by Jane Adams
She heard Anna’s voice, angry and defensive, telling her that it wasn’t her fault. That no one could possibly blame her for what had happened to Suzie. Simon’s questions, unemotional, flatly investigative as they always were when he wished to distance himself from anything that evoked strong feelings. Fergus answering for her.
‘They never found out. The last person to see the girls was a woman hanging out washing in one of the cottage gardens facing the main road. She said she saw them running, headed out of the village, but had assumed at the time that they’d continued along the main road. The first search was made along their normal route, the roadway loops back and then turns towards the estate you could see from the hill today.’
Simon nodded. He said, ‘How long had they been missing by then?’
It was Cassie who answered, suddenly finding refuge in Simon’s unemotional questioning. ‘It was about an hour and a half after we should have been back by the time they found me.’
‘And they never found Suzie?’
Cassie shook her head. ‘No. There was no trace. The police questioned me, questioned everyone. They searched. I mean the search went on for weeks. But there was nothing. Ever.’ She paused, looking up at Simon. ‘People said all sorts of things. That she’d been murdered, kidnapped. Even that she’d run away. I mean, why would Suzie ever want to run away? I think that must have hurt her parents most of all, that people could think she wanted to run away.’
‘And you. What happened to you? Did you fall, hit your head? Did you faint? Did you ever have fits, you know, epilepsy, something like that? Maybe Suzie got scared, ran to get help and someone snatched her.’ Simon was speculating wildly.
Cassie smiled slightly and shook her head. ‘It’s all been thought of. I didn’t have anything like that, the doctors even ran tests just to make sure. In the end they said I must have tripped, maybe hit a stone and knocked myself out. Only problem with that theory was, there was no bruise. No one knows what happened, not to either of us.’
She paused, then continued more slowly. ‘My mum and dad took me home. The police came several times to ask questions but I could tell them nothing. In the end they gave up. Closed the file or whatever it is they do. We hardly saw Aunty Pat after that. They held a memorial service in the village church on the first anniversary. Pat had gotten so much older. I went with my parents, but they wouldn’t let me talk to her, not that I was talking to anyone really. The doctors said it was shock. That I’d sort of withdrawn. Even then, I knew Pat still thought it was my fault. She wished it was my memorial they were attending and not Suzie’s.’
There seemed little more to say after that. Operating on automatic, Cassie rinsed the mugs while Anna made more tea. She could hear Simon, continuing to question the why’s and wherefores’ of the situation. Trying to find some new angle.
Cassie had heard them all so many times.
Somehow, the fact that Simon, a real know-all in the nicest possible way, should be as baffled as the families, the village and the police had been back then was reassuring. It made her feel less helpless. Less stupid.
Impulsively, she crossed to where her coat was hanging behind the kitchen door and withdrew from the pocket the much folded paper in its protective wrapping.
‘This was Suzie,’ she said, unfolding the page carefully and laying it on the floor at their feet. She could feel Fergus’s reproach.
‘I thought I’d got rid of all that,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘There’s just this. It wasn’t one of the things Mum had.’
Fergus frowned, remembering the pile of newspaper clippings and the like that Cassie’s mother had kept, not for the sake of remembrance, but to constantly warn her daughter of what happened to children whose parents were more liberal — or, as she saw it, more lax — than she was herself. Cassie’s mother had believed in keeping her daughter’s rope tight, especially after Cassie’s father had left them. Fergus had made a bonfire of the clippings one day when Cassie’s mother had been absent. Had confronted her with the ashes on her return and been ordered from the house. He had gone, taking Cassie with him. They had never been back.
‘Why did you keep this one?’ he asked gently. ‘I thought we’d settled all that.’
Cassie bit her lip, shook her head. ‘I told you. This wasn’t one of the things my mother had. I kept it, to remind me . . .’
‘More guilt feelings?’ His voice a little harder now. It angered him so much that she’d spent so many years paying for something that was not her fault.
Simon and Anna were staring at him, not really sure what the controversy was about. Simon bent to pick up the paper, look at the time-worn image of a little girl with a pretty rounded face and straight fair hair just sweeping her shoulders. He glanced at Cassie, at her delicate, rather fragile features, slightly angular chin. Soft grey eyes, a full, expressive mouth and an often untidy tangle of brown curls gave her an overall prettiness. Not beautiful like his Anna, with her dark eyes and soft black hair cut into a shining bob. No, not beautiful, but still arresting.
‘Not much alike to look at, were you?’
It was such an irrelevant comment, said in such an indignant tone that it somehow broke the tension. Cassie found herself laughing.
Anna gave her a worried look. ‘Are you all right?’ she said anxiously. ‘Simon, that was thoughtless even for you.’
Cassie was laughing helplessly, trying very hard to regain control. Anna was staring at her. Her outraged expression only serving to add to her inappropriate and now choking giggles. She fought to regain some degree of composure.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry, it’s just that suddenly . . .’ She trailed off, unable to explain, unable almost to draw breath.
Anna looked at Fergus, her eyes confused, a little hurt.
‘She’ll be fine in a moment or two,’ he said. Anna saw that he was smiling too. She shrugged. It was in Anna’s nature to be fiercely loyal to those she counted friends and if Cassie wanted to laugh hysterically at the wrong moment, well, that was just the way of things.
As always, when confused, Anna took refuge in action, began to clear away the last of the crockery, tidy the small kitchen for the night. By the time she had returned to her seat, Cassie had regained control of herself. Simon had gone to rummage in the kitchen drawer for matches and the whole atmosphere had changed to one of charged solemnity.
Simon handed the matches to Fergus. He shook his head.
‘No, this is for Cassie to do,’ he said.
Cassie’s hand was shaking as she lit the match, placed the flame against the edge of the yellowed paper and watched it catch. She held the paper until it came too close to her fingers for her to bear the heat any longer, then dropped it into the empty grate, watched as the final comer was consumed by the creeping flame. Poking lightly with her fingers at the burnt paper, she broke the whole into indistinguishable fragments of ash. Sighing deeply, she sat back on her heels.
Could she let go now? No. Nothing was that easy, but, as Fergus was so fond of saying, this was just one more step. One more thing to cross off the list.
She looked up at him and smiled, enjoying the way his eyes crinkled into ready-made lines when he smiled at her.
Anna was looking curiously at her, but she smiled too, and bent to kiss the top of Cassie’s head.
‘It’s been a long day,’ she said, and, taking Simon by the hand, she led him off upstairs to bed.
For a little longer Cassie sat on the worn rug, staring into the black grate.
‘Come on, now.’ Fergus held out his hand to her. ‘When did I last tell you that I loved you?’
He pulled Cassie to her feet, wrapped his arms tightly around her.
‘Don’t tell me,’ she said quietly. ‘Show me.’
Chapter 3
Fergus watched Cassie paddling like a child in the shallow water. She looked content, peaceful. The slight breeze lifted her hair, tumbling the dark curls into disarray, and when she turned to
smile at him her eyes sparkled. Beautiful, he thought. Really beautiful. The day was still bright, warm too, but a darker grey band running close to the horizon promised change. In the hour they had already spent on the beach, the wind had freshened, veered from the west, and Fergus imagined that he could already taste the rain.
He sighed peaceably. The last few days had been about as perfect as they could get. The company of friends, the exploration of a fascinating, history-soaked county, and, best of all, the late evenings, that private time filled with loving, sharing pleasure with his Cassie. He had to smile at himself, remembering the fierce, possessive joy he took afterwards in watching her sleep.
He had been so fearful of bringing her here, knowing that it had to be faced, terrified of the possible consequences. Looking at her now, he could not help but feel vindicated. Not just for bringing her back here, but believing for the last five years that Cassie could break free of the suffocating cocoon of self-doubt, wrapped tight around her by memories of childhood. This was his Cassie. The one he glimpsed tantalizingly, behind the fear, the self-doubt, the waking nightmare. To say that he loved her would be like saying that he needed to breathe. Sometimes, it worried him, knowing that his passion for her was just as obsessive in its own way as anything Cassie’s mother had been able to contrive. He told himself this is a healthy feeling, life enhancing — not something that damns the soul.
She had turned and was walking back up the beach towards him. He reached for her, held her close, savouring her warmth, the scent of her, the way her body moved against his, curving against him, as though completing a pattern.
‘I love you, so much.’ She spoke softly, leaning close for a moment, then turning in his arms to look out to sea once more. ‘You were so right, I should have done this years ago.’ She spoke quietly. Her words happy, emphatic.
Fergus laughed, hugged her closer. ‘Glad you didn’t,’ he said. ‘If you had, I might not have been here with you.’
‘Selfish, eh!’
‘You bet on it.’
They stood in silence, then Cassie moved suddenly. ‘We should be heading back, we promised to be back at the cottage for breakfast, and you know what Simon’s like about getting the day planned out.’
Fergus laughed. ‘Down to the last detail,’ he said.
They turned, walked, hands clasped, back up the beach to the place where the sandy footpath fed its way through an unexpected dip in the cliff face.
‘Your walk last night—’ Fergus began.
‘Helped me sort a lot of things out. I proved to myself that I could go back there, on my own and walk the full length.’
‘You went down onto the Greenway?’ Fergus sounded almost startled.
She nodded. ‘It seemed like the right thing to do.’ She half laughed. ‘You know, it was all so . . . normal. Almost an anti-climax really. I’d been scared all these years, and then, when I actually got the courage to go and face my demons, I found they were as dead as those poor witches Simon was talking about the other night. Nothing there. Memories, but nothing that couldn’t be firmly put in its place.’
She spoke positively, confidently, but Fergus could not help but cast an anxious glance at her. He’d seen her before like this, each step forward had brought on this kind of euphoria, this delight in living. He loved to see her so happy, rejoicing in strengths so hard won, but experience told him that the highs never lasted. These things did even out though, he reminded himself. Her mood swings were far less extreme now than they had been, her problems more often solved by their own joint efforts.
She looked at him, her glance half-amused, half exasperated and clasped his hand more tightly.
‘And you can stop looking at me like that, Fergus Maltham,’ she said, laughing out loud as he began to protest his innocence.
She threw her arms around him, still laughing, and Fergus clung to her as though that way he could hold the moment for ever. Keep life always this perfect. He had fought so hard to get her this far, believed in her . . . needed her. She snuggled against him, her warm body soft against him.
‘We’ll be all right, Fergus. Everything will be all right now.’
* * *
Anna breathed deeply. The air was fresh, slightly chilled by the sea breeze and the day, for the moment, bright blue and promising sunshine. ‘Which means it will probably rain before midday,’ she thought wryly.
She began to stroll lazily towards the village. They would need more milk for breakfast, and she wanted the morning papers, but there was no hurry. Simon was still debating whether or not to get out of bed and Cassie and Fergus would be unlikely to be back yet. Anna welcomed the brief time alone, time to think — though not to any real purpose — and to just enjoy the morning. Much as she loved Simon, life with him tended to be — when once he had made that final move out of bed — one mad flight from project to project, destination to destination. Simon tended to view travelling time, whether literal or not, to be the source of wasted energy and frustration whereas Anna sometimes welcomed the opportunity to enjoy the trip.
This particular trip was not a long one. Seven minutes each way according to Simon. Anna managed to make it last fifteen. The shop bell rang and she called a greeting to the woman emerging from the back. This morning walk had become a regular feature and she had struck up quite a rapport with the locals. That was Anna’s way. Her open acceptance of people tended to bring rewards. She chatted amiably to the woman while collecting the few purchases she needed and turned to place them on the counter. The woman already had the papers ready for her. Two of the big nationals and the local daily. Anna paid, glancing casually at the papers as she waited for her change.
What she saw made her stiffen, her body reacting in panic even before she could get the words out. ‘Oh, my God.’
The woman looked across at her, then down at the paper. ‘Yes, dear. Just terrible isn’t it. The poor parents, they’re going frantic. Had half the village out last night they did and again this morning. They knocked at the cottage, figured you might want to help out, but there was no one there.’
Anna stared blankly at her, then managed, ‘No, we went out till late. Oh, but this is dreadful.’
The woman nodded. ‘Like I said love, they’ve had people out searching this morning, too. I’m surprised you didn’t see them, but then you wouldn’t, not walking the route the way you do.’
She looked expectantly for a response, and Anna managed something she hoped was appropriate. The woman continued, telling her that the police had been up at the Top Farm all night. ‘Doing house-to-house this morning, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Anna managed to nod, to string something appropriately sensible together, but she could barely take her eyes from the image on the front of the local paper. She accepted her change automatically, assured the woman that if they could be of any help . . . and managed to push bread and milk into her bag. Hands clutched sweatily at the paper and she managed to fumble the shop door open. Then she ran, panic turning her stomach to water, sight hazed by tears. Anna ran and didn’t stop running until the cottage door had been thrown open and an astonished Simon was confronted by the front-page image of a blonde-haired, smiling child, pretty round face, framed by hair that just skimmed her shoulders.
Simon stared, then picked up the paper and began to read aloud.
'Sara Jane Cassidy, aged ten, missing since yesterday afternoon.’ He continued to read, his voice dropping as he related, more to himself now than to Anna, the circumstances surrounding the child’s disappearance. Anna’s mind caught only those things that she already knew. Last night. The Greenway. A little girl who looked like Suzanne Ashmore.
‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered softly. ‘Cassie.’
Chapter 4
Detective Inspector Tynan — retired — was about to sit down to breakfast when the early-morning paper spilled onto the doormat. He scooped it up and hurried through to the kitchen, attempting to catch the kettle before its low whistle cursed into an exaggerated sh
riek. Every morning he told himself that he should invest in an electric one. A nice, quiet, automatically switch-offable one; but he never did. Instead he indulged each day in the game of seeing just how much of his essential housework he could get done before the kettle became deafeningly insistent. It caused him some wry amusement, when he actually gave it thought, that he, after years of taxing his skills and measuring his time and endurance against the minds and skills of other people, should now be reduced to competing with a whistling kettle.
He had filled the teapot and set about buttering his toast before he actually got around to looking at the paper. What he saw struck him cold, knife paused in mid-stroke. He put down both knife and toast and gave the paper his full concentration. A ten-year-old, playing with her friends one minute, gone the next. It was the where of it, that and the burning familiarity of the image that gave him pause. The Greenway. That lonely, high-hedged bit of pathway that seemed designed to go nowhere. He remembered all right. Remembered too the photograph of another little girl, very like this one, the same mischievous grin on her face. For several minutes, he sat gazing into the past. The image of young Suzie Ashmore transposing itself on to the girl’s image in the paper.
Resolutely, he shook himself. Reminded himself that he was retired now and that the other case had been close on twenty years before. He turned the page deliberately, picked up the knife and continued with his buttering, forcing himself to take an interest in the reports of local fetes and the doings of minor dignitaries. It wasn’t working. He swore as the overcooked and over-cold toast fragmented when he bit into it and reminded himself, again, that he was retired. This was nothing to do with him. Should there be any connection between the two cases then they knew where to find him.
Gloomily, he reached across to pour the tea. His right hand thus occupied, he allowed his left to, almost surreptitiously, turn the paper back to the front page, his eyes moving from the other minor stories, scattered as space fillers, back to the face of Sara Jane Cassidy. He began to read again, giving up now on all appearance of indifference. Who was heading the case? No, it would be too early for that to be in the report and most likely the child would turn up sometime today anyway and the whole thing would all be over.
