The Survivors

by Jane Harper

  Pendlebury turned back to the screen. Bronte’s parents were both staring at the table.

  ‘We believe these two items belonged to Bronte Laidler,’ Pendlebury said. ‘We have not been able to trace them, and believe they may have been discarded locally. We are asking you to check your properties, your bins, your sheds, your gardens, your walking trails. Anywhere that these items could have been disposed of hastily.’

  There was a muted muttering at that, which Pendlebury chose to ignore. But Kieran guessed she knew it as well as every person in that room. To get rid of something in Evelyn Bay, all you had to do was step out of your back door and there were a million litres of water waiting to take it off your hands. Although – Kieran couldn’t help but glance at Trish Birch – not always. Sometimes things came back, apparently.

  Pendlebury pointed out some distinct features of both the camera and laptop, leaving the pictures up for the TV cameraman to get his shot while the journalist scribbled the details. She repeated the hotline number, tapped the keyboard once more, and the images of Bronte returned.

  She made eye contact with Renn, and they both looked at the Laidlers. Pendlebury leaned in and exchanged a few whispered words with them, then straightened.

  ‘Bronte’s parents, Nick and Andrea, will now make a statement. They will not be taking any questions tonight. Please direct queries or information to me or to Sergeant Renn afterwards.’

  Pendlebury passed the microphone to Bronte’s parents, who were getting to their feet. They stood straight-backed and grim-faced in their sharp suits, Bronte’s father handling the microphone with more ease than either Renn or Pendlebury had. He was wearing a tie, which made it the only one in the room.

  Kieran looked at them standing side by side in the library’s tired function room, in front of photos of their late daughter. They looked out of place, he thought. Quite literally, as though they didn’t belong here. This wasn’t their life, he could almost see them thinking. This wasn’t happening to them.

  Nick Laidler put his phone on the table and tapped the screen once. His head was bowed and he took a deep breath before looking up.

  ‘Bronte was our only child,’ he said. His volume was perfectly calibrated for the microphone and the size of the room, and he spoke with the clear measured pace of someone used to addressing groups. He referred briefly to the notes on his phone. ‘She was a joyous, much-loved little girl who grew into a beautiful, talented woman. Bronte was a keen artist and a friend to many. She was –’

  Nick paused as his wife suddenly reached out and lightly touched her fingers to his suit sleeve. He glanced down at her hand then up at her face. Andrea Laidler had been standing perfectly still as her husband spoke, but her eyes had been moving. She was looking, Kieran realised now, at every face in the crowd in turn. At one, then the next, then the next, then the next.

  She turned towards her husband and beckoned for him to pass her the microphone. Kieran saw Pendlebury and Renn exchange a look.

  Nick lowered his head and whispered something to his wife. Her reply was inaudible as she motioned again for the microphone. This time he passed it over, then slid his phone along the table so she could read the notes.

  Andrea ignored it. She raised the microphone with the practised movement of someone also accustomed to public speaking. She fixed her eyes on the crowd.

  ‘Who did this?’

  Bronte’s mother’s words cut through the air. She waited. No-one made a sound. Her gaze continued its slow crawl. Every single person was staring back, but Kieran saw more than one drop their eyes as the woman turned their way.

  ‘Who did this?’ she said again. Her husband reached out and tapped the screen of his phone firmly, turning it squarely in front of her, but Andrea stayed focused on the room, her scrutiny clear and cold.

  Kieran knew he couldn’t have been the only one expecting tearful, wet, messy grief. He could feel the atmosphere thicken as he and everyone else scrambled to catch up, all reaching the same conclusion at more or less the same time. Bronte’s mother was not sad. Or, at least, not just sad. She was furious.

  Andrea’s hand was trembling as she raised the microphone again, but her voice didn’t waver.

  ‘We weren’t sure why our daughter wanted to come here for the summer. Why she would choose to spend months here –’ A small bristle from the crowd, and her husband frowned. Andrea ignored them both. ‘But we loved Bronte. She said it was important for her art, so we supported her. We always tried to do that. And when Bronte came here, she did her best to fit in and she was welcomed, mostly –’

  The last comment was delivered pointedly in the direction of Olivia, who was staring down into her lap. Ash tightened his arm around her and Trish simply looked stunned. Kieran saw Renn shoot an unspoken question at Pendlebury, who hesitated then shook her head in an almost invisible response.

  ‘Bronte came here with an open mind,’ Andrea was saying, her voice tight. ‘Curious about life here. Interested. Trusting.’

  She stopped, her gaze still stealing across the room. To George, then Mia, then to Kieran himself. He looked back and as their eyes met he thought, suddenly, of Verity. He could see his mother leaning forward in her chair, her lips parted as she watched the other woman speak.

  ‘My child’s last moments would have been horrific.’ Both Andrea’s voice and hands were shaking now. ‘I can’t let myself think about how scared she must have been. Can you imagine what that would have been like for her? In the water? She couldn’t breathe.’

  She swallowed and her words hung in the air. Kieran felt George shift next to him. Across the room, Julian was staring back at Bronte’s mother, his defiance almost convincing. Sean had a hand over his face.

  ‘I know you’re waiting for me to ask for your help,’ Andrea said at last. ‘So I will. Please. I’m begging you, if you know anything about what happened to my daughter, please tell us.’ She took a breath. ‘But you should also know this: I will find out either way. I’m not going to pretend I know where to start, but I’ll pay people who do. Investigators. I’ll drain our bank accounts. I’ll mortgage our houses. Whatever I need to do. Because I think this man –’ Andrea pointed at Heath, who looked like he wished he could disappear. ‘– I think he’s wrong. I think the person responsible is probably in this room. I think it’s one of you.’ There was a silence. ‘But maybe not. I don’t care, I just want the truth. So either way, no stone left unturned. If you’re out there –’ She scanned the room again, not so slow and steady now. ‘If you’re hoping this will go away, you’re going to be waiting a long time. Someone hurt Bronte. I want to know who. So unless you want every secret in this place dragged to the surface, I recommend everybody in this room opens their mouths and starts talking.’

  There was more than a murmur at that, and Renn got to his feet.

  Andrea held up a palm, stopping him. She looked around the room once more, then shook her head.

  ‘Never mind.’ She put the microphone down and spoke in her normal voice. ‘I’ve said what I wanted to say.’

  Chapter 25

  The water at dawn was as cold as it ever was. Kieran ducked his head under, his breath catching in his chest. He started to swim, pulling himself through the surf, raising his head every ten strokes to check on Audrey, who was tucked in her sleeping bag on his towel on the deserted beach.

  Kieran had woken up in the dark, alerted by the stuttering warning cry from the cot, and had crawled reluctantly out of bed. He had fed Audrey and read to her from a picture book that hinted heavily on its front cover that it would unlock her genius potential. Instead, it had sent her back to sleep, which in that moment seemed like an even better result. They should have put that on the cover. By then, the sky was starting to lighten but the house was still sleeping, so Kieran had wrapped her up, grabbed his towel and taken them both out into the crisp morning cold.

  His head was still fu
ll of the community meeting as he swam. Renn had moved fast after Bronte’s mother’s speech, Kieran had to give him that. Her words had barely landed before the sergeant had taken two swift strides across the stage and, hands firmly on their backs, shepherded Andrea and Nick through the crowd and out of the door.

  It had taken everyone else a little longer to react, the response swelling from a rumble to a low roar. Mia had been quick off the mark, darting out with Audrey to reclaim the pram, leaving Kieran and George pressed closer than was comfortable as they and several hundred of their neighbours attempted to squeeze through the bottleneck at the door. A pair of uniformed officers were passing out fistfuls of fliers as they spilled out through the main library and into the cool night air. When there was space to stop, Kieran craned his neck back over the crowd, trying to see Verity and Brian.

  ‘Well, I have to admit, I did not expect that.’ George examined his leaflet with the printed images of Bronte’s camera and laptop. He frowned. ‘These have to be long gone, surely?’

  ‘I would think so.’

  ‘I wonder if the police know what was on them. I mean, stuff gets backed up, doesn’t it? It seems to happen to me whether I like it or not, sometimes.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Kieran said. ‘Depends what kind of set-up she had in place.’

  Kieran spied the top of Brian’s head and could see him being steered by Verity, who was holding his arm. Pendlebury had slowed to help and was subtly clearing a path through. As they passed an officer handing out fliers, Pendlebury took a couple. She folded one in half lengthwise, creating a crisp edge which she presented to Verity. Take this. It was an unremarkable gesture, but there was something insistent about it that put Kieran on edge.

  ‘Well, either the police don’t know what was on them –’ George looked up from the flier and over to Pendlebury. ‘Or they do know and haven’t managed to work out the significance yet.’

  Perhaps sensing the scrutiny, Pendlebury turned her head their way. Her eyes moved between Kieran and George, and something passed across her face. It was gone almost immediately as she was forced to bring her attention back to Brian. Pendlebury had barely helped him down the last step when she was accosted by an angry woman in a pink fleece.

  ‘I’m going to head off,’ George said, then hesitated. He turned back to Kieran. ‘Listen, mate, now’s not the time or place, but there was something –’

  He was stopped short by movement over Kieran’s shoulder, and Kieran turned to see Ash approaching, dog lead in hand, his large frame backlit by the glow from the library. George made to leave.

  ‘Catch you another time,’ he said, raising a hand.

  ‘You seen Sean anywhere?’ Ash said, lightly shoulder-barging the writer as he passed but otherwise ignoring him completely.

  ‘No. Think he and Julian must have made a quick exit.’

  ‘Don’t blame them, that was bloody intense.’ Ash shook his head. ‘I’d better go too then, Liv’s waiting. She’s pretty upset.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Not going to be the only one, I reckon. People look freaked out, don’t you think? All that stuff Bronte’s mum was saying about things coming out?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Kieran could see people snatching glances at each other. The atmosphere outside the library felt loaded. ‘They do.’

  ‘Makes you wonder, hey?’

  ‘It does.’

  Kieran finished swimming his lap in the sea now and lifted his head, wiping the water from his eyes. He could tell Audrey was still asleep, snug in her blanket beneath the red-gold morning sky. Kieran plunged under the surface once more, feeling the burn of the cold. He swam several fast strokes, his muscles loosening as he found his rhythm. He stayed under longer this time, and when he lifted his head again, he almost breathed in a lungful of water. Audrey was where he had left her, but the beach was no longer empty. Kieran could see a figure on the sand, their shadow falling over his daughter as she slept.

  Kieran had found his feet in seconds, driving his way through the water to the shore, ignoring the frigid air stinging his wet skin.

  ‘Oi!’

  The figure turned at his shout. Kieran swiped the salt water from his eyes, blinking as the face took shape. Trish Birch.

  He slowed, just a little. Trish straightened and raised her hand. She took a step away from his daughter, and Kieran stopped running and started wading instead. It’s okay, he told himself, while his heart still pounded.

  ‘Hello,’ she called as he hit the sand. ‘I’m so sorry. I was –’

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’ Kieran reached them and bent down for his towel, a little unsure why he still felt the urge to position himself between Trish and his baby as he dried off. Audrey was asleep, peaceful and oblivious. ‘I just got a surprise.’

  ‘Of course,’ Trish said. ‘I was only –’ She faltered, a tiny frown on her face as she glanced around. ‘I mean, do you think it’s safe to leave her on the beach?’

  Not blokes or babies, Kieran thought, although from the way his blood was still pumping, he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. He picked up Audrey and she stirred in his cold arms.

  ‘I didn’t think anyone else was here,’ he said.

  ‘No. Plus it’s absolutely none of my business.’ Trish gave him a small smile. ‘I used to hate people telling me how to parent. I’m sorry. Don’t let me disturb your swim.’

  ‘Probably time I finished up anyway.’

  Trish’s face had a healthy glow from the morning air, but also a pinched look that made him wonder if she had been crying. The ocean had soaked up the reddish tinge of the morning sky and her eyes followed the movement of the tide as she looked out at the water. No, Kieran realised. Not just looking. Scouring. He hesitated.

  ‘Trish, I have your backpack. If that’s what you’re searching for. I’m sorry, I pulled it out of the sea after you threw it in. I didn’t know what it was.’

  ‘Oh. Olivia said you’d found it.’ Trish looked embarrassed, but still her gaze crept past him once again to the waves. Kieran wondered if there was another bag out there yet to turn up. Maybe more than one.

  ‘Do you want it back?’ he said. ‘It’s in our shed. I can get it.’

  ‘No.’ She looked uncertain, then rallied. ‘No. I promised Olivia.’ She gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘I can’t imagine what you’re thinking. It must seem completely crazy.’

  ‘No.’ Kieran shook his head. It didn’t actually. When Kieran felt his daughter’s weight in his arms and imagined himself in Trish Birch’s position, it didn’t seem that crazy at all.

  ‘Well. I’m not sure most people would agree with you, but thanks for saying it anyway.’ Trish reached out and gently moved Audrey’s blanket aside to better see her face. ‘It never changes, you know. Even when they’re older. You’d take a bullet for someone who won’t even wave to you at the school gate. Then suddenly they’re ripped away and –’ Trish shrugged. ‘Well, you were there last night, I’m guessing? Heard Bronte’s mum?’

  Kieran nodded.

  ‘I used to be like that,’ Trish said. ‘Not as articulate or well resourced. Angry, though. Behind closed doors at least. I never had the courage to do it in public. I felt I had to be polite and nice, give people a reason to want to help me.’ Her face hardened. ‘It didn’t make any difference. My daughter’s still gone. Maybe I should have let it all out, like Bronte’s mum.’

  She looked so unsettled by the thought that Kieran felt worried for her. Beyond his parents’ back fence, he noticed a light burning in the hallway. Someone was awake.

  ‘Why don’t you come in for a coffee, Trish? Have a chat with Mia. My mum’s in too. You can hold the baby.’

  Trish was already shaking her head. ‘No. Thank you, though –’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’

  ‘It’s honestly better if I keep walking. Truly. Thanks anyway.’ Trish glanced at the house, a little awkward
. ‘Does Verity know about the backpacks?’

  ‘No,’ Kieran said. ‘I won’t tell her, if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Trish looked relieved. ‘I’m sure your mum would understand, but she’s always been so –’ She considered. ‘Together. Even after everything.’

  Kieran thought about his mother and her brittle calm and did not reply. Trish’s eyes were on Audrey.

  ‘She’ll burn out,’ she said out of nowhere. ‘Bronte’s mum. She doesn’t think she will, but she will. You can’t maintain it forever. She’ll end up –’ Trish sighed. ‘I don’t know. Doing her own secret crazy things like the rest of us.’

  She looked up from the baby and out along the still deserted beach.

  ‘I’ve kept you out of the water long enough,’ she said. ‘You must be freezing.’

  Kieran was, a bit. The sky was fully light now. The glow from the house was still visible.

  ‘You sure you won’t come in?’

  ‘No. I’m going to keep walking.’ She gave Audrey a last smile and turned.

  Kieran watched her for a few paces.

  ‘Hey, Trish, wait,’ he called, and she looked back. ‘How many times have you done that? With the backpacks?’

  ‘I’m not doing it anymore. I promised Olivia.’

  ‘But so far?’

  A long pause. ‘Dozens. I’m not sure exactly.’

  ‘And how many washed up at that spot near the rocks?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Or three.’ She shrugged. ‘Depending on whether or not you count Gabby’s.’

  ‘Right. Do you count it?’

  ‘Some days yes. Some days no.’ Trish looked away now, embarrassed and exposed by her grief. ‘Anyway, enjoy your time with your little one. They grow up fast.’ If you’re lucky.

  The words hung in the air, but she didn’t say them, just raised a hand in farewell. Kieran watched as she walked away along the beach, her face turned yet again towards the ocean and the relentless push-pull of the tide rushing in and out.