by Ben Cheetham
That’s the problem, thought Jake. Lauren liked to play with ‘trouble’, but this wasn’t a game. ‘I found something at the house.’ He held up the book. ‘It’s Rachel Ingham’s diary.’
Lauren’s eyes sprang wide. ‘No way! Have you read it?’
‘Some of it.’
‘Shit, I’d have read it all straight away.’
‘Yeah, well, there’s a lot of stuff going on here. But listen, there’s this one bit about Mary Ingham’s dolls.’ He read the passage aloud, then asked, ‘So what do you reckon? Do you think Mary could have left that doll here?’
‘Sounds a bit far-fetched to me.’
‘What? You mean far-fetched like Satanists performing Black Masses at the Ingham house?’
Lauren pulled a ha-ha face at Jake’s sarcastic tone. ‘Eight-year-old girls like dolls. Even I liked dolls when I was that age.’
‘It doesn’t say Mary liked her dolls, it says she loved them.’
‘Yeah, but that’s just the way girls her age talk. They love butterflies and rainbows and princesses and all that crap.’
Jake lowered his frowning face. The mention of butterflies had brought a vivid image of Erin to his mind.
‘What are you going to do with the diary?’ asked Lauren.
‘I don’t know. Maybe I should ask my mum what she thinks.’
Lauren screwed her face up. ‘That’s a really bad idea.’
Jake gave her a narrow, knowing look. ‘You’re just worried she’ll take it away from me and you won’t get a chance to read it.’
‘I admit it. I want to read it more than anything. It might solve the mystery of who killed Elijah and Rachel Ingham.’
‘Or it might just be a load of crap about teenage romance.’
‘Even if it is, there are still people who’d pay a tonne of money to get their hands on it. I’m talking thousands of pounds.’
Jake’s frown turned into a scowl. ‘Fuck that and fuck you, Lauren. All I care about is finding Erin.’
The depth of his anger took him off guard. The balance of power in their relationship had always been firmly in Lauren’s favour. Basically he followed wherever she led – or at least he had until now. Lauren looked taken aback too. She seemed uncertain how to respond. Jake expected her to give him a mouthful back, but to his surprise she said, ‘I’m sorry. That was a really shitty thing to say.’
‘It’s all right. Forget about it.’
There was a brief awkward silence. As if feeling her way into a new language, Lauren said, ‘Look, Jake, you do what you need to do. I mean, like, you’re right, nothing matters besides finding Erin. But here’s the thing. If Mary Ingham really has got something to do with your sister’s disappearance, why would she risk leaving that doll on your doorstep? Think about it. It doesn’t make any sense.’ An uncharacteristic wobble of emotion came into her voice. ‘And think about this too. She was so traumatised by the murder of her parents that she hasn’t spoken a word since. And how do the small-minded tossers around here treat her? Like a freak. An outcast. If your mum takes that diary to the police, they’ll probably question Mary.’
‘Yeah, so?’
‘So you know what this town’s like. It’ll be around the whole place in five minutes. And five minutes after that, all those same small-minded tossers will have decided Crazy Mary’s guilty. They’ll make her life even worse than the pile of shit it already is. And all because she liked dolls when she was eight. Do you want that on your conscience?’
No, came the resounding answer in Jake’s head. Lauren was right. Mary Ingham had been through so much in her life. If she was wrongly implicated in Erin’s disappearance, maybe it would be the final straw, the thing that finished her off. Middlebury’s inhabitants drove him mad with their narrow-minded, judgemental views. He’d always told himself he was different. But if he ruined what little life Mary had for no good reason, wouldn’t that make him the same as them? Or, even worse, the very thing he claimed to hate most – a hypocrite? Of course it would. And yet, his thoughts kept looping back to the same impossible-to-ignore question. ‘What if she is involved somehow?’
‘She’s not.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You’ve only got to look at her to know that. Tell you what. I know where she lives. Let’s check her house out. And if we see anything dodgy I’ll go to the police myself. Deal?’
Jake mulled Lauren’s words over. ‘All right, but on one condition. We do it my way. If I say no or run or whatever, you do it without argument.’
‘OK, boss.’ There was amusement in Lauren’s voice.
‘I’m not fucking around, Lauren. I mean it.’
‘Chill. No arguing, I promise. So what’s the plan?’
‘I dunno. It’s going to be difficult to get out of the house. I’ll let you know when I think of something.’
Jake tapped the disconnect icon. Engine noise drew him to the window. A police car pulled into the driveway. Inspector Shields and a constable got out. There was no way he could sneak out while they were here. Not that he would have left straight away even if he had the opportunity. There was something he needed to do first. He headed to the airing cupboard. The chick opened its beak and emitted a tiny squeak. Jake tickled its throat. ‘Are you hungry? Let’s get you something to eat.’
When he got downstairs, his mum, grandma and Inspector Shields were gathered around the doll. ‘What made you open the door?’ the inspector asked Amanda.
‘I heard the milkman.’
‘Who’s your milkman?’
Inspector Shields jotted down Amanda’s reply, then looked at Jake. ‘You haven’t touched the doll, have you?’
Jake shook his head.
‘He was in bed when I found this’, Amanda’s mouth curled with revulsion, ‘thing.’
‘Can you think of any reason someone might have left it here?’
‘No.’
‘I think it’s just a sick joke,’ said Cathy.
‘Could be,’ agreed Inspector Shields. His disconcertingly probing eyes focused on Jake again. ‘What do you think, Jake?’
Keeping his mouth shut for fear his nervousness would give him away, Jake shrugged. Inspector Shields squinted at the doll as if scrutinising a suspect. He gave a shake of his head. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever come across anything like it before.’
‘There are some strange people out there,’ said Cathy.
‘No disagreement here.’ Inspector Shields beckoned to a plastic-gloved constable, who came forward and slid the doll into an evidence bag. ‘I’ll have to ask you all to stay away from the porch until Forensics has looked it over. Like you said, Mrs Brooks, it’s probably some idiot’s idea of a joke. But it’s always best to err on the side of caution.’ The inspector’s phone rang. ‘Excuse me a moment.’ He moved away to answer it.
Relieved for the chance to continue on his way before Inspector Shields could ask him anything else, Jake went into the kitchen. As he mixed up some porridge for the chick, he heard his grandma ask, ‘Why? What for?’ There was a challenge in her voice that drew him back to the hallway. She was facing Inspector Shields, one hand resting protectively on Amanda’s shoulder. ‘Has something happened?’
‘All I can tell you is there are some questions that need answering,’ replied the inspector.
‘What questions? And why can’t she answer them here? Why does she need to go to the station?’
‘It’s OK, Mum,’ Amanda said with a sigh. ‘I’ll go.’
‘But you’re so tired, darling. You shouldn’t have to—’
‘Please, Mum. I haven’t got the energy to argue. Just stay here and look after Jake. I won’t be long.’ She glanced at Inspector Shields as if seeking confirmation of this last statement. The inspector’s face gave nothing away.
Amanda looked at Jake, her eyes sad, almost apologetic. Then she followed Inspector Shields to the police car.
DAY 2
6.41 A.M.
Erin! Where are you?’ There was no
reply. But Tom kept calling out, his voice cracking like the twigs under his feet. The searchers had left the open fields behind. All they could see now were trees, trees and more trees. On and on, row after row, straight slim trunks, curving bushy branches, glimpses of brightening sky. It was going to be another beautiful day. Beautiful and awful beyond words. ‘Erin! Erin!’
Tom’s eyes scoured every tree, every undulation in the needle-blanketed forest floor. His temples pounded with the fear that he might miss some vital detail – a shred of clothing, a sweetie wrapper, a hair . . . For the first time in years, he silently prayed. Oh, God, please let me find something. Anything! No, not anything, he corrected himself. Not blood. Not a body. He stabbed his stick at the ground as if trying to bully it into giving up a secret. A branch scratched his face. And suddenly he was beating the tree it was attached to, senselessly spitting expletives. ‘Fucking bastard! Fucking, sodding . . .’
He whirled around at a touch on his shoulder, lost in unreasoning rage, ready to lash out. He found himself glaring into eyes as regular and steady as the seasons – Graham’s eyes. Tom heaved a breath. Glancing at the other searchers’ sympathetic faces, he made a sharp forward motion. ‘Keep going. Keep going.’
As they continued their painfully slow progress, Henry gestured for Tom to hang back. He produced a fat brown envelope. ‘I didn’t want to give you this in front of everyone.’
Tom frowned at the envelope as if unsure whether to take it. With a begrudging nod of thanks, he accepted it and thrust it into his pocket.
‘We can discuss the terms of repayment after this is over,’ said Henry.
Tom looked at him as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears. ‘You don’t have to worry, Henry. I’ll pay back every penny, plus interest.’
‘I don’t want the money back.’
‘Then what do you want?’
‘Like I said, we can come to an agreement on that later.’
Henry turned away and resumed the search. Tom stared after him with an expression that seemed to suggest he’d just sold his soul. He could guess all too easily what Henry wanted – more control over the lives of Amanda and the kids.
Sergeant Dyer and several constables approached and gestured for everyone to halt. ‘Can I have a word, Mr Jackson?’
Tom’s heart was suddenly beating so fast it almost snatched his breath away. ‘Have you found something?’
‘No. Inspector Shields needs to talk to you.’
‘Where is he?’
‘At the station.’
Tom shook his head. ‘If he wants to talk, he can get his arse out here this time.’
‘What’s going on, Sergeant?’ asked Henry, approaching with Eddie at his heels.
Sergeant Dyer raised his hand, palm outward. ‘Please, if I could just speak to Mr Jackson alone for a moment.’
‘They want me to go to the station again,’ said Tom. ‘But I’m not going. Not unless there’s a bloody good reason.’
‘I assure you there is a good reason, Mr Jackson.’
‘Which is?’
‘Inspector Shields will explain when you get to the station. Look, we’re wasting time and that’s the most precious thing we’ve got right now.’
Tom chewed on Sergeant Dyer’s words. For an instant he seemed to hear the ticking of the living-room clock echoing in his head, relentless, taunting. ‘All right.’ He jerked his head for the sergeant to lead the way.
Sergeant Dyer indicated one of his constables. ‘Constable Hutton will take you.’
Tom followed the constable in the direction of the Hexham Road. Behind him a dog barked. Glancing back, he saw something that stopped him dead. Sergeant Dyer was drawing Graham out of the line. The other constables were standing at his brother’s shoulders. Bob barked again, disturbed by their proximity. Graham reached down to shush the sheepdog. Tom’s face knotted. ‘What do they want to talk to my brother for?’
‘No idea,’ replied Constable Hutton.
Tom darted her a dubious look. He knew bullshit when he smelled it. He started back in the direction he’d come from.
‘Mr Jackson,’ Constable Hutton called after him, ‘we don’t have time for this.’
He ignored her. The question was pounding against his head like a fist. He repeated it as he neared Sergeant Dyer. ‘What do you want to talk to my brother for?’
‘This isn’t the place for this conversation, Mr Jackson. As I said, Inspector Shields will explain—’
‘No,’ Tom cut in. ‘I want to know right now.’ His gaze moved to his brother. ‘What’s going on, Graham?’
‘I don’t know.’ As Graham spoke, his eyes fell away from Tom’s. It was only for a fleeting instant, but it was enough.
‘Bollocks, you don’t!’
Bob bared his teeth and growled at Tom’s raised voice. Graham patted his head and shushed him again.
‘Tell me the truth, Graham.’ Tom’s hand shot out to grab his brother’s shirt collar. Bob snapped at Tom’s ankle, catching the hem of his jeans and dragging him off balance. Tom twisted his hand into the collar as his brother tried to yank himself free. Both men staggered and struggled to keep their balance.
The constables seized Tom, forcibly separating him from Graham and the sheepdog. He tried to elbow them away, but they twisted his arms up behind his back and thrust him to the ground.
Eddie ran over, fists clenched. ‘Get your hands off him.’
‘Leave it, Eddie,’ gasped Tom, ceasing to struggle.
The constables lifted him to his feet. ‘If they let go, are you going to behave yourself?’ asked Sergeant Dyer.
Tom nodded. The constables stepped away just far enough that they could easily grab him if he went for his brother again. Tom stared at Graham, his eyes hard with promise. ‘You and I are going to talk later.’ He turned and stalked back to Constable Hutton. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Graham being escorted in the same direction about a hundred metres behind. After the best part of a mile, they emerged from the trees at the Hexham Road. The verges were lined with emergency service vehicles. A slow-moving single line of traffic passed between them. Constable Hutton guided Tom to the back seat of a police car. Another constable held up the traffic and waved them through. Journalists peered curiously into the car as it passed. The local news camera crew had been joined by a gaggle of reporters from national organisations. As cameras flashed, Tom resisted an urge to lower his head as if he’d done something wrong.
Once they’d run the gauntlet of journalists, Constable Hutton switched on the sirens and put her foot down. Tom stared restlessly out of the window. Graham had lied to him. He felt certain of it. But why? What possible reason could he have? They’d barely spoken for months. Their relationship was almost non-existent. He took a slow breath, trying to quieten his mind. But the questions continued to loop round and round. One possibility occurred to him – a possibility so ridiculous, so far-fetched that he immediately tried to dismiss it. But the thought lingered like the bitter aftertaste of vomit.
When they reached the police station, Tom jumped out of the car and rushed into the reception area. ‘Tell Inspector Shields that Tom Jackson’s here,’ he said impatiently to the receptionist.
A second police car pulled up. Graham got out, but didn’t enter the station. The brothers locked eyes through the glass doors. ‘Mr Jackson.’ Tom turned at Inspector Shields’s voice. ‘This way, please.’ The inspector gestured for the constables to bring Graham too.
Following Inspector Shields along a corridor, Tom began, ‘Just what the hell—’ His throat closed on the words as he saw something – or rather, someone – through an open door. Amanda was sitting in an interview room, her eyes lowered, her shoulders slumped. She looked up and her face came alive with uncertainty. ‘Tom.’ She rose and stepped hesitantly towards him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘They haven’t told me yet.’ Tom’s voice vibrated with the possibility – the ridiculous, far-fetched possibility. ‘Graham’s here too.’
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‘Graham,’ Amanda echoed hollowly, her eyes flitting past Tom.
Tom twisted to look at his brother too. His eyes swam back and forth between Graham and Amanda like a panicked fish. Graham was staring at Amanda as if Tom didn’t exist. Amanda had paled right down to her lips. Oh, Christ, thought Tom, sweat breaking out all over his body, it can’t be true. Can it?
‘I don’t feel . . .’ said Amanda, fading off hoarsely. Her eyes rolled back, her knees buckled and she collapsed like an accordion.
‘Amanda!’ Tom dropped to his knees and cradled her head.
Graham rushed forward and stooped over her. Tom thrust a hand at him. ‘Get away from my wife.’ Voice rising with emphasis, he repeated, ‘My wife!’
Inspector Shields gestured at Graham, then the interview room. ‘Get him in there.’
A constable hustled Graham into the room and shut the door. Constable Hutton felt for Amanda’s pulse and listened to her breathing. ‘I think she’s fainted.’
‘Let’s get her to a sofa.’
Amanda was carried into an office. Perching beside her on a hard sofa, Tom squeezed her hands and said her name. Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. A constable appeared with a first-aid box, dug out smelling salts and wafted them under her nose. This time her eyes popped open. She looked around as if she didn’t remember what had happened or where she was. Seeing Tom, it all seemed to come rushing back. Her features crumpled and she twisted away from him.
‘Look at me, Amanda.’ Tom’s voice was a whirlpool of conflicting emotions – concern, anger, bewilderment. She pressed her face into the sofa. ‘Look at me,’ he repeated, anger gaining the upper hand.
‘I think it would be best if you gave your wife some breathing room,’ said Inspector Shields.
‘And I think you should stay out of this,’ retorted Tom. ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘I disagree. It’s very much my business. Now please move away from your wife.’ The inspector’s voice was calm as always, but there was a warning in it.
Tom reluctantly stood and paced across the room. Inspector Shields took his place. ‘Amanda, can you hear me?’
She nodded without turning to look at the inspector.
