‘Chloe took this beautiful, perfect child away from us. She hit our daughter because of a stupid row, then left her to die. If she or her mother had called an ambulance, then Beth would have got treatment quicker. Maybe she wouldn’t have died!’
‘But Chloe did what a lot of teenagers do. Overreact, lash out, then panic,’ said Jacob.
He looked so reasonable. So calm and dignified in the face of everything that had been thrown at him. I wished to find that peace in forgiveness, but there was no way. This wasn’t some case we had watched unfold on television, then calmly discussed with no emotional involvement. This was our little girl. We would never have the bathroom hogged for so long it caused a row. Never hear you singing at the top of your voice. Never hear you come down the stairs like a herd of elephants. The hugeness of it took my breath away.
No punishment could be enough to pay for that.
‘I’ll never forgive Chloe. I hate her,’ Jacob added. ‘But… I also feel sort of sorry for her. Two young lives with bright futures ahead of them were destroyed that night.’
I sat back down and folded my arms. ‘I’m glad her life is destroyed. I’m glad she’ll be haunted by her actions, find it hard to get a job, to move on and live the life she would have lived if she hadn’t killed our daughter.’
Jacob’s eyes were soft with kindness beneath the heat of my anger. I couldn’t go back to the happy, forgiving woman I’d been before.
When you died, Beth, the best of me died too.
The clearing of a throat reminded Jacob and I that we weren’t alone.
‘There is one more thing,’ DS Devonport added. Each word weighed and measured. ‘All three of the Clarkes have received bail to their home.’
There was every chance we would bump into each other.
Jacob – solid, warm, dependable – wrapped an arm around my shoulder once again. A show of solidarity. ‘Thank you for everything, detective sergeant. Now, if you don’t mind, we’d like to be alone.’
DS Devonport stood. ‘Yes, I’d better be going; I just wanted to give you this update myself.’
‘Of course.’ Jacob held out a hand. ‘Goodbye, detective sergeant.’
Once we’d seen her out, Jacob gave me a hug.
‘It’s not right, but Ursula and Steve were only trying to protect their daughter. Wouldn’t we have done the same?’
‘Oh, Jacob,’ I despaired. ‘You want too much from me just now.’
I slid from under his arm and stood, shaking my head. ‘I can’t deal with this right now.’
I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to deal with it. Not with so much anger and bitterness clawing at my soul. I wanted the world to stop, for it to cry tears of blood, for every single person to mourn. But even that wouldn’t be enough.
Eighty-Two
On Sunday morning, my broken sleep ended at 5.03 a.m. As usual. I slipped away from Jacob’s embrace and into the bathroom. Looked at my face in the mirror. Tired, grey, thin and lank-haired.
‘I’m no longer a mother,’ I told myself.
The reflection disagreed. Your physical presence wasn’t needed for me still to be your mother, Beth.
I felt bone-tired of everything, but the anger that had fuelled me for so many weeks kept me going. One day soon I was bound to see the Clarkes. I couldn’t wait.
I wandered past your bedroom, still too cowardly to face it. I hadn’t been in there since discovering the ‘diary’ the week before when, in my panic, I had interpreted your innocent fantasies about James Harvey so wrongly.
Where my feet led me was inevitable. To the coat hooks. Wiggins appeared instantly by my side, pressing against me with a forlorn whine that seemed to say, ‘Don’t forget me’. He’d been extra protective of me since your death.
Quickly wrapping myself up, I stepped out into the unseasonably mild early morning to make my way to the marsh once more. My true home in those days.
* * *
The familiar twit-twoo of a tawny owl heading home after a night’s hunting sounded somewhere close by, flying on silent wings. I gazed out into the greying darkness, searching for you. But there was no sign.
‘Is it because I’m so angry?’ I asked out loud. ‘Do you want me to forgive Chloe? You’re so full of forgiveness, just like your father. You wanted to make the world a better place. But that’s why I’m so bloody angry. Beth, you didn’t deserve this!’
A harsh intake of breath. God alone knew what I looked like, in the middle of nowhere, talking to myself, tears tracking my face. I didn’t care. I couldn’t sense you out there any more. Desperation raked at my soul; I needed to get you back. Somehow.
I walked down the sea embankment and further into the marsh. Eyes straining to see you beneath an almost full moon which taunted me like a pregnant belly.
‘Sweetheart, I know Chloe was your BFF, but… I’m not sure I can do it, Beth. If it’s what you truly want, I’ll try, though. Promise. I’ll really try to forgive her.’
I walked on in the dark, towards the glow of light appearing above the dully sparkling line of sea in the distance. I didn’t bother checking where I stepped, too concerned with scanning the horizon for signs of you, with listening to the wind for your whisper, concentrating on its touch to see if it contained your caress.
Around me, birds began to call. Brent geese stirred restlessly, moving around to feed in their flocks, giving their constant, gossipy call.
After half an hour, the sun peered over the horizon, announcing the start of a new day. I faced the wind, calling your name. A pale ghost rose in front of me. Looming large in the gloom, making me gasp and stumble back momentarily, before it fled ponderously across the land, straight as an arrow. It was a little egret. It was a sign from you.
I turned to watch it disappear, long legs trailing straight behind it, its brilliant white plumage making it easy to spot in the ever-increasing sunlight. That’s when I saw how far I had come. In a trance of grief, I had navigated far into the marsh, impossibly avoiding falling into any creeks. Where the little egret had scared me, I had been brought to a standstill right beside a deep creek, hidden beneath springy foliage. I peered down, both scared and relieved, because resting at the bottom, half-hidden in the water, lay a rusting oil drum and a snarl of barbed wire. If I had stepped into that, I could have been seriously injured – and out on the marsh, no one would have heard my cries for help.
That’s when I realised.
You had guided me through the maze of creeks. You had saved me from harm. You had sent the egret to stop me taking another step forward. Beth, even as I’d searched for you, you had been beside me every step of the way.
The glow of knowing you hadn’t left me kept me cosy-warm all through the walk home.
* * *
Waiting on the doorstep were more flowers, left by an early riser. I checked the card. They were from Jill Young. They got tossed into the wheelie bin, the slamming lid loud in the Sunday-morning silence, jarring against the birdsong.
I went inside and made my weary way upstairs with a cup of tea, Wiggins at my heels. The pair of us climbed into bed with Jacob, and we lay tangled together. We barely moved for the rest of the day.
Eighty-Three
We lay below the plaque Jacob had carved as a teenager – I will always love you – foreheads touching, legs twisted together like vines. The space in between us formed a heart, in which Wiggins was curled.
‘I love you to bits and whole again,’ Jacob whispered, blue eyes an ocean of sadness. I traced the delicate lines around them with a gentle finger.
‘We can survive this. Together,’ I said. ‘But…’
Time to get rid of the last secret plaguing us. I’d been putting off talking about this for so long, but nothing would ever seem a big deal again after losing you, Beth.
‘But only if you stop seeing Flo, Britney, whatever you want to call her.’
‘What? Why would I see her again?’
He sounded so confused that my old bitterness fl
ared.
‘I saw you, Jacob. You and Flo, snogging like a couple of kids while your family fell apart.’
Eyes widened, pupils contracted. ‘Mel… shit, I… I…’ His hands flew up to his blond stubble of hair, running over it. ‘Christ, I’m so sorry. It should never, ever have happened. But… Melanie, I swear to you that what you saw was all that happened. There was no affair, nothing more than a kiss.’
‘I don’t want details; I don’t care. Not any more—’
‘No, just – please listen a moment. You know how I can prove what I say is true? I can tell you exactly when you saw what you saw, because it was the only time it happened. It was exactly ten days ago. It was the day James Harvey was arrested and we thought he’d, you know, done things. To Beth.
‘I was in a panic, and you… you were starting to change, to give up. I should have been stronger for you, but I wasn’t. You’re my best friend, always have been, always will be, and suddenly I couldn’t talk to you. But that wasn’t your fault, it was mine. I… I felt so helpless, so useless, and there was so much going on inside me that I didn’t even know where to begin identifying it myself, much less talk about it to you. I wanted to run away. To be someone else. Besides, I should have been able to do more. I should have protected Beth—’
‘You couldn’t. Neither of us could.’ I felt that way myself, but hearing him say it made me realise how foolish it was. Neither of us were to blame for this.
He shook his head, heavy with regret, refusing to listen.
‘Britney, I mean Flo, well, she understood – it’s her job to understand. We kissed as we stood in the hall just that once, after you and I had given consent for those tests on Beth. I’ll never forget it because it was one of the worst moments of my life. That kiss proves how weak and pathetic I am, and I’m ashamed of myself. I let you and Beth down. And I will never, ever do that again.’
There were tears in his eyes now. He let go of one hand and wiped at them with his knuckles, childlike. His eyes so wide and innocent, desperately seeking absolution.
I knew then that he was telling the truth. This was the man I had grown up with, the man I would trust with my life. He had made a stupid mistake, but he had not betrayed me, and he hadn’t changed throughout all this mess.
Still, I checked. ‘It was only a kiss?’
‘Nothing else happened.’ He shook his head. ‘But it’s bad enough. If… if you can’t forgive me, I understand. But I’ll never do anything like it again. As soon as it happened, we both realised how wrong it was. We’ve been avoiding each other ever since; it’s been so awkward. When we did talk, it was to assure each other that neither of us would ever tell anyone. We knew it wouldn’t happen again, so we just left things.’
A kiss. Only a kiss. It churned my stomach, but after losing you, it was nothing. We could get past this.
Eighty-Four
Monday dawned; 5.03 a.m. You had been dead for four days. The numbness and anger were giving way to constant tears. We shuffled along, hunched, broken. Jacob’s bosses had told him to take as long as he needed. We told our parents not to come over. Each of them had taken over a task for the funeral, now that it had been decided what we wanted. My life was in jagged shards, thoughts slashing me and making me gasp. I wanted to bleed.
Upstairs, Jacob stirred. I heard his gentle footsteps, then a door opening and closing softly. He had gone to your room, Beth. I sensed by the fact he had closed the door that he wanted to be alone.
So with nothing to do but grieve, I found myself flipping aimlessly through the Sunday newspaper Jill had left on the step the day before. My eyes roamed over the words but not long enough to take anything in.
Suddenly they stopped. Widened.
‘Tiffany’s murder is killing me,’ says tragic mum
Read the headline running across two pages. Below sat a picture of a woman whose eyes were as haunted and angry as my own.
I leaned over the print. It was an interview with the mother of the girl who was killed a few months before you were attacked. The one who stole our publicity from us. At the time I was so furious, but now the words of the article resonated with my own agony. At least our mystery had been solved, and I knew who was responsible for your death; this poor woman, Angela Jones, 34, had no clue. I felt her pain alongside my own.
Fleetingly I wondered if I should contact her. Perhaps we could offer each other comfort.
There were the briefest details of the crime. I didn’t dwell on those, remembering them instead from the initial coverage. How twelve-year-old Tiffany had disappeared on 27 September 2015, the night of the blood moon, from her home in Clifton, Nottingham. Her body had been found weeks later, her head caved in. She’d been sexually assaulted after death, then dumped in some undergrowth by the side of the M1.
The police had initially looked closely at her family, mainly because Tiffany had apparently half-heartedly tried to run away a few months before her death, going walkabout in the middle of the night. When the newspapers got wind, there had been some pretty unsavoury reports, sneering at her relatives, seemingly because they lived on a large council estate. Her mum’s boyfriend, Bear – who the hell had a name like Bear? – had been given a particularly hard time. He had looked the part of a pervert, to be honest: slightly dishevelled, with uneven eyes that gave him a permanent leer. But looks aren’t everything, are they?
When it became clear the family (and Bear) were innocent, the police worked on the assumption that Tiffany had run away again and been taken by an opportunist who had spotted her in the night. The A453 ran fairly near her home, and connected to the M1. It was a busy road, and police reckoned someone passing by in a car may have spotted the girl and snatched her. Dumped her before making his escape along the busy motorway.
All that had stopped when Tiffany’s phone had been found in bushes near where her body was dumped. Text messages showed she had been lured from her home by someone posing as a teenage lad her age. Police believed this ‘Justin’ was actually a paedophile who had deliberately targeted her. How he had got her number remained a mystery.
The media had then launched a charm offensive to make up for the hatchet job they’d done on the family earlier. They were on a crusade to make the family look good – and to catch ‘Justin’. That was one of the reasons why her story ran while your attack didn’t make the news, Beth.
That, and the fact that the moniker the ‘Blood Moon Murder’ had a great ring to it.
Your attack didn’t have that. Apart from your dad smoking a joint, which had been splashed briefly over the front pages of the nationals, there was nothing juicy about this case that could be reported. The fact that your attacker was a young girl meant restrictions imposed by the court were in place over what could be printed. Chloe’s identity was legally protected – and because of that, so were her parents’. As a result, your death had been the smallest of paragraphs, buried in the back half of the national newspapers. Easily missed.
Unlike this huge report on Tiffany’s murder. So far, there were no new leads in the case.
I had to stand for a moment. To distance myself physically from the arctic glare of the article on the kitchen table. Not because I was sobbing in sympathy. No; it was because I was so bloody furious at the injustice of yet another young girl’s life snuffed out. I knew exactly the hell this mother was going through.
Eighty-Five
TIFFANY
SUNDAY 27 SEPTEMBER
School crap, friends crap, life crap, Tiffany thought to herself.
Her mum sat downstairs, watching Gogglebox on catch-up, by the sound of her laughing to herself. Let her laugh. At least it was better than the sound of her crying after yet another bust-up with her butt-ugly boyfriend, Bear. Who the hell had a name like Bear? That alone should have given her mum warning that he was well peak. The latest in a long line of crap, butt-ugly blokes.
Tiffany should have been sleeping, but the students next door were all up, so she’d got no chance. The walls w
ere so thin she could tell from the music that the bloke in the bedroom beside hers was playing World of Warcraft. And swearing a lot.
With a sigh, the twelve-year-old turned her bedside light on, put on her round specs, dug out her notebook and started writing. She wrote constantly. Tiffany could lose herself, block out the shitty reality of her life and create a whole new world. One with dank vampires, and werewolves, and she was thinking about introducing a talking dragon. But not a crap one. One that was dark and a bit evil and, like, totally sick.
Her mobile phone lit up, buzzing like an angry wasp had climbed inside it. She almost didn’t bother looking at it. Curiosity got the better of her, though, as she wondered who the hell would be sending her texts at just gone midnight on a Sunday.
It was from a number she didn’t recognise.
Hey, Tiffany, seen u round. Want 2 chat?
And get scammed by someone? Not likely. Knowing her name wasn’t enough to gain her trust.
Loser
She typed back.
Seconds later, it buzzed again.
Hey, c’mon, Tiff. Jus tryin’ 2 b mates. I seen u round.
Yeah, yeah, they had already said that.
Who r u?
Aside from a loser.
Name’s Justin. Just moved here. In year above u @ school.
Justin. Justin? She didn’t remember anyone new at school. But it was big, so hard to keep track. Plus, she tended to live in her own world. Which was why she didn’t get many texts, let alone at midnight.
Buzz.
Be gr8 to get 2 know u better. U r gorgeous. So peng.
At the bottom was the most loser-ish emoticon, with eyes bugging out of its head.
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