Her Sister's Lie

by Debbie Howells

  PC Marsh had taken out a notebook too. “When did you last see him?”

  “Last night.” I thought frantically. It had been before the phone calls started, before I’d spoken to Natalie Barnes about the Facebook posts. “It was about seven-thirty—it was getting dark. Abe goes out to watch the stars.” I looked from one to the other, but their faces told me nothing.

  “Can you tell us what he was wearing?”

  I cast my mind back, trying to remember. “Black trousers—the ones he wears to school. A black coat and probably running shoes—they’re what he usually wears.”

  Sergeant Levigne was silent for a moment. “Just to put your mind at rest, we’ve checked with local hospitals. No one meeting Abe’s description has been admitted since yesterday. It’s more than likely that he’ll just make his way back here, but in the meantime, we’ll circulate his details. Can I ask you a bit more about him?”

  “Of course . . .” I nodded.

  “Where does he go to school?”

  “Ringwood.”

  “The secondary school?”

  I nodded.

  “Have you called them to see if he’s there today?”

  I shook my head. “I assumed . . . as he hadn’t been back all night, he’d hardly have gone to school.”

  “Has he taken his schoolbag?”

  In my panic, I hadn’t thought to check. “I’m not sure. He has two bags. I think they’re both in his room . . .” I broke off as Sergeant Levigne nodded toward his colleague. “We’ll call the school and see if he’s registered this morning.”

  I stared at them blankly. Why hadn’t I thought to do that? I got up. “I have the number somewhere.”

  “There’s no need; we have it. Please, sit down.”

  I did as he said, watching PC Marsh walk outside, talking into her phone.

  “Has your nephew made any friends since moving here? Or is there anyone in the village he might have gone to?”

  “I don’t think so . . . I don’t know.” Was there anyone? Unable to give them any answers, I felt uncomfortable. “To be honest, he’s said very little other than to make it clear he doesn’t want to be here.”

  Sergeant Levigne frowned. “Do you think he might have tried to go back home?”

  I was silent for a moment. “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “And home was where, exactly?”

  “London.” I gave him Nina’s address. “There’s a neighbor who doesn’t miss much. You could talk to her.”

  “Would your nephew have a key?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t say anything when we went back there to pick up his things.” Then I remembered. “I picked up a key from a neighbor. I meant to return it to her when we left, but I forgot. It’s over there.” I glanced across the kitchen to an old metal bowl where I dropped things like keys and loose change. Getting up, I went to look. “It’s still there. It never occurred to me before, but he could have his own key.” It seemed obvious to assume that a fifteen-year-old would be able to let himself in.

  Just then, PC Marsh came back in. “The school has him down as absent. They said that since starting there, he’s missed a few days, but under the circumstances, they were giving him time to settle in. They’ve tried to call you, but I think they assumed you knew about it.”

  I thought of the missed calls on my mobile I’d dismissed without considering they might have been important. “I had no idea. He gets dressed in his school uniform and goes off to get the bus. He’s done it every day since he started there. If he’s not at school, where does he go?” I stared at Sergeant Levigne. As I spoke, he’d been making notes.

  “That’s a question for your nephew. I assume you’ve tried his mobile?”

  Feeling both sets of eyes watching me, I swallowed. “I don’t have his number.” I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t taken Abe’s mobile number. What had I been thinking?

  “But he has yours?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.” It seemed unbelievable that we hadn’t exchanged numbers, but until now, it wasn’t something I’d even thought about. Then I remembered how I needed to explain that until yesterday, he hadn’t had his phone. “The police investigating my sister’s death kept his phone. He only got it back yesterday.”

  PC Marsh leaned forward. “Your sister’s death is being treated as suspicious?”

  “Yes.” I frowned. As I looked at them, suddenly I understood. I’d assumed that somehow they’d have known about Nina, but clearly, neither of them did. “It looks as though my sister—Abe’s mother—was murdered. I’m sorry, I don’t know why, but I thought you’d have known.”

  As they glanced at each other, I added, “DI Collins. She’s working on the case.”

  “We’ll speak to the local police in London. They can send someone around there.” Then Sergeant Levigne glanced at his colleague. “Maybe I’ll give DI Collins a call . . .”

  “I have her number . . .” I interrupted. “In my mobile.” I reached for my phone, then stopped. “But they won’t be able to get in. I have the key.” This was turning into a nightmare.

  “Can I have the number, please?” After I gave it to him, to my surprise, Sergeant Levigne called her immediately.

  As he started talking, he got up and walked out of the kitchen. PC Marsh turned to me. “Would you mind if I took a look in Abe’s room?”

  I nodded. “I’ll show you where it is.”

  She followed me upstairs in silence, and I led her along the passageway to Abe’s room. “Here. He doesn’t have much stuff. Nina—my sister—wasn’t well off.” For some reason, I felt a need to make excuses. I stood in the doorway, watching, as PC Marsh briefly looked through Abe’s possessions, then turned to me.

  “Would you know if he’d taken any clothes?”

  “I don’t think he has.” My eyes settled on the knapsack he’d packed the night Nina died. There was no sign of the other, smaller one I’d noticed him use for school. “There’s another bag, smaller than that one, that he uses for school. It isn’t here.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “Black. Plain.” I shrugged. “Another knapsack.” I watched her write it down.

  “You hadn’t noticed anything strange about him recently?”

  “Not really.” I shook my head. “He keeps to himself. He goes outside most nights when the sky is clear. He’s interested in the stars.” As I was speaking, I realized I should tell her. “There have been a couple of strangers in the village. Maybe they have something to do with this.”

  “Oh?” PC Marsh looked interested.

  “Yesterday, Joe in the village shop told me that a woman had been asking about me. She told him she was an old friend of mine. He described her, but I’ve no idea who she was. Then when I was walking home, there was this man.” I frowned.

  “Go on.”

  “There was something about him that wasn’t right.” I hesitated. “He looked out of place walking across the field.”

  “In what way?”

  I frowned. “He was wearing jeans and a brown jacket, but his shoes weren’t the kind you’d go walking in. They were polished. The kind of shoes you’d wear with a suit. But . . .” I broke off. I was sure I hadn’t imagined it. “He knew my name.”

  PC Marsh looked at me sharply. “I’m sorry?”

  “As he walked past me, our arms brushed. And he said, ‘Hello, Hannah.’ But he didn’t stop. He kept walking.”

  “You’re certain you didn’t recognize him?”

  I nodded. “Completely. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  She took a last look around the room. “There’s nothing much in here.” She broke off, frowning. “Is your arm all right?”

  I glanced at it. Blood had seeped through the bandage, staining the sleeve of my top. “I cut it. I’d better go and dress it.”

  She nodded. “Shall I see you downstairs?”

  Hastily, I went along to my bedroom, where I managed to find a proper dressing
and another bandage. By the time I went downstairs, Sergeant Levigne had finished his phone call. “I’ve put DI Collins in the picture. Someone’s going over to check the house. She also said they’d try to get in touch with Abe’s brother and see if he knew where Abe might have gone.”

  “I’m surprised Jude hasn’t been in touch with Abe.” It was true, though would Abe have told me if he had?

  Sitting down again, PC Marsh addressed her colleague. “Ms. Roscoe was just telling me about a couple of strangers that have been hanging around.” Picking up her pen, she turned to me. “Could you give me a description of the man?”

  “Tall. With short, dark hair. His eyes were dark too. He wore a brown jacket and polished shoes.”

  “He was walking across the field yesterday. He knew Ms. Roscoe’s name,” PC Marsh added, as the sergeant looked at me.

  He frowned. “And you’re quite sure you didn’t recognize him?”

  I nodded.

  PC Marsh stopped writing for a moment. “You have to admit, Sarge. It’s pretty odd. If he’d known Ms. Roscoe, you’d have expected him to stop and talk. Not just say her name and walk off like that . . .”

  Sergeant Levigne looked at me. “You said there were two strangers?”

  “I didn’t see the other one. I heard about her from Joe in the village shop. She had long, dark hair. Apparently, she told him I was an old friend.” I frowned. “She knew things about my life. He said that too.”

  “And you’re quite sure she isn’t anyone you know?”

  I shook my head. “I did think she might be a journalist who’d found out that Nina had been murdered.”

  “Possibly.” But PC Marsh didn’t sound convinced. “Is this the shop we passed on the way here? Just a few minutes away?”

  I nodded.

  “On our way back, we’ll call in and have a word with Joe.”

  “Do you think those strangers have anything to do with Abe’s disappearance?” Nothing they said was making me any less anxious.

  They exchanged glances. “We’ve no way of knowing. But at this stage, we need to check out every possibility.”

  “You’ll look for him?”

  Sergeant Levigne nodded. “We’ll circulate his details and start asking around locally, straightaway. Do you have a photograph?”

  “Only a really old one. From about ten years ago.” Nina had stopped taking photos after Summer’s accident.

  He paused. “It would be a good idea for you to stay here today—in case Abe comes back. Let us know if you hear from him.”

  I nodded as he stood up, handing me a card. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we have any news.”

  After they’d gone, I called Curtis. The more people looking for Abe, the better. When the call went to voice mail, I left a message.

  Hello, Abe went missing last night. The police are looking for him. If you see him, can you let me know?

  After disconnecting, I sat there. All I could do now was wait.

  13

  The conversation with the police left me consumed with guilt. Last night, I’d been too wrapped up in my own problems to think about Abe. History repeating itself, Hannah . . . I didn’t want to think how it had been the same, years ago, when Nina had needed me. If something happened to him, I’d never forgive myself. Abe had been let down by too many people. He deserved better.

  But my uneasiness was about more than Abe’s disappearance. I was thrown too by the interest the police had shown in the man on the footpath who’d known my name. Suddenly cold as I thought about him again, I went to the back door and bolted it.

  I picked up my phone again, checking it for messages. I was hoping that at any moment I’d get a call from the police and the nightmare would be over. There was a text from Curtis asking me to let him know when Abe turned up. But that was all.

  While I sat in the kitchen, I thought of the letters I’d found in Abe’s room, wondering if they held a clue as to where he might have gone. I should have thought of them before. Getting to my feet, I hurried upstairs.

  In my bedroom, I went to the chest of drawers where I’d hidden them, then sat on my bed. Untying the letters, I carefully removed the first from its envelope and unfolded it, curious.

  August 6, 2006

  Dearest Mother,

  I suppose I should call you that, even though, even though, even though . . .

  Don’t give me that look and go silent on me. We both know what I mean. You don’t mother. Don’t nurture, protect, care, the way a mother should.

  But it’s one of those things you don’t talk about, isn’t it?

  One of those blank spaces surrounded by hushed words and screamed obscenities, that you won’t remember. You never do when you’re drunk. You never will.

  Underneath was an illegible signature. I put it down for a moment, then took out the next, in the same handwriting. Were they from Jude? But if he’d been in the habit of sending his mother vitriolic messages, surely Nina wouldn’t have kept them all this time. Yet if they weren’t from Jude, who had written them? Looking at the scrawled signature again, I tried once more to decipher it, then felt my blood run cold. It wasn’t Jude’s signature. It was Summer’s.

  Unsettled, I got out the next couple of letters and started reading.

  May 20, 2006

  I remember running through the woods. Tall trees planted in rows. The deer that used to graze in the garden.

  I used to believe everything you told me, about bluebell whispers and daisy-chain dances, wishing on stars, the spells you wove under the new moon. The magical childhood you wanted for me, my magical mother, of hazy days and long grass and freedom.

  Until I wanted to learn to read and you told me, I’ll teach you. Do you know how many hundreds of times you told me that before the dream turned to dust? Before I stopped believing you? How I felt when I realized you never would? But it was your perfect childhood you were giving me, without structure or challenge or learning or discipline or boundaries. That was what you meant by freedom. It was hiding from the world, safe in your magic cottage in the woods.

  When what I want is freedom to fly—away from here. I want to learn, get a job, have a career. I don’t want your make-believe world, Mother. I want the real one.

  August 30, 2006

  Dearest Mother,

  I wanted to share some memories with you.

  I remember how pretty you looked in the long purple dress with your hair hanging in curls. There was food in the kitchen and bluebells in a jug on the table. The patchwork quilt on my bed, which used to be yours. The ginger cat that used to sleep curled up with me. Marley, I called him. Do you remember him? The windows that were always open, so that Marley could come and go, so that I could hear the birds in the morning, you always told me; how at night, I could lie in bed and see the stars.

  Your eyes that were so blue, smiled at everyone—all the losers who came to stay, your drunk, stoned friends. The same blue eyes that didn’t see your children.

  You didn’t know that while you were curling your hair, one of your drunk friends was touching me up. Did you know what happened to Marley? I did tell you, but you smiled blankly, then carried on talking to someone you barely knew.

  Well, I’ll tell you again.

  Poor, soft, gentle Marley scratched one of your stupid, druggie friends because they hurt him, so the guy took him outside and drowned him in the water barrel behind the cottage. I screamed at him not to, but he just pushed me away. That’s what your friends are really like.

  Those windows that were always open let the rain in, so that I got cold and my bed got damp. Even when my chest hurt, you never took me to see a doctor. People are bad, the world is evil . . . You were hiding again, frightened, weren’t you, Mother? That other people would see the truth.

  Do you know how many of my birthdays you missed because you were high? Do you even know when my birthday is? Or Jude’s? Or Abe’s?

  You’re broken, Mother. Your smile hides a thousand splinters of your hear
t, your spirit, your soul, while your daughter writes letters to you, so that you can read them when you’re sober. It’s the only time you’ll hear what I’m trying to tell you, in those few minutes, before you reach for another pill and disappear again.

  The menace in the voice from beyond the grave made me shiver. It was undeniably Summer. Her letters held the freshness and directness that had been so typical of her. But there was no hiding her bitterness and anger at Nina’s drug use. I sat back, thinking of Abe. On the occasions he’d talked about her, he’d always seemed fiercely protective of Nina. It didn’t make sense that he would have kept letters that did nothing but attack her. Then it dawned on me. Maybe it wasn’t that he wanted to keep them. He was stopping them from being read by anyone else.

  I lay back on my bed, my head filled with memories of Summer when she was younger. Many times, she’d been off somewhere in the woods when I visited Nina. I’d always thought of her as happy and carefree. When I lived there, she used to sit cross-legged at my feet, looking up at me, asking about the band, or she’d creep into my bedroom and experiment with my makeup. The arguments between her and Nina got worse as she got older, but I remembered far worse, violent rows between Nina and our own parents. What went on between her and Summer hadn’t seemed out of the ordinary.

  And yet the letters were an unleashing of bitterness. I was about to reach for the next one when I heard Gibson bark from somewhere downstairs. Was someone here? Oh God, what if it was that man? Or the woman who’d been asking about me? Quickly gathering up the letters, I hid them again, then walked over to the window that looked out on the drive.

  There was no sign of a car. As I went downstairs, my unease was growing. Gibson barked again, and this time, I heard a hammering on the back door. Standing behind it, I hesitated.

  “Who is it?” I called nervously.

  “It’s me.”

  It was Abe. Thank God . . . Fumbling with the bolt, I opened the door. He stood there, a mutinous look on his face.