I stare down at the box.
There is another layer . . . my mind is telling me.
Slowly my fingers ease up the top layer of plastic and put it beside me on the floor. Underneath are a few grubby J-cloths and an oil rag.
I guess maybe Iain has used the box more than I first thought, but I don’t dwell on it.
I don’t dwell on it because my eye is drawn to a tightly wrapped package at the bottom of the box.
CHAPTER 57
CHARLOTTE
Iain’s toolbox sits open beside me, and here in my hands I’m holding this tightly wrapped package that he’s gone to some lengths to hide.
My fingers are trembling.
I don’t know what’s underneath the dirty J-cloth that’s been used to keep whatever is underneath all together.
Hidden.
I turn the package around in my hands so the underside is facing me now, bunched up and secured together with a large elastic band.
I ease my fingers under the band and pull it off. I lay the package down beside me on the floor and peel back the cloth.
What I see, I can’t really make sense of.
Why would Iain have these things?
I pick up the first object that catches my eye. It’s shiny under the strip lights above.
It’s a gold stud earring, I realise, as I turn it over in my hands. In the shape of a small star. The back of it is bent and the butterfly back is missing. Iain really does keep some pointless junk.
I pick up the next object, a ring, a cheap one, like the type you get at a market that leaves a grey ring around your finger after wearing it once. The top of it is dark green. I run my thumb over it and the colour instantly starts to change, a streak of orange appearing. It’s a mood ring, I realise.
Elle used to have one of these. Maybe it’s hers.
I put it to one side, watch the orange fade back to the dark green of before, and stare at the remaining objects:
A woven friendship-style bracelet. Probably Elle’s.
A bead – no – a charm from a bracelet. I pick it up. It’s a skull. On the reverse is a silver hallmark. I’m sure Elle was wearing one like this . . .
There’s a hair clip here too. It’s fancy, with a swirling pattern, curling around in on itself, wisps of hair caught in the join of the metal.
None of this makes sense, especially this other thing.
It’s about three inches long, blue plastic casing with a metal canister sitting inside. My eyes narrow as I read the label.
Salbutamol 100 micrograms.
It’s an asthma inhaler.
Why has Iain got this? None of us has asthma.
I pick up something black, with a shiny face.
It looks like a watch of some sort. A flash of memory spikes in my head then of Kenzie Dalton’s wrist, showing me her new Apple watch . . .
Bile rises in my throat now as I turn my attention to a square of tissue that’s been carefully folded, the edges pressed straight, crisp.
I carefully pick the tissue away.
The dead petals of some kind of pink flower fall away from its wilted stem under my touch.
There’s more.
Out slides a necklace. A delicate silver chain.
It has a four-leaf clover hanging from it, its usual bright-green enamel tarnished. The chain too. It’s covered with something brown, rusty. Residue comes away from it as I pull it through my fingers. I hold it up before my eyes as if I’m seeing things, but I know I’m not.
This is Elle’s necklace.
The one Iain and I got for her sixteenth birthday last year.
And I know that’s not some kind of rust or dirt that coats it.
It’s blood.
Dried blood.
I suck in a sharp breath and my stomach clenches, turning in tight knots inside me because I know in my heart that the blood must be Elle’s.
In this moment, my life as I know it is over.
CHAPTER 58
CHARLOTTE
Think about who you let into our lives, Charlotte . . .
Iain’s words echo through my mind and I fight the urge to scream out loud and not stop until my throat is red raw.
Think about who you let into our lives, Charlotte . . .
I need to act quickly, but I don’t know what to do. What does this all mean exactly? Is he really a killer?
I hear a noise outside now.
I know what it is. A van is pulling up onto the drive. Our van. Iain’s van.
Iain. A murderer . . . I have Elle’s bloodstained necklace, so has he killed her too?
Tears are streaming down my cheeks as I clasp the necklace in my palm so hard that my nails dig into my skin, leaving half-moon shapes scored in the flesh. I feel my heart hammering in my chest and my breath is coming in rapid bursts.
Outside, I hear Iain kill the engine.
I have seconds to move but I’m in bits. What the hell do I do? I see my daughter’s face from the last time I kissed her. My lips brushing her forehead just before she walked out the door.
A sound escapes my mouth that I cannot control. It sounds like an animal, primal, choked, alien, like it didn’t really come from me.
I look down at the collection of objects beside me. Minutes ago they didn’t mean much, but together?
Now I see. I am no longer blind.
This macabre collection represents the lives of these people, all bundled together, hidden away.
Trophies.
These objects have been kept as trophies for a killer’s sick museum, for him to come and look at, to relive all the moments of fear and death in unspeakable acts, and the final moments of each life cruelly taken.
‘Elle . . .’
A choked voice escapes my lips.
I speak her name and I feel numb.
I can hear Iain getting out of the van, his footsteps heading towards the front door. He’s not finished with the van, otherwise he’d have put it in the garage.
With my fingers trembling, I gather the only items of proof I have that the man I married is hiding a terrible secret and shove them back in the toolbox. I replace the top tray, snap the lid closed, and when I hear Iain calling my name from the kitchen, I practically throw the toolbox back on the shelf just in time.
I turn to face him as he opens the internal door to the garage.
It takes all the self-control I have not to hurl myself at him and do my worst.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘I thought you were upstairs. What are you doing in here?’
He dares to question me?
I feel a burning inside me. I imagine flames licking at the insides of my body searching for escape. It feels like I’m fighting to hold myself together, doing all I can not to rip apart at the seams.
‘Charlotte?’ he says. Then the look on my face must hit him because suddenly his amiable expression has changed into a grimace.
‘Are you OK? Charlotte, you look terrible. What’s the matter?’ He’s rushing towards me and instinct makes me raise my hands in defence.
He stops dead in his tracks.
Confused.
If I’m not careful it could turn to suspicion, and then . . . something worse.
‘It’s not Elle, is it? Have you heard something?’ he’s saying, voice panicked, and I can’t hold it together.
I crumble at the mention of her name.
My legs collapse from underneath me. My head fogs and I’m back in the wreckage of the car, the scene of the accident.
Funny how the thought of burning to death in that car now feels preferable to the fires of anguish and searing pain of loss and betrayal that now wrack my body.
The tears come heavier, my face crumpled and red and ugly.
I feel Iain’s body push against my hands, his arms now around me, holding me up, holding me tight.
I let my arms fall away, allowing him to get closer. I feel his breath, soft, getting lost in my hair. He’s trying to soothe me. I can’t make out the words.
; I don’t want to.
Everything is a lie.
He pulls me tighter still as a strangled sob escapes my lips. ‘Oh, Char . . .’ he says, and I open my eyes, search behind him on the shelves.
I see the claw hammer hanging up on its hook.
I imagine reaching for it. I imagine taking all my pain and grief, all that soul-destroying energy, and bashing his skull in until nothing remains but a pulpy mess of blood and the dust of his bones.
My husband is a killer . . .
I think of poor John.
My husband is a killer and he has tried to frame someone else.
What other explanation can there be? Who is Iain really? Has this life – my life – been nothing but a lie in a story he’s woven together as part of his own sick, macabre game?
‘She’ll come back,’ he says. ‘It’ll be all right.’
I think of Ruby. Did he kill her too?
I want to scream at his words. The claw hammer blurs in my vision as a wave of fresh tears stings my eyes.
This man I’ve been with for the last twenty years, I’ve never really known him at all.
He’s holding me closer. One hand is rubbing back and forth across my shoulders, across my back. He speaks soothing words with a tongue of poison.
I cry hot, fat tears into his shoulder now, and my teeth bite down on him through his overalls.
It’s all I can do to stop myself from screaming.
‘Char?’ he says. ‘You’re hurting me.’
This pain inside, I can’t bear it. I struggle to contain it as it tears deeper to my very core.
I bite harder still and now he shoves me away.
‘I said that hurts!’ He’s looking at me like I’m something deranged. He’s looking at me like I’m not his wife. ‘What the hell, Char?’
I hear the cold in his voice then.
He rubs his shoulder. I force myself to choke out a sorry and his face softens a little. ‘I just came back to get some tools I left here,’ he says, eyeing me in a strange way I’m not used to.
I force my eyes not to automatically stray to the shelf.
It’s like I can hear the voices of those girls now, muffled, inside the toolbox. They beg me for help.
I hear Elle . . .
My eyes focus on the shelf, drawn to its contents.
My heart skips a beat when Iain makes his way towards it. His hand hovers near the red-and-black toolbox for what seems like an age before reaching for another plain black one.
He pops open the lid, eyes surveying its contents, and then nods. ‘Need to start keeping this box in the van,’ he says, turning towards me now. ‘You look like you need a lie-down.’
Yet more sleep?
I feel like I’ve spent my whole life with this man with my eyes shut.
They are wide open now.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
I manage a nod of the head. He takes a few steps towards me and I fight the urge not to flee in the opposite direction.
‘You sure?’
‘I’m fine.’
Murderer . . .
I shake my inner voice away.
‘I could stay, look after you. It’s only Mrs Greenford – I can cancel—’
‘No.’ I swallow, my throat dry. ‘We need the money,’ I add.
He smiles then. He knows it’s true.
He raises the toolbox by the handle. ‘I’ll be off then, if you’re sure you’re OK?’ He’s beside me now.
He leans in.
I freeze.
His lips gently brush mine. When I don’t respond, he plants a more forceful kiss on my cheek.
Then he leaves.
I remain rooted to the spot until I hear him get in the van and drive away, and then it’s like my body reanimates itself and I have no control over my actions. I feel like I’m on autopilot.
I grab the toolbox from the shelf and run to the kitchen, leaving the door to the garage swinging in my wake. I pull on my trainers, grab my phone and the car keys, then I’m back in the garage.
I press the fob and the garage door starts to open, and I’m hit with a strong wind racing through the trees that line the street. Pale-pink blossom petals shake free, and flutter to the ground.
I get in the car and put the toolbox on the passenger seat beside me and start the engine. I reverse out of the garage onto the drive and onto the road. I don’t bother to close the garage door.
I have one goal in mind.
I need justice for my Elle, for all of them. I can’t do this alone. I need to be smart. Iain’s stronger than I am. He’d have had that hammer out of my hand before I could have made any real use of it.
I need someone to hear my voice, hear my words, and I can’t do that here.
I need DI Wood.
CHAPTER 59
Rob Miller watched the news report on the TV, staring at the grainy traffic-camera footage of a white van that he knew he recognised, and started to feel sick.
He’d been renting out his garage, which was located in the square forecourt behind the next row of houses; what was kept in the garage was none of his business. He just took the money – four months’ worth, cash in hand, no questions asked.
He’d given the matter little consideration until now.
He’d seen the van a few times, coming and going, when he walked the dog through the garages. Nothing had ever seemed out of the ordinary.
He’d had a spare set of keys cut and now he retrieved them from a drawer. He told himself he was probably mistaken but headed out of the house and walked around to the entrance to the forecourt.
Garage number sixteen.
He unlocked the door, swung it up and sniffed the air. It wasn’t pleasant. He stared at the back of the van.
It certainly looked like the van from the pictures on the television, but he was more concerned about the smell that appeared to be coming from the boot.
CHAPTER 60
CHARLOTTE
Do you ever feel like you’re not in control of your own body? Like someone else has their hands on the controls and your body is just going through the motions?
That’s how I feel right now.
I’m gripping the steering wheel tight, my knuckles white as I cling on. If I don’t concentrate I feel like the car will go out of control, but my head hurts, a sharp, stabbing pain raging across my forehead. A jackhammer burrowing its way through bone.
My vision keeps blurring.
Flashbacks of the accident rise up to the surface. It feels so real, like I’m back there, and I can literally feel the heat of the flames and smell the fuel.
I swerve as I round a bend, momentarily losing control. A horn sounds as a car passes me, and I ease my foot off the accelerator, back to a steady forty. I blink my eyes shut quickly a few times to try and clear the fog.
It’s the shock.
That’s what it is.
I turn and head onto the motorway, the quickest route to the police station, and when I look into the rear-view mirror as I head down the slip road at speed, I see Elle.
Some vision of her, with hollowed-out pits where her eyes should be, mouth open, with soil spilling out down her chest.
I scream, slam on the brakes, and hear the screeching of car tyres and horns as a stream of four, five, six cars swerve around me.
Some part of the real me rises from the fog in my head and I hit the accelerator.
I’m shaking as I realise I nearly caused an accident, a huge pile-up, and I feel the panic rising in my chest.
I’m in no fit state to drive.
*
How I make it here unscathed is a bloody miracle. I see the sign for the police station and I take the turning carefully. My head is still heavy and my tongue feels thick in my mouth.
When I head inside the station, I feel woozy. My vision shimmers a little but I make it to the reception desk window and take deep breaths.
I ask for DI Wood.
CHAPTER 61
‘Maddy?’ Charis
said. ‘A resident from Kennington said he saw the white van pictures we issued to the media with an appeal for witnesses.’
Madeleine walked over to Charis’s desk.
‘He said he’s been renting out his garage and recognised the van from the appeal,’ she continued. ‘He has a spare set of keys, so just went to check the garage, which is in one of them forecourts behind some houses. He said he definitely thought it was the right van but there was an odd smell coming from the boot.’
The rest of the incident room had fallen silent now.
‘Uniform just went round there.’ Her face was pale.
‘The smell?’ Madeleine said.
‘It’s consistent. It’s credible,’ she said, well aware that Madeleine would understand there could be a body in there.
Madeleine’s eyes widened. ‘Is a cordon in place?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get SOCOs there now,’ she said. ‘Who’s he been renting the garage to?’
‘Erm, Guv,’ Alex said from his seat. His eyes were fixed to his computer screen. ‘You might want to take a look at this.’
Everyone gathered around his desk, Madeleine directly behind him.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘I’ve found Elle and Kenzie. They headed down Church Lane. There’s no CCTV or traffic-camera footage down the street itself but someone handed in this dashcam footage.’
He clicked Play and they watched the amateur footage fill the screen.
‘The driver didn’t think anything of it until they realised they’d been on that stretch of road on the day the girls disappeared.’
The footage showed the car turn into Church Lane and head down the narrow road. Soon another car began to emerge, coming into shot in front of the camera as the witness’s car drove closer. This other car was parked over at the side of the road but didn’t have its hazards on.
A girl, clearly recognisable as Kenzie Dalton, had just got into the car, and Elle Monroe was climbing in after her.
‘Can we slow the footage down?’ Madeleine said, sweat beading on her brow as Charis scribbled down the licence-plate number of the car they were getting into.
‘I’ll run the plate,’ Charis said.
‘Wait for it,’ Alex said.
The camera footage showed the witness’s car move over to try and get around the stationary car, which was clearly recognisable as a Ford MPV. As it passed, Alex slowed the footage.
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