‘Maybe the killer is younger than we first thought?’ Alex said. ‘We’ve got him in his mid-thirties to late-forties, typically. Maybe this killer is a fair bit younger?’
‘That might explain the zero-to-sixty theory,’ Charis said.
A fledgling killer.
The thought terrified Madeleine more than she was keen to let on
From the looks on the faces of her team, it was clear she wasn’t the only one.
CHAPTER 18
CHARLOTTE
I was done butting heads with both of them: Iain and Elle. In the end I’d agreed she could go to that party. I dropped her off earlier and made her promise to call me once she was ready to leave and I didn’t care how late it was.
Thoughts had naturally been drawn to Caroline White. My mind making comparisons, but I had to move past that.
I’ve been home thirty minutes since I dropped Elle off and the first thing I did was open the laptop.
I have the page open on an app that can trace mobile phones if they’re switched on and have mobile data working.
Elle doesn’t know I put it on her phone.
I feel bad about this but I set it up when she was in the shower. There’s no icon on her main wallpaper and, given that she seems to have hundreds of other apps and games, I’m hoping this little icon goes unnoticed among the rest. It certainly looks inconspicuous enough.
I stare at the screen in front of me. A map of the area reveals a small green dot, static on a residential road about a mile from here.
I breathe out slowly. I know this is intrusive, but I can’t help it.
I need Iain’s advice on this. I tried calling him earlier but got his voicemail. I find his number on my mobile and call again. The phone rings and rings. It cuts to voicemail. I hang up without leaving a message.
I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall. Iain had said he was on yet another late job. He says it’s good because he can charge double the call-out fee but I’m not convinced. I think he’s avoiding being alone with me as well as speaking to me whenever I call him.
I’ve not mentioned that I met up with John but he knows something’s not right. I must get better at hiding what I’m thinking, at stopping my emotions from showing all over my face.
You’d be a shit poker player. That’s what Iain always says to me.
My mobile pings.
I unlock the screen and see a text from John.
Have you spoken any more to Ruth about the investigation? I hear she’s been meeting up with Bryony Keats’s mother. Hope to see you soon. J xxx
It dawns on me that John lives in the same village as Bryony. I guess it’s not unreasonable that he has an interest in this.
My phone pings again.
Wish we could do more.
I frown at this.
I leave my phone, shut down the laptop and, on my way upstairs, grab the newspaper I bought earlier from the hallway, then head to my bedroom.
I switch on the small TV that sits on a chest of drawers at one end of the room, flick it to the twenty-four-hour news channel.
Something unrelated pops up on the screen but I’m happy not to have to sit in silence as I get the box from the bottom of the wardrobe.
I still feel a sense of dread and sadness when I remove the lid and see the newspaper cuttings I’ve collected.
I open the newspaper lying beside me, and see Bryony Keats’s face looking back at me.
How can I sit here and do nothing? It doesn’t feel right. Elle went missing once, right after my accident. All I wanted was for people to be out there looking for her. I posted Facebook post after post, begging for it to be shared and shared, anything to get the word out; bring my baby home to me.
I hear a voice coming from the TV and it sounds familiar. I look up and see Ruth. She’s at a press conference sitting alongside a woman who I already know to be Bryony’s mother. This must’ve been broadcast earlier. Ruth must have changed her mind about doing these public media appeals.
Ruth’s telling the cameras – telling the abductor – to let Bryony go.
I see the tears falling from Bryony’s mother’s eyes, too choked to speak herself.
It’s all I can bear.
I slam the lid shut on the cardboard box, shove it back inside the wardrobe and head downstairs.
I glance at my watch. Elle’s not due to call for another three hours. I set the ringer on my mobile up high and I know this will be an anxious wait.
CHAPTER 19
ANON
It’s Friday and all has been fairly quiet. Quite boring really. The media have scaled back their coverage around the village, although the sneaky fucks try to blend in and get the locals talking.
They really do stand out, though, no matter how hard they try. Pathetic really.
Still, it doesn’t stop me reading the crap they write.
I picked up a national newspaper this morning. I have it here now, laid out across my lap.
I see Bryony Keats’s picture on the second page.
That smarts a bit, I don’t mind admitting.
She’s obviously not quite as newsworthy as some slut who shagged a married Z-list celebrity.
I’m starting to think I should’ve left her on the wasteland after all.
She’s been OK where I buried her but there comes a point where I feel I should help move things along a bit. I’m getting itchy feet, I guess.
Speaking of feet . . . I can’t feel mine.
It’s another cold night. It’s May, for fuck’s sake, and I’m freezing my bollocks off in the van.
I’m bored to hell too. I can’t go back home, though. Not yet.
There’s little light out this way. It’s all quiet country lanes and what few houses there are are spread out, windows covered by thick curtains, not allowing much hazy yellow light to creep around them.
That’s the problem with trying to remain unseen like this; with the van’s headlights and interior lights off so nobody can see me should I drive past anyone, it also means that I can hardly see a fucking thing either.
There’s black and there’s this black.
Bleak and dead.
My eyes are struggling to adjust to it. It’s hard to make out basic shapes.
Christ, it’s cold. Even with the heating on it does little to encourage warmth into my bones.
I could hum to myself and pass the time.
I do that often. Ring-a-ring o’ roses . . . Do you remember that nursery rhyme? The one mothers sing to their babies? It’s the only one I ever liked, after I found out it might have its origins in the horrors of the plague; boils and sick and blood and death.
Ring-a-ring o’ roses,
A pocket full of posies,
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
We all fall . . . we all fall . . . we all fall . . . down.
I drive the rest of the way to Pineway Lodges in silence with dark thoughts stirring in my head.
I arrive and waste no time in lining the back of the van with more plastic tarp and take the rest to the garden, retrieving the spade en route.
I find Bryony and shine a torch on her face before I begin to dig her out.
CHAPTER 20
CHARLOTTE
I sit on the sofa, eyelids drooping as I try to stay awake to watch the news. I want to see if there have been any new developments in the investigation.
Elle had called me almost exactly when she said she would. I’d picked her up from the party, no hassle, which was a relief. She went straight up to bed when we got back.
I said I wanted to stay and tidy up a little, but I could tell by Elle’s face that she didn’t believe me.
I can barely keep my eyes open now. Everything just seems to ache and all I want is my bed.
I think of the Diazepam in Iain’s drawer in the bedroom, but dismiss the thought, file it away in the back of my mind, but it won’t completely go away.
I look at the clock on the living room wall. It’s late and I pick up my phone, about to
send Iain a text, when I hear the van pull up on the drive.
I get up from the sofa and go to the window. I peel back the curtain and watch him reversing the van into the garage.
I head through the kitchen and open the door in the utility room that leads to the garage.
I frown when I see the thick mud on the wheels, and the line of tyre imprints left on the concrete.
Guess who’s not clearing that up, I think to myself.
Iain gets out of the van but doesn’t see me standing here. He goes to the rear of the van to put something inside, then lock up.
He must feel my eyes on him, because he turns around, genuine surprise when he clocks me.
‘Jesus, Charlotte,’ he says, clasping his chest. ‘I didn’t know you were there.’
He smiles.
I don’t.
‘I’ve tried calling you a few times. Where have you been?’
His eyes narrow as he takes me in. ‘I already told you. On a job.’
‘This late?’
‘Double pay, babe, remember?’ He walks towards me. ‘Anything wrong? Elle’s back OK?’
I nod.
‘Did you pick her up?’
I nod.
‘And you? What did you do this evening?’
I can’t tell him I’ve been checking the news channels. He wouldn’t understand.
I shrug. ‘I fell asleep on the sofa.’ I smile as he comes closer to me. ‘I’ve not long since woken up.’
‘Why were you calling?’ he says and checks his mobile.
I see he clears his Call Log. His eyes are then back on mine.
I shrug. ‘No real reason.’ I stand on tiptoes to kiss him. ‘Just missed you, I guess.’
PART TWO
I see his face, innocent and pure.
He has something in his hand.
He holds the squashed and wilting petals and stems of wildflower gems.
And they look like rubies.
Rubies and blood.
CHAPTER 21
CHARLOTTE
When I had my accident, I knew it’d change me. For the better, I hoped, but now I’m not so sure. I feel more anxious, paranoid, and I overthink things.
I mean, we let Elle go to that party and nothing bad happened.
Obviously, I’m relieved, but Iain thinks I was blowing it all out of proportion, making something out of nothing.
We haven’t heard from Ruby Tate either and I think she must have finally given up her campaign of hate, but even that hasn’t helped reduce my anxiety.
The swimming gala passed without incident and I managed to get through it, despite the closeness to the water.
Elle’s birthday was a week ago and it was celebrated quietly at home, just the three of us. I made a special dinner, Elle’s favourite, and she seemed content, but made sure we were still going to rearrange her party. Elle’s friends Kenzie and Jade came over in the evening and Savannah popped in the next day. Things seemed calmer and I felt like I could genuinely smile again, but rather than back me, Iain said I’d been overreacting and we could’ve done without losing our deposit for the DJ and gone ahead with the party as originally planned.
Overreacting?
OK, maybe I am – was – but I keep reminding myself that it’s only natural after all that’s been going on around the county. Is it any wonder that I’d be cautious? Truth be told, I’ve felt exhausted with the worry. The police still haven’t any suspects. There have been numerous house-to-house visits in the last two weeks but little else.
Every van was being looked at in the villages, or so I’d heard. Iain’s was, as well as Jason’s. Harry and Dale’s too.
I know John got a visit, because he texted me about it afterwards. The police had kept asking him what vehicles he had access to.
It’d all got a bit much for him, he said, but I couldn’t be there for him and I think he resents me a little. I’ve been trying to balance being a good friend to Ruth and Mike but also with spend time with Elle.
I’m grateful for John’s support since my accident but I’m starting to worry he’s expecting something in return.
He asked me again what he could get Elle for her birthday since he’d missed it. I said I’d let him know and that it could wait until we had rescheduled her party.
I also told him I needed a bit of respite from discussing Paul Selby’s trial so I could concentrate on the charity fete.
That was two days ago.
So far, I’ve not heard from him and today’s the big day and I’m a little worried he’ll turn up. I told him he was most welcome to come along but I don’t want there to be any scene between him and Iain.
I head outside and stare at the green ahead. The weather is fine today; sunny, if a bit chilly when the wind picks up, but otherwise we’ve been lucky the rain from the last few days has finally cleared.
Savannah and I have set up raffles, games, and managed to get local businesses to donate prizes, as well as food and drink. We have entertainers, face painting and craft for the kids– all these people either volunteers or local businesses who are donating their time to provide these for free.
I’m feeling quite proud of our achievements, bringing this all together and I hope it’s going to be a good day.
I see a large van pull into the street further up the road and it does set me on edge when I see a man with a video camera. The media has got wind of this and there are a few journalists covering the event. It’s a double-edged sword really. While it helps keep this in the news, in people’s minds, they can be pushy and it does feel a little intrusive, which is why I said the families of the victims and of missing Bryony Keats wouldn’t be here, although they fully support what we’ve organised.
Iain doesn’t think a representative from the police will come. I’m optimistic. I think it would go a long way to keep people feeling safer and show support.
If they come, that’s great, but I know it’s an ask, resources stretched as they are.
I see more people starting to arrive and I head on over to the food tent to help Mrs Clark from two streets away unwrap some of the platters of buffet food when I sense someone close to me.
I’m relieved when I look up and see Savannah.
‘I am so sorry. I’m a bit late,’ she says and drapes an arm around my shoulder, pulling me in for a hug.
‘It’s OK.’
She steps back and I see her makeup is a little overdone for something like this.
I dab at my own foundation near my nose and hope it’s perfect. I untuck my hair from behind one ear in case it’s not, let it fall around my cheek.
She nods towards the van up the road, the man with the camera setting up. ‘It’s them lot. Traffic was so bad.’
‘It’s OK, I think we’re pretty much good to go here.’
I see a small plastic bag in her hand, with something inside it, and she sees me looking. ‘Oh, I know I got Elle some makeup for her birthday already but I saw something else I thought she might like.’ She looks behind her. ‘Is she around?’
I look over Savannah’s shoulder and spot Elle. She’s standing with Jason near the kids’ entertainment.
Jason is leaning in close to her, showing her something on his phone, and she’s smiling, tucking her hair behind her ear.
Jason had been asking me what he could get for Elle’s birthday too. I know he has no designs on Elle, but I also know anything he does do for her, even in its most innocent and platonic way, she might read too much into it.
‘She’s with Jason,’ I say to Savannah, and she follows my line of vision.
‘Oh, I’ll leave this inside the house.’
I look at her and she gestures to the bag.
‘If that’s OK?’
I nod. ‘Door’s open to the garage. Just leave it on the kitchen table.’
I see that Mrs Clark has disappeared so I busy myself with uncovering more platters of food when I feel someone approach me.
‘Feeling better?’
&nbs
p; Ah, Harry . . .
I look up and see his beady eyes staring at me. He’s trying to act indifferent but I can see he’s pissed off with me. Dale’s standing beside him necking something alcoholic.
In the last two weeks I’ve missed two shifts at work because I’ve not felt well, and Tuesday I’d turned up late, although I’m not sure where the time went that day, but it is what it is.
It hasn’t gone down well.
‘This must’ve taken you a lot of planning,’ Harry says. He is attempting a smile but he looks like he has a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘What you’re hoping to achieve from this, though, I’m not entirely sure.’
‘It’s better than sitting doing nothing,’ I say.
‘I think it’s awesome,’ Dale says. ‘It brings everyone together and there are some sick prizes in the raffle.’
I smile at him even if he hasn’t quite got the point of this whole thing.
Harry is eyeing him with some disdain.
‘Need a hand?’ Dale says, putting his drink down on the table beside us and beginning to pull foil off a platter of sandwiches.
Harry just stands there.
Dale gives me a look and says, ‘Dad, why don’t you get us some raffle tickets?’
From the corner of my eye, I see Harry frown, but rather than help us, he nods and heads towards the far side of the green.
Dale stops what he’s doing. ‘Charlotte, can I talk to you a minute?’
I straighten myself up. ‘Sounds serious.’
Dale’s cheeks are suddenly flushed. ‘I know you’ve had a lot going on but watch your sick days . . . I wanted to give you the heads up.’
I stare at him.
He shifts on his feet, uncomfortable.
‘My sick days?’
‘I really like you, Charlotte. You’re great to work with but Dad’s, well . . . he’s not the most understanding of people.’
I stare at him. ‘Thanks . . . I guess.’
I resume what I was doing but he’s still standing beside me looking awkward. I look at him and he’s started to fidget. ‘You all right, Dale?’
‘Ah . . . not really. I mean, I’m fine but, well . . .’
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