by Matt Brolly
‘Cheer up, love, may not happen,’ said the skinhead.
‘It never will with that attitude,’ said Keith, prompting more laughter from his new-found audience.
Amy paused by the door. It was taking all her strength not to turn around and launch the coffee into her boss’s face. A time would come soon when she would do just that, but for now she needed the job so she opened the door and placed the coffee on the outside table, the customer ignoring her as if the drink had appeared out of thin air.
Keith stopped her in the back office two hours later as she was about to leave. ‘That guy wasn’t wrong, you know, earlier,’ he said. As usual, Keith was too close. Grease and sweat coated his body, his breath stale with instant coffee and egg sandwiches. Amy breathed through her mouth as the room shrunk in size. ‘You really could do with cheering up,’ continued Keith.
Why did men think they had the right to comment on her demeanour? She’d heard the same mantra all her life, ever since she was a little girl: men telling her to smile, to sit up straight, to behave. She would have told Keith exactly what she thought about his theory, and his new sleazy buddies, but for now she was more concerned about the close confines of the room and the exit blocked by Keith’s considerable bulk.
‘I may have something that would cheer you up,’ said Keith, stepping closer so Amy could see the sweat clinging to the chest hairs sprouting up from under his chef’s apron.
Another sentiment she’d heard too many times before. ‘I’m going home, Keith. Are my wages ready?’
Keith’s breathing deepened. He didn’t answer, just swayed on the spot as if embroiled in some internal monologue. ‘Out by the counter,’ he said, eventually, not moving.
Amy was forced to squeeze by him. She would have sworn he was actually salivating but didn’t want to concentrate on his face as she quickened her pace out of the room. Snatching the brown envelope, she left the café already dreading her return.
She’d never welcomed the cool sea breeze more in her life. Refusing to allow Keith to make her cry, she walked the back streets to the seafront and along to Marine Lake. She wanted to see Megan but she’d managed to get herself some part-time work at a holiday camp in Brean Down. They’d met often since that morning in Ashcombe Park. It was such a novelty having someone to share things with and she was surprised by how much she felt Megan’s absence.
At the man-made lake, Amy took off her shoes and bathed her legs in the brown seawater. Although Saturday was generally known as changeover day, the area was alive with holidaymakers. Children were building dams and sandcastles while their parents lazed on sun loungers, smoking and staring at their phones.
The sight of the happy children brought memories of Aiden. He’d be a teenager now and she could picture him playing with the other children in the sand. Amy lay down, the coarse sand trickling through her hair and down her back, the sun heating her skin. Jay had been the first person she’d spoken to about Aiden in years and it was with his help that she’d been able to share her pain with the group. She wondered when she would next get that opportunity.
She was content to stay with the holidaymakers for the time being. She headed inland to buy an ice cream – much cheaper from the supermarket than the seafront outlets – and returned to the promenade before it melted. She laughed at the sight of a full-figured woman in a tight bikini waterskiing in between the moored boats. It didn’t look safe – the line dragging her was fit to snap in half, and she skied within inches of the fishing and rowing boats – but the woman was so caught up in the action of skimming the sea that she had no other care. Amy envied her focus, wishing she could be so lost in an activity that nothing else mattered. She followed her path as if she was the one on the skis, almost dropping her ice cream in laughter when the slack gave on the rope and the woman careered head first into the sea only to be rescued by the pilot of the motorboat, a perfect smile on her face.
Ice cream finished, Amy crossed the road and took the carved stone steps down on to the beach. She removed her shoes, already brimming with sand, and walked along the beach towards the Grand Pier. The smell of the sea kindled conflicting memories in her mind. She recalled coming here as a child – paddling in the sea, even once riding the donkeys, but her childhood had not been a joyful one and it was difficult to believe she’d ever been happy here. Yet the seawater made her feel something akin to happiness. The recent memory of her confrontation with the four tourists and Keith was now a distant pain as she walked along the shore. Every now and then, the water would lap at her toes and she allowed the coldness to envelop her feet. She wished Megan could be here to share this with her. Amy imagined her dashing in and out of the water, and wanted nothing more at that moment than to see her friend filled with laughter.
Under the pier a flock of seagulls were fighting over some carrion. Amy moved towards the commotion, the sudden change in temperature sending goosebumps down her spine. The seagulls’ prey was the remains of a pigeon, its dull, tattered feathers giving away its identity. As soon as she stepped away the seagulls returned, all the more frenzied for being denied their prize.
Amy ran across to the other side, pleased to be back in the sunshine and away from the netherworld of the pier’s underside.
She skipped back on to the promenade. She didn’t want to blow her meagre wage packet on the first day but the pier only cost a pound to enter and she could enjoy the spectacle – the buzzing lights and electronic beeps of the arcade machines, the restless energy of the excited children. It was only as she reached the seafront that she stopped, crouching down on to her haunches as if she’d committed a crime.
There, by the pier entrance, was Jay. And he wasn’t alone.
Chapter Twelve
In her role as a detective, Louise didn’t have weekends. Technically she could choose not to work but reality nearly always got in the way. Even now as she made the short journey from Worle to her parents’ house in Bristol she felt guilty for not being at the station. She’d spent the majority of the last two days working on the suicide case, the investigation becoming increasingly frustrating. So far, very little linked Victoria and Claire. Although both local to the West Country, they’d attended different schools and had come from different upbringings. Claire had lived in the care system from the age of thirteen whereas Victoria had lived with her mother until she passed away when Victoria was nineteen. They’d conducted door-to-door searches of the women’s neighbourhoods but at present the only thing linking the two victims was the similarities of their suicide notes. Even the tox reports had been a bust, the only common factor a trace of marijuana in both sets of bloodstreams. Louise had requested further testing but it would be at least another week before those results came back.
She took the A370. She preferred the route to the monotony of the M5 and enjoyed the winds and turns as she drove through the small villages separating Weston from the big city.
Emily was waiting for her. As Louise pulled into her parents’ drive, she saw her niece’s face pushed up against the glass of the living-room window and by the time she’d left the car Emily was already out of the front door. Louise hunched down and Emily jumped into her arms. ‘My goodness, you’re getting big,’ said Louise, as her niece gripped her as if already trying to stop her leaving. Although very affectionate, Emily had yet to learn how to express her emotions verbally but the length of the hug, and the force behind it, told Louise everything she needed to know about the way the girl was feeling. ‘Come on, let’s get in,’ said Louise, prising the girl’s fingers from her.
‘Grandma’s making pancakes,’ said Emily, skipping down the hallway.
‘Is she now? I don’t remember having pancakes when I was a child.’
‘Grandchildren get treats, not children,’ said Emily. She sounded pleased with the fact, but Louise noted the damning verdict on parenthood; made somehow worse by her niece’s youth.
Inside, her mother was flipping pancakes at the stove, her father drinking coffee and r
eading the Saturday papers. She kissed them both on the cheek, a wave of nostalgia hitting her as she sat at the kitchen table.
‘How are you, sweetheart?’ asked her father, putting down the paper.
‘Tired.’
‘You work too hard.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Here we go,’ said her mother, placing the American-style pancakes on to the table. ‘Batch one.’
Her father rubbed his hands together. ‘Pass the maple syrup, Emily.’
No one spoke about the missing member of the family as they talked. Paul was supposed to be taking Emily out in the afternoon and Louise hoped he’d recovered from the hangover she presumed he had by then.
Her niece was so easy to read. Her smile came and went as she ate her second batch of pancakes as if her mind was in constant turmoil. Louise wasn’t sure she would ever be able to forgive Paul for putting her through this. ‘Get changed,’ said Louise, once they’d finished. ‘We can go to the park if you like?’
Emily’s face lit up and she skipped upstairs.
‘When did you last speak to Paul?’ asked Louise, once she was out of earshot.
‘Yesterday,’ said her mum.
‘How was he?’
‘He didn’t sound on best form but he promised he would be on time today.’
Louise filled the dishwasher, noticing the tiredness in her mother’s eyes as the sun pierced the kitchen window. ‘Has he said anything more about Emily living here?’
‘He asked when he could take her back. Said he had a fight with you on the phone.’
‘What did you say?’
‘We said we’d talk to him about it when he arrived,’ said her father, pouring himself some more coffee.
‘I’m not sure talking is enough at the moment,’ said Louise.
‘What do you suggest?’ asked her mother.
‘He needs to know this is serious.’
Her mother sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, groaning with the exertion. ‘He told us what you said.’
‘What did you want me to say to him?’ asked Louise, hating the defensive tone to her voice.
‘Even if Emily could live with us full-time, think about what that would do to her. It would be like losing two parents.’
‘Mum, I don’t expect that to happen but Paul has to realise it’s a possibility. The threat of losing Emily is the only thing we have to make him change his ways. We can get him some help but he needs to want it. If losing Emily is the threat he needs to take action, then that is what we have to do.’
‘I don’t want to leave Daddy.’
Louise cursed under her breath as Emily walked into the kitchen, head hung low.
‘You shouldn’t eavesdrop,’ said Louise’s mother.
‘I don’t want to leave Daddy,’ repeated Emily, tears welling in her eyes as she stood rigid in front of them.
Louise’s father grabbed the girl and pulled her towards him just as she broke into tears. ‘No one wants you to leave your daddy,’ he said, his own eyes reddening.
‘I’m sorry, Emily,’ said Louise, walking over to her niece. ‘You know your daddy isn’t very well at the moment.’
‘He misses Mummy,’ said the girl, through sobs.
‘I know, darling, we all do. We want to help your daddy get through this and we can do that together as a family. Shall we go to the park now?’
Emily frowned and kissed her granddad before getting her coat from the hallway.
‘Are you going to be able to stay so we can all speak to Paul together?’ asked her mother, her voice lowered so Emily couldn’t hear.
Louise looked away. ‘I need to get back, Mum. I shouldn’t even be here now.’
‘It’s the weekend.’
‘I know, Mum. I might be able to shoot over this evening but I need to go in an hour.’
‘Okay. I understand,’ said her mum, though it was clear from her body language that she didn’t.
The park at the end of the road was the same one Louise had played in as a child; a happy memory of playing there with Paul came to her mind, only to be ruined by a latter recollection of seeing him, years later, with his friends, smoking and drinking, mortifying her by telling her to go home.
Emily was still downbeat as they walked the perimeter towards the tennis courts. ‘Fancy going on the swings?’ said Louise.
Her niece frowned as if the question was ridiculous and Louise saw a glimpse into the teenager that Emily would one day become. Louise held her hands up. ‘Just a suggestion.’
‘A bad one,’ said Emily, with a hint of humour.
‘So what do you want to do?’
‘We can just walk.’
It was the best idea Louise had heard in a long time.
They must have walked four laps of the park before returning home, Emily holding her hand for the last two. They walked almost in silence, both enjoying the stillness of the crisp air and the simplicity of being in one another’s company.
As they approached her parents’ driveway, Emily stopped and looked up at her. There was such sadness in her eyes it was all Louise could do not to turn away.
‘What is it, sweetie?’
Emily paused, her face full of concentration. ‘Do you love Daddy still?’
‘Oh, silly billy, of course I do.’ Louise hunched down and wrapped the girl up. ‘Everyone still loves your daddy. We care about him so much, that’s why we want to make him well again.’
Louise waited for as long as she could at the house before leaving. She had an afternoon appointment with one of the tech-heads in Portishead and couldn’t risk being late, but it was so hard leaving Emily, even with her parents looking after her. The girl gave her such mournful looks that Louise wanted to drop everything and stay with her. Stuck in traffic on the A369 she would have called Paul but couldn’t face another argument. She would have to trust that he would do the right thing, and she would do everything in her power to help make that happen.
Chapter Thirteen
The Avon and Somerset Police Headquarters was a purpose-built building in Portishead on the outskirts of Bristol. It was like a slightly dated, but larger version of the new station in Weston. One of the tech team Louise used to work with at MIT, Simon Coulson, owed her a favour and had agreed to escalate the examination of Claire’s laptop. He’d completed the job late last night and suggested she meet him that afternoon.
Louise hated coming back there. Her positive associations with the place had been destroyed by memories of the Walton case and its fallout. She refused to be cowed by Finch – if he was there so be it, they were supposedly part of the same team – but she was still relieved to reach the IT department without running into anyone she knew.
‘I come bearing gifts,’ she said to Coulson who, as usual, was hidden behind a screen. She placed the coffee and croissants on his desk, yet it was a couple of moments before he looked up.
‘Louise, good to see you,’ he said, struggling to make eye contact.
Coulson had the pale, blotchy skin of someone who sat in front of glaring computer screens too much. The whites of his eyes were crossed with lines of red and Louise wondered how often he went outside. ‘Good to see you too, Simon. I imagine this isn’t really your weather,’ said Louise, nodding at the sunshine outside the office.
‘You know me. The weather can’t affect you when you’re inside.’
Part of her envied Coulson’s obsession. He lived for his computer work and would be sitting behind a laptop somewhere even if he wasn’t being paid. He could be sociable company when he wanted – he had a dry sense of humour, and wasn’t afraid to speak out when necessary – but Louise was sure he didn’t have much of a life beyond his work. She guessed that was why he was there working now; the irony that she was as well was not lost on her.
‘So what do you have for me?’ she asked, taking a bite of one of the croissants.
The change in Coulson’s face was so obvious it made Louise smile. It was as if he’d been s
witched on, his eyes animated and full of wonder as he pulled two laptops from a desk drawer. ‘Old machines. This one was recovered from Victoria Warrington’s home,’ he said, handing her one of the machines still in its protective bag. ‘Identical machines. I was surprised with what I found and I have to admit I almost didn’t find anything,’ he added, his enthusiasm stopping him from getting to the point.
‘What did you find, Simon?’
‘Oh yes, sorry. Here,’ he said, pointing to some screen shots on his laptop. ‘I had to go quite deep into the system to find this. Quite a clever piece of kit. You see, the user will enter an IP address on the search bar here to access their chosen page but the software automatically destroys the history of the address both in the page’s history and the system itself. It’s similar to how users access the so-called dark web but this is quite sophisticated, especially for machines this dated.’
‘So what were they trying to access?’
‘That’s the thing, I have no idea. There is an Internet history, normal stuff, social media, porn and whatnot, but I can’t tell when or if this software was used.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘As I said, some dark-web shit. The user probably used the software to access an encrypted site where they could connect with other users. Maybe to buy and sell stuff.’
‘And you found this on both the laptops?’
‘Yes, exactly the same software.’
‘Could it be coincidence?’
Coulson snorted. ‘No way. This isn’t standard stuff – this is custom-made by someone who really knows what they’re doing. The users were either in contact with each other or a third party.’
‘Is there anything else you can do?’
‘There’s a department in the Met that specialises in this sort of thing, they might be able to help. I’ll get the laptops to them. I’ve already left a note to see if they’ve come across this specific software before as it is a new one to me and isn’t on our database.’
