by Adam Croft
‘Fine with me,’ she says, turning to make eye contact with the doctor, who nods.
I’m led into the ward by McKenna, who smiles as we reach Tasha’s bed. She’s lying back, her head angled towards the window. It’s starting to look like a bright and sunny day out there. It’s the first time I’ve noticed the weather since Ellie disappeared.
‘Hi,’ I say gently. After a couple of seconds, Tasha moves her head towards me. It’s almost zombie-like, and I swear I can hear her neck creaking as she moves.
‘Nick,’ she whispers, in a deep rasp.
I look at McKenna. That’s a good sign, surely? I realise I’ve found myself pleased that she’s alive and recognises me. This shouldn’t be the case. I should be gutted. Gutted that she survived the attack. Gutted that Ellie isn’t coming back. This whole situation is one enormous mess.
‘How are you?’ I ask, sitting down on the edge of the bed and tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
‘I’ve been better,’ she replies.
‘Did you see who did this to you?’
She shakes her head slowly. ‘It was dark. He came from behind. I don’t remember anything.’
‘The doctor reckons there’s no permanent damage,’ McKenna says. ‘Her cheekbone is fractured and she’ll have a lot of bruising for a while, which’ll hurt. But she’s a tough little cookie, your wife. She’s a fighter.’
‘She certainly is,’ I say, looking at Tasha. ‘She certainly is.’
49
Nick
Once we’re both back from the hospital, I take some time to get Tasha upstairs to bed. She was adamant she didn’t want to stay in hospital, and even the doctors could see there was no point arguing with her. Even after something like that, she’s still headstrong and knows exactly what she wants. And she knows she’s going to get it, too, because she’ll always make sure of it.
She might know what she wants, but she doesn’t always know what she needs. That’s Tasha’s problem. She’s going to need to rest for a few days, at the very least. Not only will it help her to recuperate, but it should give me some breathing space as well.
I can’t help but have massively conflicted emotions. I’m both relieved that the attack didn’t work and angry at the person who did it. Even though I knew it was coming, even though I arranged it, my last-minute change of heart makes me furious at Geoff for having gone through with it after I’d asked him not to. And then to see my wife lying there in that state in the hospital. It’s not something I’d wish on my worst enemy. Knowing that it was all my fault made it a hundred times worse. The guilt was unbearable.
My first instinct is to get round to Alan’s house and fire off a dark web message to Geoff, but I don’t have the faintest idea what I’d say. I want to rip the guy’s throat out, but I know I need to remain calm and collected. I’m pleased, in a way, that I’m a different guy to the one all those years back. I’m glad that I’m a little calmer, a little less likely to snap and make a fool of myself. I’m able to think things through a little more, stop myself from going round there and kicking his fucking head in.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. It’s time to think straight. The deeper I get in, the more I need to focus and think about what I’m doing. It’s not too late. It’s never too late. Back downstairs, I make myself a cup of coffee and sit quietly at the kitchen table. I need to keep some semblance of normality. Something to anchor myself in everyday life and retain some focus.
I can’t go getting the police involved in this. I need to avoid that at all costs. How do you tell the local detectives that you organised for your wife to be murdered, but it’s alright because she only got beaten up? I can’t tell them anything about what’s happened. If I tell them about Jen Hood’s emails now, they’ll want to know why they weren’t told earlier. I’m in far too deep, and there’s nothing I can do but try to get myself out of it without digging myself in any further.
The evidence that I had, the evidence that I could have taken to the police at the start, is now gone. It’s unusable. They’re going to take one look at those emails, link them to the fact that Tasha was the victim of a random violent attack a few days later and start to put two and two together. Why didn’t I just go to them at the start and let them know what had happened? Why didn’t I just show them the email? I know why – because I’m a stubborn bastard who thought he could work his own way out of it. Super Nick to the rescue again. But this time I failed. Big time.
Now I need to find Ellie myself, but where do I start? I’m completely on my own with this one.
The obvious thing to do would be to ask questions. But then I don’t think I’m exactly going to get Jen Hood’s life story or a scan of their driving licence back by return of email. If this person wanted me to know who they were, they would have given me more details by now.
I try to think if there might be some more abstract, out-of-the-box ways to get the information I need. Lateral thinking, they call it. Perhaps lay a few trails, a couple of red herrings. Slip in some false information about me and Tasha and see if they pick up on it.
I try to think back to some of the research I’ve done into personality disorders and the effects they can have on people. Would the kidnapper be a psychopath or a sociopath? Who would want to kidnap a child and demand the mother be killed in return? All I know is that it’s not the sort of person I want to be messing about with.
50
Nick
Having switched on my laptop and opened my web browser, I fight the urge to download Tor and log on to the dark web. A large part of me desperately wants to see if Geoff has been in touch – see what he has to say for himself – but I can’t risk it. That connection now has to be completely severed. Instead, I check my emails.
I don’t know how so many people have found my email address, but there’s a deluge of messages from complete strangers giving me their theories as to what happened to Ellie. Perhaps predictably, a number of them accuse me, Tasha or both of us of killing her and hiding her body. Some of the messages contain the most vile abuse I’ve ever read, but right now that’s washing over me. I know they’re wrong, and soon enough so will they.
Some of the friendlier theories are actually even wackier. A couple are convinced they have evidence of alien spacecraft being in the area on the day Ellie disappeared, some are certain they know where she is through dowsing and looking at ley lines, others that they’ve seen visions in their dreams that reveal Ellie’s location.
I scroll through, reading a few lines of each email, becoming increasingly worried about the mental state of some people in the world. One, though, catches my eye. I read it again more closely.
You should look at Lynda Macauley. I hope you find your daughter.
Below it is an address in Halifax, West Yorkshire. Another crank who wants to frame his neighbour. Great. I fire off what has become my stock response to people who’ve got a suspicion which doesn’t involve aliens or ghosts.
If you have some information which may help, please call Detective Inspector Jane McKenna.
As I hit the ‘Send’ button, the doorbell goes. I look out the front window and see McKenna stood at the door. Nice timing. I head into the hallway and open the door, standing aside to let her through.
‘How’s Tasha?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, she’s okay. Just tired and shaken, I think.’ I’m fine, too, thanks for asking.
‘Probably best she rests. Takes it out of you, something like that,’ she says as she sits down in the living room. ‘You’ll need to keep a close eye on her. Quite often it’s the mental scarring that does the most damage. Can really knock someone’s confidence, something like that. Once she’s feeling better physically, it’s best to get her out the house again. Get back on the horse as quickly as possible.’
‘That’s the plan,’ I say. ‘Funny, isn’t it? How Tasha and I have spent most of our lives living in complete normality, wanting to escape and do something different, and now we’re spending
every waking minute trying to regain normality again.’ McKenna just smiles. ‘I can’t describe how bizarre it feels to be living this sort of nightmare. Unable to live a normal life in your own home.’
‘Being invaded every day by police officers,’ she adds, smiling.
‘Yeah, that too.’ I smile as well. It feels weird.
‘Which reminds me,’ she says. ‘It was Derek who you say saw you last night, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘Why? Don’t tell me he’s denied that, too.’
McKenna smiles. ‘No, he didn’t deny it. He said he saw you. He actually went into great detail about how he saw you rush out of the house after Tasha and skidded to a halt when you saw him watching, and that you then slunk back inside. Why did you do that, Nick?’
I swallow. ‘Do what?’ I ask, not even thinking about what I’m saying.
‘Why did you race after her?’
‘Uh, she forgot something,’ I say.
‘What did she forget?’
‘Hmm?’
‘What did she forget, Nick?’
My brain’s racing at a thousand miles an hour, but going nowhere useful. ‘Her phone,’ I say.
‘Her phone? Is that why Emma couldn’t reach her when she called to find out where she was?’
I feel suddenly relieved. ‘Yeah. Probably.’
‘So why didn’t you hear the phone ringing when Emma called? In fact, why did you try to call Tasha’s phone to find out where she was after Emma called you to say she hadn’t turned up? Surely if you knew she had left her phone at home, you wouldn’t have tried calling her.’
‘I forgot. Force of habit,’ I say, my insides feeling like they’re on fire.
McKenna nods. ‘Right. So the phone’s in the house somewhere is it?’
I shake my head. ‘I dunno. I presume so. Does it matter?’
‘Possibly not,’ she replies. ‘Mind if I have a look for it?’
‘Yeah, I do actually,’ I say. McKenna stops dead in her tracks. ‘Tasha’s only just got out of hospital. I’d really rather you didn’t go around ransacking the house right now. It’s a phone. It can wait.’
McKenna looks at me, a stern look in her eyes. ‘That phone could prove to be important evidence in a case of violent assault on your wife, Nick.’
‘No, it couldn’t. Because she didn’t take it with her to the park, did she? It was here the whole time, so it’s not evidence at all.’
‘Unless you’re somehow mistaken and she did take it with her.’
‘In which case there’s no point searching the house, is there?’ I think that’s what they call having the upper hand. McKenna knows it, too, and changes tack.
‘Don’t you want us to catch the person who did this to Tasha?’
‘Of course I do,’ I reply.
‘Why did you stop when you saw Derek and then go back inside the house? Surely you wouldn’t want Tasha walking through the park without her phone, would you?’ Before I can answer, she’s fired another question at me. ‘Your back door leads through your garden to a footpath, doesn’t it? You can reach Jubilee Park from there. I suppose you could’ve taken that route to give Tasha her phone back, couldn’t you?’
She’s bombarding me with questions. I know exactly what she’s doing, but I can’t stop it and I can’t deal with it. Tasha never used that footpath. She hated it. But I can’t find the words to say that.
‘Well, I—’
‘Which begs the question as to why you didn’t just keep on up the road; why you stopped as soon as you saw Derek. Did you take a route to Jubilee Park which’d make you less likely to be seen?’
‘Can I get a glass of water?’ I ask. ‘I’m feeling really weird.’
I keep my face relatively neutral, but inside I’m screaming.
51
Tasha
The doctors at the hospital didn’t seem to get it. Every time they asked me how I felt, I told them I felt nothing. No, my head didn’t hurt. No, my joints weren’t stiff. Compared to what I’ve been going through over the past few days, any physical pain is completely irrelevant. Bring it on, I say.
I have no idea what happened. All I remember is hearing that single footstep. That’s the weirdest thing. It wasn’t like someone was walking towards me or jumping out from somewhere. Just one footstep. As if they were stood waiting, just inside the shadows, waiting for someone to come past. Waiting for me to come past.
The police asked me in the hospital if I’d had anything with me at the time of the attack. I told them I couldn’t remember, but that I didn’t usually leave the house empty-handed. I couldn’t remember if I had any money on me. Probably not. I don’t think I would have taken a handbag because I was only going over to a friend’s house and wouldn’t have needed any money. Besides which, a woman walking around on her own at night with a handbag becomes a target. They asked me about my phone, but I don’t know. I think I must have taken it with me. It’s not here now, but I don’t care about that. I don’t want to phone anyone. I don’t want anyone phoning me. I just want to curl up and die.
Jane McKenna is downstairs now, but I don’t want to see her. I can hear Nick and her talking, but I can’t work out what they’re saying. I don’t want to, either, unless she’s come to say that they’ve found Ellie.
I know I’m wallowing, and I hate it. It isn’t me. I’m the sort of person who picks myself back up and gets on with things, but it really isn’t that easy right now. I’ve turned the bedroom TV off because it’s full of mind-numbing crap. Don’t get me wrong, my mind definitely needs numbing, but that sort of trash just isn’t distracting enough. I can still hear my thoughts, dark and intrusive. I don’t want to hear them. I want them gone. I need to be able to concentrate on something for just long enough to allow the fog to lift, to not feel as though the whole world has imploded on me. I need a sense of normality.
I groan as I lean over and pick up my laptop bag from beside the bed, my ribs and arm telling me they’re not keen. I landed awkwardly, according to the doctors. I’m not quite sure how I could have landed any less awkwardly; I’m pretty sure I was unconscious before I hit the ground. Either way, my body’s paying for it now.
I unzip the laptop bag and pull the silver machine out, opening it up and switching it on. The welcome noise is reassuring, solid. It’s recognisable. I used to hear it every day, back when things were normal. Back when I had my daughter. Back when everything was just as it should have been. Before my life got turned upside down.
There are one hundred and nine emails in my work inbox. I scroll down the list and see a few that I can imagine are from colleagues offering their best wishes and sympathies on hearing about Ellie going missing. I don’t want to read those, so I stick with opening ones that have blatantly work-related subject lines. Most are just things that I’ve been copied into by my team or by people who like to copy forty names into an email that only needs to be seen by one. Right now, though, I’m grateful for those people. It means I can sit and read what’s been going on, forcing my brain to concentrate on something else without needing to do any actual work. I feel involved. I feel wanted again.
I actually find work incredibly relaxing. So many people find it stressful and need to find ways to relax after work. For me, it’s the other way round. I find it very calming, almost therapeutic. It requires just the right level of brainpower and just the right level of routine. It’s a bit like knitting or painting – you need to be focused, but you also know what you’re doing the whole time. It’s a perfect balance.
Do I feel guilty for opening up my laptop and reading work emails while the police are out searching high and low for my missing daughter? Yes, perhaps a bit, but it does what it needs to do. Some people turn to drink or drugs, I turn to work. I don’t think anyone would begrudge me hitting the bottle in this situation, so the only difference is that my laptop isn’t going to damage my liver.
Strangely, I can feel my headache starting to dissipate as I read through the emails.
One is a thread of twenty-six messages talking about a discrepancy on some accounts. Nothing that even concerns or interests me, but reading through it and having been included on the message makes me feel important again. It sounds strange to say, but it’s true. And just for a few fleeting moments, I’m able to forget everything and pretend – just briefly – that everything is back to the way it was.
52
Nick
McKenna’s gone. She told me – eventually, after watching me squirm – that the CCTV at the end of the footpath, next to the corner shop, shows that I didn’t get that far. She knows I didn’t go to Jubilee Park last night. Somehow, that makes it even worse. She could see that something wasn’t right and she pressed and pressed, watching me wriggle as I tried to answer her questions, knowing the answers to them anyway. I’m pretty sure that’s got to be illegal. There’s a reason why she keeps turning up on her own, asking these probing questions and more or less accusing me of things.
That’s because she knows something isn’t quite right. I think she knows I didn’t attack Tasha. But she’s not stupid. She spends her life talking to people who are trying to hide something from her. She knows I’m hiding something and she’s determined to find out what it is. That’s why she was putting the pressure on, trying to trip me up. All she knows at the moment is what didn’t happen.
I’m still shaking. I’ve downed three pints of water, trying to stop my head from spinning round in circles. I can feel the net closing in on me, and I don’t like it one bit. I’m not going to lie – I’m beginning to panic. I’m starting to get desperate. I need to think clearly. What can she know, where can she be digging and what can she find? I need to start thinking like the police, thinking logically and trying to work out where I can go next.
