for who they were meant to be while the younger, more child-like part of them still whispered inside…it was a heavy burden, growing up.
�
�Yes, they do keep things to themselves somewhat,” Kane said. “I’d like to be able to reassure you that she’ll be back, come creeping in soon, hoping you’re asleep, but considering what’s happened recently… I hate to have to add to your upset, but I need you to have full disclosure and require you to keep it to yourselves. We’re trained not to say anything unless absolutely necessary, but I’m not a fan of giving false hope, and with Debbie going missing…” Winter would probably skin him alive for this, but… “Uh, Mrs Smithson didn’t kill herself. She was murdered.”
“Um, sir?” Alistair said.
Kane ignored him.
Ursula groaned, deep and long and soul-wrenching, and the sound reverberated through Kane, seeming to transfer her distress into him. His heart hurt, and he gritted his teeth to stop himself letting out a similar noise.
“We have to consider the fact that someone might…” He couldn’t go on. Shouldn’t have said anything in the first place, could have gouged his eyes out in remorse, but it was too damn late, his words were hanging there, and this couple who had held on to hope now faced the possibility that their daughter was never coming home. Wasn’t it better to face that head-on, though, instead of believing Debbie would waltz in, angry and defiant, saying: So what if I’m late? So. Fucking. What?
That would be preferable, but it didn’t always happen that way.
“Thank you for being honest,” Xavier said. “We…I prefer that.”
Kane blew out a rush of air in relief.
“What happens next?” Ursula whispered, fiddling with the tissue.
“House-to-house is ongoing as we speak. There’s only one officer out there doing that, so bear with us. We’ll let you know of any developments as soon as we can. For now, stay home. Sit tight. Inform me immediately if Debbie makes contact.” He reached across and handed Xavier his card. “If you can give Alistair her mobile number, we’ll run a check, see if we can get a ping on its location—but that can, unfortunately, take some time.” Kane rose. “If you can give Alastair any devices she used—laptop, iPad and the like—we’ll see if we can get anything from them. Instant messages et cetera. Did she have Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat?”
Xavier nodded. “All of them. MeWe as well. We’re on them, too.” He went on to give Alastair Debbie’s screen names for each one.
After establishing there wasn’t a computer the whole family had access to—each member had their own laptop, the parents willing to release theirs as well as Debbie’s—Kane said, “Thank you for your time. And I’m sorry to have given such blunt news.” He turned to Alastair. “If you can get Debbie’s mobile number?”
“Sir.” Alastair handed the phone back to Ursula, who pressed buttons, scrolled again, then gave it back. “The network—which network is she with, Mrs Vine?”
“O2,” she whispered. “Oh God, this is such a nightmare…” She leant into Xavier, burying her face in his chest, her moans and sobs muffled by his patterned navy-blue jumper.
Kane nodded at Xavier and left the room.
Outside, he stared at the sky, wondering why the hell things like this had to happen.
TWENTY-THREE
Charlotte couldn’t bear to open her eyes. She sensed a light was on. The back of her head throbbed. Last she remembered, she’d gone to bed after finishing a glass of wine. She hadn’t had a hangover like this since she’d first met Jez, when they’d been young and cider was the alcohol of choice to get rat-arsed on.
She rolled onto her side, and her skull seemed to tighten, clamping around her brain, squeezing in tandem with her heartbeat. Reaching behind, she touched the sore spot—and found a wet patch. She opened her eyes, brought her hand to her face.
Red coated her fingertips.
What?
She sat, staring at her hand, then peered over her shoulder at the pillow. Red soaked the pristine white pillowcase, a deep, dark patch in the centre, scuffs branching off it where she must have shifted in her sleep.
She jolted.
White pillowcase.
The one she’d fallen asleep on had been dove grey—Kane’s spare bedding was grey.
She bolted out of bed, taking in the room. This wasn’t decorated by a man. This didn’t have black bedside cabinets that matched the black leather headboard. This was the opposite, white, everything so white, and her heart sank, fear creeping in at the edges, laying down its promise that soon, if she didn’t control it, it would overtake her, consume her, and she’d be unable to function.
She was in the place she’d once called home.
Memories flashed, and she remembered.
Jez smashing the glass in the back door of Kane’s kitchen.
Charlotte jumping, screaming, rushing upstairs, into her room.
Slamming the door and turning to twist the key, only to find there wasn’t a lock.
Pressing her back to the door, planting her feet firmly so if he pushed from the other side, she could hold him off.
Her failing, Jez barging his way in, the door scooting her in an arc—damn her fluffy socks—until she faced one end of the mirrored, built-in wardrobes.
Seeing herself from head to toe, eyes wide, mouth apart, the inside a dark circle in her pale face.
Jez peering round the door, his cheek pressed to the edge, staring at her reflection, a grin showcasing their matching teeth.
Her screaming again, praying the neighbours would hear her and call the police.
Him grabbing her hair, twisting it around his hand—Kane did that in the hotel—and dragging her to the bed.
Landing on the mattress, bouncing, then a crack on the back of her head, pain searing, her roar of agony muffled from the covers suffocating her then—
Nothing.
So he’d taken her home, he’d come for her as he’d always promised, and here she was, standing in the bedroom she’d once believed would be their love nest, the place they’d create children, only for it to turn into a mainly sexless relationship and a barren womb, her dreams crushed along with her spirit, her self-confidence, her every-damn-thing.
Anger sent a lance spearing through her, and she choked on the injustices climbing up her throat as words she wanted to spew at him. He had tried to break her, and at one point she’d thought he had, but now she knew different. She’d been isolated, had lived inside the dream he’d planted in her head as a teenager and nurtured until she’d fallen into his web and hadn’t been able to climb out, stuck there, the fly, him spinning her into a cocoon, leaving her trapped, helpless, waiting to be devoured.
Never. She wasn’t the same person anymore. She might still be broken, but she could fix herself, become a new version, one who’d never take another man’s crap, who could stand up for herself and make sure everyone knew she mattered, her life and needs mattered. She’d build new dreams, paper over the cracks of her shattered former self, live a life on her terms, and maybe she wouldn’t ever trust another man or have a baby bloating her belly, but at least she’d be free.
She lunged for the door, then remembered this was Jez she was dealing with. Stealth, silence, and recalling every place the floorboards and stairs creaked was needed, ensuring she made it downstairs without a sound. She headed out of the room into the dark, the air humming with silence. Crept along the landing. Down the first three steps in the centre, a step to the right on the fourth, two steps to the left on the fifth. The centre again for the next few, then near the bottom, jumping over the last one—there wasn’t anywhere she could tread on it where it wouldn’t give her away.
Standing beside the hallway table, she listened, strained to make out where he was. Darkness abounded here, too, except for a thin frame of light around the closed kitchen door. So he was in there, was he, probably having a stiff drink to further bolster his anger—and he would be angry at having to come and get her, to bring her home, where he said she belonged.
She wanted to storm in there, demand to know how he’d found her, insist that he got on with his life without her, that she
’d had a taste of another man—yes, another man, Jez, and he was good, so fucking good, and that burns, doesn’t it?—and a taste of life without him, and she loved it, had experienced a sense of peace wrapped inside the constant fear for the first time in years. That she didn’t need him, she never had—she knew that now, hindsight lighting up her former dreams as stupid, naïve, childish, a flashing neon light, the word FOOL blinking, flickering, then winking out, because she wasn’t a fool, not anymore.
But her venomous, hurtful truths weren’t going to come out of her mouth. Not when escape was within reach.
She edged closer to the front door.
Twisted the key.
Curled her fingers around the handle.
Pressed it down.
Flung the door open.
And shrieked at the sound of the alarm going off.
Shit. Oh God. Oh no. Shit!
She looked back at the kitchen door, panicked, expecting to see him standing there, but he wasn’t, oh thank God, he wasn’t. She turned to face the street, leaping outside, the piercing, wavering note of the siren exacerbating her headache, ratcheting the torture up a notch. She ran, the path gravel digging into her feet, her socks barely any protection, and stubbed her toe on one of those sodding decorative stone balls. She bit back a whine of pain-induced fury, getting to the gate at the same time the alarm silenced.
No. No. He’s by the front door. At the alarm panel. So close. Too close.
Out of breath, adrenaline spiking to the point she battled with vomit clawing its way up to her throat, she wrenched the gate inwards, the hinges silent—there’s that WD40 at work again—cursing as it meant she had to take two steps backwards to enable it to fully open.
He was there. She sensed him behind her a millisecond before he gripped her hair and dragged her in reverse up the path. She opened her mouth to scream, but he clamped his free hand over it, his thumb so close to her nostrils she could barely draw in air. Struggling, she raised her hands above her head then behind, gripping his face, curling her fingertips around the sides of his skull and digging her thumbs into his eyes. The sensation against her skin of round eyeballs and gloop had a smile forming, and she gritted her teeth and dug deeper, pressing to the tune of: You. Fucking. Bastard!
